TRAVELING AROUND THE WORLD: Our Tales of Delights and Disasters

by Shelley Row

  It’s the strangest feeling – all the thoughts that converge at once – some noble and some not. Unfortunately, we’re beginning to become experienced at travel during emergency conditions. We focused first on practicalities like buying water and snacks – a good lesson from Cairo – particularly since we heard reports of broken waterlines and water quality problems in Christchurch. Next, we wondered about transportation. Would we be able to return to Christchurch on the bus that afternoon or would all the roads be closed? And if we made it back to Christchurch, would our hotel still be standing? Visions of sleeping in the tour van or in the park (the emergency center) flashed through our minds. We slept in the Cairo airport, why not a van or a tent? Even as we were sorting out our predicament, Mike and I were increasingly conscious of the depth of destruction. Buildings in Christchurch had collapsed on top of tour buses, and people were trapped inside damaged buildings. Phones were down so that locals (like our bus driver) could not reach family members. In the face of such serious problems, it felt trivial to spend a moment worrying about our issues, but we needed to deal with our practicalities even while being sensitive to the troubles of others.

  The atmosphere was grave and uncertainty hung over the huddled crowd. No one knew what to do or what to expect. We boarded our bus (our bus driver finally reached his wife to find that she and their home were safe) and started for Christchurch, not knowing how close we could get or even if the hotels would be there. We drove past beautiful coves and over hills dotted with black and white dairy cows and fluffy sheep. The calm beauty was not enough to divert troubled thoughts from crowding our minds. About six kilometers from Christchurch, we began to see damage.

  Cracks appeared in the roadway, and muddy humps like large ant hills splayed out alongside the road. This was liquefaction. The normally stable fine-grained soils turned to quick sand when moist and shaken. The material oozed to the surface leaving empty space under sidewalks and roadways that then caved in. Water ran down streets from waterline breaks. Buildings already boarded up from the first earthquake were turned to piles of rumble. Brick walls tumbled into the street. Cars lined up at any open gas station to fill their tanks before the damaged Lyttleton port was closed. For the second time in two weeks, we saw a convoy of army vehicles rolling down city streets.

  After much maneuvering, our driver got us close to downtown. We walked from there. Our hotel, the Classic Villa, was literally three blocks from Cathedral Square in the heart of the damaged area. Mike and I hoped that we could get close. The more we walked, the more the damage escalated. Huge cracks in the pavement were encircled by orange cones. The large willow trees were missing branches two feet in diameter. The previously quiet, clear river was swollen and muddy. It was unnerving. But it was nothing compared to what was coming. First was the sight of the Canterbury Museum. The façade had broken stones, and the statue in front was toppled off its base smashing the head. We turned the corner of our street to face the Arts Center directly across from our hotel. We ate dinner at a charming restaurant there on our first night. The façade was in shambles. Stones from the tall gabled roof shattered on the pavement below covering tables, chairs and umbrellas. Gabled ends were completely gone, exposing rooms with clothes hanging inside. Farther along, the side of an adjacent building collapsed. These were 1800-era buildings that added to the charm of Christchurch. The two of us walked past army vehicles as far as we could but then were stopped at the river where the day before we’d gone punting. From there, we could see the Cathedral. The gabled end with its rose window seemed fine until we realized that the tall spire was quite simply missing. Gone. Yesterday, its bells chimed over the crowd and today it was rubble. I can only imagine the horror of those who were in the square as it fell. Mike remembered that he took a video of the chiming bells less than forty-eight hours earlier. We replayed that video and listened with sadness while struggling to comprehend that these sounds and the happy buzz of people were now silent.

  Feeling oddly empty and stunned, we returned to our hotel. Cracks ran alongside the exterior and we stepped over brick rubble from the collapsed chimney of the next door building. But – joy! – the hotel was open, people were inside, and our room was largely unharmed (tilted mirror, plaster dust from cracked walls, dislocated shower door). And we could stay there overnight. There would be no sleeping in the makeshift tents erected in the park.

