One post to rule them all

When our dear friends Susan and Greg described their first visit to New Zealand, they said something remarkable and surprising. They said they'd considered not returning home. Shucking their comfy life, in their comfy home, in comfy Minneapolis, to set up shop anew in NZ (which the Kiwis pronounce "en zed").

At the time, still getting to know the two of them, I thought perhaps they had a wild, spontaneous streak I'd not previously detected. I knew them to be avid, enthusiastic travelers, but come on. Who decides never to go home? After only a month in a place?

Spend a month in New Zealand, seeing it as we have anyway, and the soundness of their reasoning becomes more apparent. I've lost count of how many times, in the last month, that Julie and I have begun conversations speculating about the lives we could create here.

Each day has been so full, a chronological treatment of our visit would be neither svelte nor sufficiently illuminating. Here, then, is a different kind of account of this place, populated with our personal examples of why New Zealand is a place you ought to visit -- or hell, contemplate relocating to -- if you haven't already.

HOSPITALITY

If there is a theme emerging from our travels around the world, it is surely the staggering hospitality of our friends, old and new, as well as total strangers. We have been hosted and shown such wonders by so many kind-hearted people, I don't think I will ever look at traveling the same way again. In addition to making our voyage-on-a-shoestring possible, our time in people's homes, listening to stories of local color, and seeing places through eyes that know it far better than we do has enriched our journey beyond measure.

The Kiwis, and our friends old and new who call this place their home, have only added to that experience.

Julie has described the people we've met as attentive. It's apt. Hospitality -- whether in a friend's home or interacting with someone in a service industry -- feels engaged, but also notably relaxed. Absent are any sense of servility and any of the fuss that sometimes is associated with being of service to another person.



We spent a week staying with our friends Jen and Linda Jean and their two adorable, happy, curious kids, Grady and Zoey. Five minutes after arriving, we felt like part of the family, and the subsequent week only continued to reinforce that sentiment. They made it clear that we were to make ourselves at home, and indeed, we did, happily and with gusto!

Out for a stroll through a Saturday art market, we met one of Jen and LJ's neighbors, Greg, selling his remarkable, iridescent jewelry. Five minutes later, he'd invited us out for spring skiing at Broken River, 90 minutes from Lyttelton into the central mountains. I ski whenever I can, especially if it's in the mountains, and Jen grew up skiing in Colorado. Some discussion later in the afternoon, and we decided to accept!



Greg arrived the following morning, precisely on time, and equipped with a complete line of ski gear and outerwear so that we'd have everything we needed (and which, as you might expect, might not be among the accoutrements of a 'round-the-world traveler). Greg drove us to the ski field (a project requiring his expert navigation in four-wheel drive up windy, snow-covered roads), and oriented us to the rather technical demands of riding the steep rope tows, using a contraption called a nutcracker. (More on that, later.) He was a great ski buddy, leading me into off-piste terrain that offered some of the best tracked powder skiing available, but which would have taken me a while to reach on my own.



Describing the hospitality of friends of friends -- now friends directly! -- wouldn't be complete without sharing the experiences we had courtesy of Rex and Trish, friends of Greg and Susan's in Wellington, who took us under their wing during both of our all-too-brief visits to their lovely city.



On our first encounter, Rex took us on a tour of Wellington's sites, with an insider's point of view. We visited a storied pub across from the nation's Capitol complex, which houses three-dimensional caricatures of its politicians. We saw the city from the peak of Mount Victoria, the Botanical Gardens, rode its famous cable car and prepared our list of other spots to visit (especially the magnificent Te Papa national museum).



Our first visit occurred after just a few days in New Zealand. Our next pass through Wellington occurred at the very end of our trip, with a quick afternoon and overnight before bee-lining for Auckland and our date with a plane bound for Bali. Hoping to help us make the most of the time we had available, Rex cleared his calendar to give us a guided tour of the beloved Martinborough wine region, an hour from Welly. We visited vineyards for tasting (some of the best stuff I've ever had), met the creators of the (who knew!) New Zealand olives being produced and marketed domestically and internationally, including in our own home town, as the ilove olives sold at Lunds and Byerly's. John and Helen took time to talk with us and give us a tour, despite ostensibly being closed at the time, and having just returned from some travels themselves.



There are so many more examples, I simply couldn't list them all, so I'll limit myself to two more.



Julie took over Jen & LJ's kitchen, and we were joined by their well-travelled, quick-witted friends Dorji and Keryn, who spent the evening filling us in on great options along the West Coast, and for other destinations on our trip, over a delicious feast (thanks, darling!) of New Zealand's unique and gigantic green-lipped mussels.



