Because our hosts lived a good half hour away from their farm shed/organic chocolate factory, we were at the mercy of their cars twice a day, 3 days a week. The magnificent specifics of these vehicles are as follows:
1.)Our hostess' car had panels of different colors and looked quite like a botched face lift. The pulls on the handles were missing, so to open the sliding side doors, we had to basically pinch the tiny bit of remaining grip between 2 fingers and pull with all our might. Though station wagon sized, there was only one passenger seat, so 2 out of the 3 of the wwoofers generally laid down for a pretty comfy nap in the back on the ride home, nestled among boxes of chocolates on good days and bags of trash on the bad ones. Tragically, on one of the trash days, I was rudely awoken from a much deserved nap after a 9 hour day of factory work when a bag of rubbish fell directly onto my face, much to the rest of the car's delight.
2.)The aforementioned white van (see post #1), which also had just one other conventional seat as the back had been crafted as homemade camper. The other places to sit were a mini PortaPotty (Jessamyn's fave spot) and our host's wheelchair. This had a tendency to not only tip over with every turn, but, even with the wheels locked, would somehow manage to slide back and forth, unfailingly smashing into and breaking the ankles of whomever had the loo seat. Not helping matters was our host's amusement with our plight (during one ride, Jessamyn nearly had the contents of the toilet sloshed out all over her) and often the smoothness of the ride had to do with how benevolent he was feeling that particular day. The pleasure he was taking in our seatbelt-less, tossed-about-the-back-of-the-van-tragedy (in combination with his sinisterly silly laugh), necessitated serious hours of discussion about which comic villian he reminded us of. Her combination of Dr. Evil and the Count from Sesame St. is not quite perfect, but as close as we've come so far.
3.)The Piece of Shit was ironically, but somehow not surprisingly, the most luxurious car of all. With more than enough seats and functioning seatbelts to go around and no major missing pieces, I never quite caught what made this car the only one deserving of an actual (and disparaging) name. It was never (as I first understood it to be), "Man, we need to start looking for a new car, that thing's a piece of shit," but rather, "'Are you going in the van or the Piece of Shit to pick up groceries?' 'Well, the van's got more space, but the Piece of Shit needs petrol, so I guess I'll take it.'"
In current, but equally as harrowing news, I drove a backwards car on the left side of the road for the first time today! Although it was easier than I expected, if I'm going to get advanced about this, I'm going to need to stop turning on the windshield wipers every time I want to change lanes.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Sometimes your surrogate grandmother turns out to be a kitten killer.
For now, let's call her "Gertie." Something tells me that she's not the blog reading type of modern girl, but one never knows. Apparently there are lots of things I didn't know about Gertie.
Imagine, if you will, a lovely, lovely older lady who, after a lifetime of dairy farming, chooses to work part time in a small chocolate factory. Formerly a yogurt and cheese shop, she's stayed through the change of ownership and chosen to keep active by learning all about the variety of delicious goods that have been made in this unassuming little farm shed for a bit over a decade now. Incredibly efficient, she kindly chides you when you don't keep up with her experienced pace and then launches into a tangentially related 20 minute story about her life (only a small portion of which you catch, seeing how the Kiwi grandma accent is the hardest of all dialects to understand). When lunchtime rolls around, she sits, not in a chair at the picnic table like those half or one quarter her age, but rather on a tree stump which, with her already petite stature, puts her a good head or 2 shorter than everyone else at the table. Pretty good candidate for vacation grandmother surrogate, right? That's what I thought. But, unfortunately, Gertie had some skeletons in her closet. Like, real ones. Of the baby cat variety.
One of the most intriguing characters in our new home was the cat known as Huscheli Wuscheli. Wuscheli being Swiss German for disheveled hair and something good to snuggle (I'm pretty sure I've got that right); Huscheli Wuscheli the First being our host's childhood teddy bear. Born without a tail but with fluffy brown fur on his hind legs and a frolicsome nature, he resembles nothing more than a dancing circus bear in knickers. But not that sad.
What IS sad was the fate of his sister. Our hosts were telling us H. Wuscheli's story over dinner one night and I guess that whatever caused him to be born tailless also gave him digestive issues. And when it was discovered that his sister was a bit worse off in both areas (tail and digestion), where did they send her? Not to the vet, but to Gertie. Who was, our hosts assured us as Jessamyn and I sat there in horror, among her many talents, an accomplished baby animal killer. Needless to say, I'm back in the market for a Kiwi grandma who I can trust around small creatures.