  And so began a most unusual evening. Others arrived and gathered in the large living room. Our proprietor, Peter, was there and was more concerned about caring for us than attending to his damaged, but still safe, house. Decorative items inside and outside the hotel were in pieces, bottles of alcohol were thrown onto the floor and smashed. Most of it had been cleaned up by the time we had arrived. There was no power so Peter was busily placing candles on the floor all around the dark house. The only other lights were from flashlights and camera flashes. No restaurants were open nor were there operable cooking facilities in the house. Everyone pitched in. We’d bought trail mix, Peter and his wife, Jan, put out cheese and crackers. Someone else made a salad with smoked mushrooms, and, thankfully, Peter provided wine. I was very happy for a glass – or two – of wine. Everyone had a story and everyone was uneasy. One couple was in the Arts Center as it began to come apart. I was glad we had been outside of Christchurch when the earthquake struck. We’d surely have been downtown like so many others.

  We shared stories, ate what we had, drank wine, and Peter played the piano. It was almost enough to distract from the aftershocks. Peter and Jan waited for other guests to arrive and settled them in as much as possible. Before going to bed, he played one last tune on the piano and Jan sang while candles burned peacefully on the floor even as aftershocks shook the house. How hopeful to hear a cheery, “Que sera, sera; whatever will be will be,” fill the living room as the floor quivered and windows vibrated.

  Mike and I went to bed, but with the first strong aftershock, the room rocked, the window rattled, and, afterward, the coat hangers in the closet jangled a high-pitched, tinkling sound. Eerie. The next aftershock shot me out of bed. I felt more stable in the new part of the house than in our room in the original section. So I curled up on the sofa under a fuzzy blanket, wearing my robe and shoes, and holding a flashlight. Candles glowed, rain splattered outside, and I tried to sleep. But each aftershock racked my nerves. They came every quarter to half-hour throughout the night. Five times they were so strong that I jumped up and ran into the center of the room away from the windows. Needless to say, sleep was elusive. But that’s okay. Mike and I were better off than many. People – perhaps hundreds – were buried under rubble a few blocks away (the final death toll was 181). Thousands were in the makeshift camp across the street in the park – shivering in cold, crowded tents in the rain. We heard stories the next day of residents bringing clothes and offering spare bedrooms to stranded tourists who were unable to return to their hotel rooms even to get luggage. We met three people on our bus the next morning who were traveling with only the clothes they were wearing as their hotel in the city center was inaccessible.

  I’ll take Cairo over this. At least in Cairo, we were not the target of violence or anger. No one wanted to see tourists hurt. Tanks were there to keep peace but also to ensure protection. Even though we could hear gunshots, none of it was directed at us. As long as we stayed out of the way, the chances were good that we’d be okay. This earthquake was a completely different situation. It did not discriminate, nor could we get out of the way. It would hit when and where it chose. All Mike and I could do was hope that we weren’t in the way.

  Between Cairo and Christchurch, we learned several things about being in crisis situations. The first is patience. You just don’t know – nor does anyone else – what will happen in the situation. There’s no point getting excited or frustrated. Everyone is doing their best. And that’s the next thing. You have to rely on the kindness of complete strangers. How many times have we seen unfortunate things in the newspaper, thought, “Oh,
so sad,” and turned the page? But it’s real – very real. And many of those people will get through their day because of the stranger who stops on the street to help them. And finally, I learned that you can only take one step at a time – and that’s sufficient. Crisis situations are filled with unknowns – so many that you can’t sort out the future direction. Sometimes, all that’s possible is to do what seems right at that moment; get to the next place; evaluate; and make the next choice. Advance planning is a nice idea but it doesn’t work when the situation is a complete unknown.