Back in Auckland, Anna hosted us (along with two other couch surfers), and welcomed our participation in any number of events that this multi-talented woman undertakes, including dancing, choral singing, sword-fighting and, oh, making her own chain-mail armor.



Suffice it to say that Kiwis, from our experience at least, seem to possess a deep-rooted understanding of how to help folks enjoy and experience this amazing land.

NUMBER EIGHT WIRE

Homemade chain mail also seems a fitting segue to the remarkable Kiwi ingenuity. Greg (a guy who has at least three lines of work that keep his talents and interests engaged at any point in time) put it well, I think, when he told me that Kiwis have a knack for doing things creativity because "no one told them they couldn't." I see it as an interesting intersection between an island economy and something of a frontier ethic. If your truck breaks down, mate, you best figure out how to fix it, because the nearest mechanic's shop is likely to be a long way away. But take your time, and no worries.

This ingenuity is often mentioned with reference to "number 8 wire," the ubiquitous gauge of metal strung between fence posts to keep the sheep in their paddocks, but often employed for all manner of other purposes. It is the Kiwis' version of duct tape and baling wire, perhaps, but used (metaphorically, at least) by the Kiwis even more prolifically than duct tape by MacGuyver.

SCENIC BEYOND MEASURE

I recall Peter Jackson, discussing the making of the Lord of the Rings films, saying that he grew up thinking that he lived in Middle Earth, with all of New Zealand's stunning and varied scenery.



It's little wonder the films were so capably set in these landscapes, since they defy superlatives: mountain ranges that appear as the frozen waves of a churning ocean, beaches evoking every archetype of tropical postcards, fiords (the NZ spelling) that evoke the fjords of my people's homelands in Scandinavia, glaciers reaching for the ocean with their broken azure fingertips, volcanic peaks and geothermal wonders (and spas!) as other-worldly as Yellowstone, forests full of birdsong that stretch seemingly forever, and the mightiest oceans wrapping the whole package in a fierce embrace.



New Zealand, indeed, has a lively continent's worth of scenery packed into each of the two main islands.



Part of what is so surprising, too, about this density of scenic beauty is that you can, in the space of a day, pass through so many biomes that one begins to think you've entered an overgrown Epcot exhibit. One wonders, "are the waterfalls cascading over that cliff part of the painted backdrop, or are they really there?"



On our five-day hike along the Abel Tasman track on the north end of South Island, Julie joked that with the well-marked walking paths, the amazing views and the total absence of any predators (for humans, at least), it's hard not to think that Disney had a hand in creating this place. It is stunning in every way you'd want your landscape to be, yet unthreatening in the way that many amazing landscapes aren't.

ADRENALINE-LOADED

But it would be a mistake to think that the comparative serenity of this place makes it sedate. Rather, it's a spot jam-packed with hair-raising experiences. Whether it's exploring those picturesque landscapes or the surprising joy of catching sight of some rare fauna, New Zealand's natural wonders shine here in a way that touches a chord. (A short list of unforgettable fauna from our visit: glimpsing the world's rarest penguin or, later the same night, watching rafts of the world's smallest penguins storming the beaches of Oamaru; a pod of bottle-nosed dolphins following the wake of our water taxi after our hike on the Abel Tasman track; or the innumerable, convoluted bird songs heard in every woods.)



Julie's birthday fell about midway through our visit here (the first time she's celebrated her birthday while flowers bloom), and she decided to make the limestone caves of Clifden part of her birthday experience.



The Clifden caves consist of a network of dozens of underground passages, with three openings out to the surface separated by about forty-five minutes of exhilarating caving in between. Sometimes down on all fours scrambling through a tight passage, sometimes craning our necks to take in the scale of enormous underground caverns, we traversed the caves from their main entrance as far as possible until our progress was blocked by a large (and we later learned, deathly deep) pool. Along the way, we had the caves entirely to ourselves.

Well, that's not completely true. We shared them with countless glowworms. Glowworms are tiny creatures which, like a spider, extrude sticky filaments from their bodies, and glow with a star-like bioluminescence. Their light in the largest caverns reminded me of being in a planetarium. And, apparently, for their prey, too, since insects drawn to the light will end up mired in their sticky web, and then become lunch.