Imagine, if you will, a lovely, lovely older lady who, after a lifetime of dairy farming, chooses to work part time in a small chocolate factory. Formerly a yogurt and cheese shop, she's stayed through the change of ownership and chosen to keep active by learning all about the variety of delicious goods that have been made in this unassuming little farm shed for a bit over a decade now. Incredibly efficient, she kindly chides you when you don't keep up with her experienced pace and then launches into a tangentially related 20 minute story about her life (only a small portion of which you catch, seeing how the Kiwi grandma accent is the hardest of all dialects to understand). When lunchtime rolls around, she sits, not in a chair at the picnic table like those half or one quarter her age, but rather on a tree stump which, with her already petite stature, puts her a good head or 2 shorter than everyone else at the table. Pretty good candidate for vacation grandmother surrogate, right? That's what I thought. But, unfortunately, Gertie had some skeletons in her closet. Like, real ones. Of the baby cat variety.
One of the most intriguing characters in our new home was the cat known as Huscheli Wuscheli. Wuscheli being Swiss German for disheveled hair and something good to snuggle (I'm pretty sure I've got that right); Huscheli Wuscheli the First being our host's childhood teddy bear. Born without a tail but with fluffy brown fur on his hind legs and a frolicsome nature, he resembles nothing more than a dancing circus bear in knickers. But not that sad.
What IS sad was the fate of his sister. Our hosts were telling us H. Wuscheli's story over dinner one night and I guess that whatever caused him to be born tailless also gave him digestive issues. And when it was discovered that his sister was a bit worse off in both areas (tail and digestion), where did they send her? Not to the vet, but to Gertie. Who was, our hosts assured us as Jessamyn and I sat there in horror, among her many talents, an accomplished baby animal killer. Needless to say, I'm back in the market for a Kiwi grandma who I can trust around small creatures.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
It's true.
Fortunately, I'm not actually traveling so much as nesting in the corners of living rooms. Because, let me tell you, when I actually TRAVEL, it is neither graceful nor painless. Somehow, in my frenzied packing state, my neurotic Girl Scout "take-everything-you-might-possibly-need-in-case-New-Zealand- turns-out-to-be-a-third-world-country" side won out over my practical "New-Zealand-is-not-a-third-world-country,-duh" side and therefore, I have with me a 4 months' supply of shampoo and conditioner and pathetically sore muscles and ragged breath after a good 2 blocks of walking with my stuff.
Luckily, Jessamyn is similarly outfitted and so we find ourselves the unwitting entertainment for many a local every time we go out in full regalia. I mostly walk around wheezing like I've got a solid case of emphysema, while Jessamyn's towering, top-heavy number is not only a trial to get on (as it has a tendency of causing her to topple over), but also frequently smacks into innocent bystanders. One time, a bus driver felt so sorry for us, he drove us a couple blocks beyond his normal route so that we wouldn't have to walk up a hill. Which was only a block long. Clearly it only took our stumbling, careening entry onto the bus for him to see that we would require a bit more assistance than the average bus rider.
What are we GOOD at, you ask? Finding free room and board, of course. We started out our journey staying with Halley, Casey and their housemates in Auckland, spending time exploring all of the gorgeous beaches in the area (Piha, Kerekere, St. Heliers, etc.), doing the self-guided scenic walking tour of Auckland (Sky Tower, Casey's work, funny little graveyard under a bridge, place with supposedly only okay but not great take-away, and so on). Attended a Green Party Party, where we learned all about NZ's government and chess clubs from the international collective, started to amass a fairly magnificent shell collection, ate good food, slept in a living room, etc. But the journey had to continue.
Which leads us to our current location, on the Whangaparaoa Peninsula, about 40 km north of Auckland, living in the aforementioned living room corner on mats. Things of note about our nook. 1.) Slightly shielding us from the rest of the living/dining area is a couch whose upholstery appears to be modeled after what I can only imagine to be black and pink granite. It is velor and missing all of its cushions. 2.) We are outnumbered three to one by daddy long legs, baby long legs, grandma long legs, etc. 3.) The wall near our feet is glass and, as we are right on the water, we wake up every morning to one of the most turquoise bits of ocean I've ever seen. Set on the hill, the house is three stories tall, but two elderly ladies live in the bottom level. One time they played loud techno at about midnight so I think they might be European. One of them recently had surgery and the other does volunteer police work. That's all I know about them.
New to this whole wwoofing business, our arrival to our new hosts' place was technically seamless, but mentally unnerving. As we had had only ever emailed or texted them, we got to creating elaborate character profiles from the insubstantial amount of info that we did have, after which we decided that we were surely being duped into delivering ourselves into some sort of white slave trade.