  Mike and I also learned that true customer service shines through in a crisis. We experienced it in Cairo and we saw it again here. Peter and his family suffered damage in their personal home; Peter’s daughter burst into tears when she found him safe at the Classic Villa; and yet they stayed in the Villa with us that night. Food, wine, song and words of comfort are not on their brochure, but that’s what we received. And, you know, it helped.

  We are now safely away in Queenstown but the impact of this earthquake remains with us in many ways. Each rumble or creak makes us fear another quake. But more importantly, we are touched by the immensity of what happened to so many people. It took several hundred years for Christchurch to become the charming town we experienced. It took a few seconds to turn it to rubble and destroy lives, families and livelihoods. The people of Christchurch, along with others from around the world, are already clearing away the debris and moving on. It will be day by day, but – what a difference a day can make.

  Thursday, March 3, 2011

  A “Wee” Mob of Sheep

  Since we left Christchurch after the earthquake, Mike and I have been in awe of the New Zealand landscape. As we traveled our way south to Queenstown, we passed rolling green hills and towering craggy mountains with green slopes. There was a gentle dusting of white sheep on the slopes. Some sheep were recently sheared; they looked skinny and naked. Others were fluffy with curly wool. Still others had so much wool that their stick legs and faces stuck out from a round ball of fluff. The sheep were everywhere – field after field of them. It had a peaceful feel – the white dots against the green fields. The fields of sheep were captivating. I wanted to know more about the sheep and this industry that is so important to New Zealand.

  We stopped by the Queenstown tourist office to inquire. The tourist office is swimming in activity brochures. There’s rafting, jet boating, bungee jumping, hiking, mountain biking, hand gliding, parasailing and more. The staff seemed a bit perplexed with an inquiry about sheep shearing. They only knew of one place – in Glenorchy – a small town up the road. There was no colorful brochure; just a phone number scribbled on a scrap of paper.

  The man on the phone told me that he runs a morning and afternoon “tour.” He still had room on the morning tour so all we had to do was drive along the lake to the village (250 population) of Glenorchy and meet him at 10 am. How do we find the meeting place, we inquired. Well, he explained, Glenorchy is very small. Turn left at the roundabout and there will be a “wee shed” on the right. He’d meet us there. And, there was, and he did.

  We drove quickly up the road from Queenstown past stunning scenery to make it by 10 am (we found out later that this is one of the top ten scenic drives in the world). We didn’t want to miss the tour. The “wee shed” was called The Wool Shed and was definitely “wee” at only a few feet square and filled with wool garments for sale. John, the owner, operator and tour guide, was inside. When I told him we were there for the 10 am tour, he said great and let’s go. It seemed that I and Mike were the tour! We followed him – like sheep – to his truck. “Hop in,” he said. It was his farm truck, just like one from back home in Texas. The floor was covered in mud and dust, and various tools and garments were scattered about. I immediately felt at home. This was going to be a special event!

  John drove about ten minutes up the road to part of his farm. We pulled up to a gate and he scampered out to unlatch it. Mike and I took in the scene. There were truck and tractor parts lying under a tree lounging next to scraps of lumber from old fences. Just past the gate was a three-sided barn assembled from sheets of corrugated tin – some silver and some red – whatever was handy. Junk was everywhere. As the three of us climbed out of the truck, a welcoming party of one sheep and six chickens came trotting (with the chickens clucking). The lot of them followed John through the barnyard. It seems that this particular sheep had been bottle-raised and was now a pet – and it knew the routine. John found an old, red, plastic bucket and got a scoop of feed from a tin shed. Soon, with the help of the feed, we had the sheep literally eating out of our hands. There was no hand sanitizer, no napkins… just sheep slobber between my fingers. It was just like Texas, except that sheep drool less than cows. And there was a pig, too. The small, spotted pig was in a muddy pen next to the barn. John told Mike to feed him from the bucket of mealy pears by the fence. The pig turned up its little, pink nose with interest as Mike held a pear. With a toss, the pig was after it and woofed it down with a little mud and straw.