One of the most striking aspects of this natural caving experience was how different it might have been in our (more litigious and safety-conscious and lacking-universal-health-care) homeland. Here, there was simply a sign saying, in effect, "you best know what you're doing, mate" and off ya go, underground! This, despite the fact that as we were talking to locals, researching the caves, we met a volunteer firefighter who told us how they were frequently called upon to rescue under-prepared cavers, some of whom risk running out of air by entering the caves when they fill with water after heavy rains. Suffice it to say, we travelled cautiously forward, and with multiple sources of light.

We also came across the round boulders that give California's Bowling Ball Beach its name, at Moeraki Beach, the only other spot in the world these particular formations exist. We have joined some strange fraternity, I suppose, by being two people who have seen both of these places on a single trip.



There are plenty of UNNATURAL ways to pass the time at your own risk here, as well.

The nutcrackers we used while skiing at Broken River -- consisting of two metal flanges attached at a hinge with a bulbous end for pinching the rope -- allow you to affix yourself to a rope that passes directly over metal pulleys, without running your fingers or gear between the pulleys and the rope. (Accidentally doing so resulted in several rips in Greg's loaner jacket, and confirmed viscerally that one's fingers would fare far worse.) The nutcrackers are attached to a climbing harness, which also functions as a place to sheath the device when skiing. This entire arrangement, from one point of view, is an elegant, low-impact and simple way to ascend a mountain on skis. From another perspective, it is a series of accidents waiting to happen, with some extra potential for danger sprinkled on top. Without even mentioning the physical challenge of using these things for a full day of skiing, let's just say that the nutcracker may have gotten its name from its similarity in general appearance to the familiar culinary gadget, but having a heavy piece of metal dangling on a rope between your legs while skiing suggests some other naming inspiration, as well.

But what could be more unnatural, more counter to instinct, than leaping from a great height to jagged rocks below?



It's been said that Queenstown, New Zealand is the world capital of recreational thrill-seeking. The bungy jump was invented and popularized here, the skies are... peopled, I suppose would be the term, with paragliders doing pirouettes that make spectators on the ground dizzy, and there are more ways to pass time here prefaced with the word "extreme" than any other place I've visited.

My parting gift after twelve years at Hearth Connection was a gift certificate for not one but two jumps in Queenstown. Including the highest in New Zealand (and third highest in the world), the Nevis Highwire.

On the shuttle to the Highwire, our bus driver noted a respectable bungy platform cantilevered over the river we were following to our own appointments with fate. His timing was perfect, pausing so that each of of us wanna-be superheroes aboard could size it up, steel our resolve and don an expression of nonchalant curiousity. "The Nevis Arc is two and a half times higher than that one, and the Highwire is seven times higher," he said. Boom. Silence from the full bus, punctuated only with brief outbursts of nervous laughter.

Once arriving at the Nevis gorge, we were shuttled out to "the pod," where the big plunge takes place. Suspended on cables across a gorge, river coursing beneath, the pod is only reachable by an open-air cable car that holds no more than seven passengers. The floor of this shuttle is steel grating, perfect for experiencing the distance to the water below.

From one hundred and thirty four meters -- a third again longer than a football field -- a bungy-corded object hits 80 mph during the free fall. Dropping takes eight seconds. (Try screaming full volume for eight seconds. It's longer than you'd think.)

We traverse across the cables aboard the shuttle, unclip our safety lines and step aboard the pod. With the jumpers, three crew and Julie as an observer, there are about two dozen people aboard, but it manages not to feel too crowded. By the time we reach the pod, Joe, an Irishman from the sound of his accent, and the heaviest in our group, has already been the first to take the leap into the abyss. I notice that, with the reference point of a suspended Irishman for scale, that chasm is a lot deeper than it looked, and he dropped a lot further than I imagined possible.

On the pod, each jumper has a number written in blue magic marker on the back of their right hand and a number written in red, their weight in kilograms, on the left. Jumping proceeds from the heaviest to the lightest. (Fight-or-flight survival instincts apparently trump any reservations or vanity people may feel about having their weight telegraphed in Sharpie.)

A number of people precede me. I note the variations in their form -- how committed was their swan dive, how much occilation in their bouncing, how dilated their pupils upon being hoisted back to the mothership.

About midway through the pack, a crew member taps me on the shoulder, signally that it's time for the ankle harnesses to go on. That means I'm on deck. I watch the guy ahead of me, as they pantomime for him what his actions over the next several minutes are supposed to be. He steps up to the platform -- appropriately, it looks a lot like a high dive -- and the countdown begins. "5-4-3-2-1-bungy!" and he is gone.