The facts were this. Swiss couple, Edith and Pascal, 30's, looking for 2-3 assistants for their chocolate and biscuit factory. All of our contact had been with Edith up until this point and at the last minute we hear that she will be "out of town for the night" and that Pascal would be picking us up. After scrutinizing each of their respective uses of text emoticons, Jessamyn and I came to a sobering conclusion. There was no Edith and we were going to die.
We had been tempted by the promise of working with chocolate and here we were, three buses out of Auckland, waiting outside a bank for our new master to take us to the sweat shop/brothel of our nightmares. Two little lambs (a Kiwi analogy) walking themselves up to the gates of the slaughterhouse. As we waited there, getting more and more nervous, I made one stipulation. If "Pascal" came to pick us up in a white van with no windows in the back, we were refusing the ride and hightailin' it straight back to Auckland. We breathed a sigh of relief when we were beckoned into a car that was more of a green station wagon and started the introduction process. Starting to feel more and more comfortable with the idea that this wasn't just one freaky con, we let down our guards. Until we pulled into their driveway. Their other car? White molester van. Seriously.
But more about our transportation, hosts, and adventures to come. Upcoming themes include: glowworms, Dr. Evil vs. The Count, kitten homicide, and, of course, chocolate.
Luckily, Jessamyn is similarly outfitted and so we find ourselves the unwitting entertainment for many a local every time we go out in full regalia. I mostly walk around wheezing like I've got a solid case of emphysema, while Jessamyn's towering, top-heavy number is not only a trial to get on (as it has a tendency of causing her to topple over), but also frequently smacks into innocent bystanders. One time, a bus driver felt so sorry for us, he drove us a couple blocks beyond his normal route so that we wouldn't have to walk up a hill. Which was only a block long. Clearly it only took our stumbling, careening entry onto the bus for him to see that we would require a bit more assistance than the average bus rider.
What are we GOOD at, you ask? Finding free room and board, of course. We started out our journey staying with Halley, Casey and their housemates in Auckland, spending time exploring all of the gorgeous beaches in the area (Piha, Kerekere, St. Heliers, etc.), doing the self-guided scenic walking tour of Auckland (Sky Tower, Casey's work, funny little graveyard under a bridge, place with supposedly only okay but not great take-away, and so on). Attended a Green Party Party, where we learned all about NZ's government and chess clubs from the international collective, started to amass a fairly magnificent shell collection, ate good food, slept in a living room, etc. But the journey had to continue.
Which leads us to our current location, on the Whangaparaoa Peninsula, about 40 km north of Auckland, living in the aforementioned living room corner on mats. Things of note about our nook. 1.) Slightly shielding us from the rest of the living/dining area is a couch whose upholstery appears to be modeled after what I can only imagine to be black and pink granite. It is velor and missing all of its cushions. 2.) We are outnumbered three to one by daddy long legs, baby long legs, grandma long legs, etc. 3.) The wall near our feet is glass and, as we are right on the water, we wake up every morning to one of the most turquoise bits of ocean I've ever seen. Set on the hill, the house is three stories tall, but two elderly ladies live in the bottom level. One time they played loud techno at about midnight so I think they might be European. One of them recently had surgery and the other does volunteer police work. That's all I know about them.
New to this whole wwoofing business, our arrival to our new hosts' place was technically seamless, but mentally unnerving. As we had had only ever emailed or texted them, we got to creating elaborate character profiles from the insubstantial amount of info that we did have, after which we decided that we were surely being duped into delivering ourselves into some sort of white slave trade.
The facts were this. Swiss couple, Edith and Pascal, 30's, looking for 2-3 assistants for their chocolate and biscuit factory. All of our contact had been with Edith up until this point and at the last minute we hear that she will be "out of town for the night" and that Pascal would be picking us up. After scrutinizing each of their respective uses of text emoticons, Jessamyn and I came to a sobering conclusion. There was no Edith and we were going to die.
We had been tempted by the promise of working with chocolate and here we were, three buses out of Auckland, waiting outside a bank for our new master to take us to the sweat shop/brothel of our nightmares. Two little lambs (a Kiwi analogy) walking themselves up to the gates of the slaughterhouse. As we waited there, getting more and more nervous, I made one stipulation. If "Pascal" came to pick us up in a white van with no windows in the back, we were refusing the ride and hightailin' it straight back to Auckland. We breathed a sigh of relief when we were beckoned into a car that was more of a green station wagon and started the introduction process. Starting to feel more and more comfortable with the idea that this wasn't just one freaky con, we let down our guards. Until we pulled into their driveway. Their other car? White molester van. Seriously.
But more about our transportation, hosts, and adventures to come. Upcoming themes include: glowworms, Dr. Evil vs. The Count, kitten homicide, and, of course, chocolate.
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