  According to the tour “program,” John was to show a film to us about sheep shearing, so we walked to the barn trailing a string of sheep and chickens behind. This was definitely not your typical, choreographed tourist experience. We walked into the open end of the tin barn to find yet more junk. John – completely unconcerned – said, “Take a seat.” We looked around and at each other. Finally, I said, “Where should we sit?” There, on the ground in front of us, was an old bench seat from a truck with a couple of sheep skins thrown over it. Okay. We’ll sit there. As we settled in for the movie, there was an old, faded sheet covering something on a stand in front of us. John whisked the sheet away to reveal a shiny, new, forty-seven-inch flat-screen television! It was all we could do to stifle a belly-laugh (that came later). To make the scene even more unlikely, the pet sheep wandered in to block our view of the movie. John kept shooing it out so it wouldn’t “baa” while we listened to the program. We watched two films – one about rounding up sheep in the mountains for the yearly shearing and the other about the men who shear sheep for sport. The world record is 843 sheep in ten hours (non-stop from 7 am – 5 pm). This includes reaching inside the pen and hauling out a full-grown sheep. It takes forty-six passes to completely shear the sheep. Then the wool is collected by women working the floor. They throw the fleece in one fling onto a bed and sort it within seconds so they’re ready when the next sheep is finished. It’s a choreographed ballet where each person’s timing is exact. It was impressive and extremely hard work.

  We got a small taste of it. John has been raising merino sheep for thirty years and clearly loved telling us about the different breeds and how they are used. Merino sheep are raised for wool and live high on the mountain slopes. They are rounded up twice a year using people and dogs – the dogs being the more important of the two. Crossbred sheep are raised for meat, and they are generally penned in the lower elevations, which make it easier to herd them up for shearing – this is what we were going to do.

  John had a few crossbred sheep in the field, and our job was to herd them into the pen by the barn. We paid money for this activity (amazing, isn’t it!), so we headed off through the field tramping through high, green grass and more than a little sheep s---. Sheep s--- comes in much smaller piles than cow s---, which made it more difficult to spot. The good thing about these sheep is that they are largely wild and afraid of people. As soon as we started walking toward the small herd of about twenty sheep, they moved away, staying in a tight pack with their buddies. Walking and shooing, we got the sheep to the barn where John opened the gate to a rickety pen and herded them inside.

  Next, we had to move them up a chute into a smaller holding pen for shearing. So there we were – me and Mike – inside a pen with a bunch of sheep. Frightened and panting, they ran around us as we moved avoiding the chute. There was nothing to do but shove. We pushed and shoved and prodded. Eventually, with John’s help, the lead sheep reluctantly headed up the chute and
the rest followed.

  Inside the shed, we took photos with the six plus sheep waiting to be sheared. Some had curly, oily wool (this is where lanolin comes from) and others had dense, thick, soft wool that made me want to snuggle up next to these fuzzy animals. Plus, sheep have great faces, framed by their big, soft, warm ears. They didn’t have a lot of choice, so they let us pat them, feel their fur, and take countless photos. By this time, my hands were covered with sheep slobber, dirt, oil from the wool, and the charming smell of farm animals. No time to worry about that – it was time to try shearing.

  John plugged in the electric shearer (it looks like a larger version of the shears we have for our cat), which was suspended from the wall of the barn. He went into the pen and grabbed one of the sheep and dragged her out by her front legs on her butt. There’s something about this posture that keeps the sheep calm. She just sat there on her “bum” while he held her by her front legs. Her skinny, stick-thin legs stuck straight out as though she was pointing her toes. We each got to try holding her and she cooperated very well. John demonstrated how to shear her and then had me – and then Mike – try it. I carefully ran the shearer down her side as the wool curled up and peeled away. It was so cool! John said I was a “natural.” I’m not sure the sheep thought so.