I'm summoned through the gate, and the crew begins those same instructions again. Closer, now, to the pod's open doors, I feel the wind whipping through the canyon. The crew member's voice begins to sound like the teacher's from Charlie Brown. Wah-wah-wah-third-bounce-wah-wah-pull-red-cord-wah-wah-jump-out-and-away.

My harness now fastened to the bungy cord, which twists vertiginously in the open air below, and my ankles fastened together, I must waddle -- a full-on duck walk, which I perform as... confidently as possible -- to the edge of the platform. The end of my harness is now also hanging over the edge, taunting gravity. I look out straight ahead and hear the countdown begin. "Oh shit, this one is for me!" I think.

I barely hear him say "...2-1-bungy!"

Focusing only on the initial act of launching myself outward, I suddenly find myself in open air.

My god, it's too late!

Half a second after leaving the platform, some deep mammalian instinct is screaming for a tree branch. None to be found here.

I am dropping so fast, half-formed, preverbal signals -- panic battling exhilaration -- flicker through my awareness. An awareness dominated by a big earth that keeps getting bigger.

Something must be wrong! I...

...am...

...WAY...

...TOO...

LOW!

And then I feel the elastic start to pull.

It's a surprisingly gentle tug, and although it's slowing me down, I'm still dropping at a good clip, the features of rocks in the river becoming more and more distinct.

And then I'm bouncing. Bouncing, dangling like a carcass in a butcher shop.

Pulling on the ankle release strap, there's a sickening sound of tension in metal being released, and then all at once I'm sitting upright. The view is stunning. Survival is stunning.

Before I know it, I'm being reeled in, and find as I ascend to the pod that I'm clinging to the rope with both hands. My left brain is telling me that the harness is carrying my weight, and that I should just let go and enjoy the ride. My body is telling my left brain to fuck off.

I imagined screaming all the way down, and was surprised to find myself silent during the drop, apart from the deepest gasp for air I think I've ever taken, right at that half-second mark, when my body realized that gravity had me in its clutches. The whooping and shouting (okay, and cursing, too) started only once I was assured the cord had saved me from certain doom.

I returned to the pod exhilarated, adrenaline drunk and utterly grateful to be alive.

And then, I got to do it again.

My second voyage into thin air, the Nevis Arc, sends its lucky passenger out swinging over the same canyon in a harness, like the ultimate turbo-boost on a 100-meter playground swing you could imagine. It shared many common elements to the bungy jump, but one noteable difference: with the bungy jump, you launch yourself into the air. With the swing, you are suspended in the air and the staff release you. Once I was in place, the crew asked whether I wanted to have them surprise me, or to count down from five.

Well, guess what a control freak would choose? So, he started the countdown. 5... 4... Click! The cables release -- those bungy guys can smell fear! -- and I'm falling! There's a moment when I'm negotiating with gravity, tugging on the harness as if to climb it to safety. I drop and drop and drop and when my stomache is finally back in its proper location, that, too, was a hell of a lot of fun. Completely unnatural and terrifying, but in a good way.

(I don't feel compelled to try every extreme fill-in-the-blank activity, but this is about the best send-off gift I could imagine, so befitting the significance of this departure for me. Leaving family, friends, home and Hearth Connection's important work was an incredibly difficult thing to do. It was the biggest leap I've ever taken.)

RIGHT-SIZED

As I've struggled to put words around our New Zealand experience -- which has come faster than my attempts to describe it, and THAT'S saying something! -- the words that I return to are that New Zealand seems somehow right-sized.



In many other places, for instance, one-lane bridges would be a major detriment to the flow of traffic, to safety, to commerce. Here (where, in some parts of the country, one-lane bridges outnumber two-laners), it somehow just works. The place has enough people to find pockets of cosmopolitan city life (mainly in Auckland, Wellington and Christchurch, the country's three metropolitan cities), but also abundant and accessible wilderness. Its priorities are progressive ones, and whatever debates ensue, every Kiwi has access to health care, higher education and the economic resources to survive. It's a place that prioritizes caring for its incredible environment, and also, making investments (such as the Department of Conservation's huts along the innumerable hiking tracks) to help people experience and enjoy that environment.


As we prepare to leave (I'm writing this as we are about to board our flight to Bali), I recognize how easy it would be to romanticize this place, or to suggest in all the amazing experiences we've had that we have found a bit of utopia here. The truth is not far from that mark, but I would invite you not to take my word for it, but to come and see for yourself. Hope to see you there!