The real answer is simple. I must have arrived about the same time the second or third six-pack of beer kicked in. These ladies have gotten cheerfully hammered. An alcoholic haze blurs the vision and softens the senses. If you have enough drinks, everyone looks alike.
After repulsing the bikini-clad young woman trying to take liberties with me, the last few miles prove to be manageable. I get to the one kilometer mark and take off running—no more of this sissy walking, no more complaining, the finish line is just ahead. The Kiwi nation will be waiting on the edge of their seats to see if I break 15 hours.
I’m across in 14:58 and I immediately sit down in the nearest chair and dry heave a couple of times. I would have been very happy with any finishing time under 17 hours. Cracking 15 hours is just icing on the cake.
This is the best I’ve felt after an IRONMAN® Triathlon. Some will say it’s due to good fluid intake or perhaps better training, or maybe more experience.
As for me, I’m just glad to be done. I wonder how things are going back at the hot tub.
A couple of days later my body is still stiff and sore, but the race and hot tub memories are beginning to fade. I’m ready to hit the road to see the rest of New Zealand.
It’s a short trip from Taupo to Rotorua, not much more than a half hour once someone points me in the right direction. Roturua is known for three things: geothermal activity, Maori culture, and tourists. It’s a popular stop on most New Zealand holidays, a place where nature and natives come together in one package.
I can tell that I’m approaching Rotorua long before I arrive, I can smell it. The hydrogen sulfide odor of rotten eggs permeates everything, an unpleasant side effect of this geothermal wonderland.
Scattered around the area are boiling mud pools, some thick and black, others rusty brown and watery. You can hear them simmering, bubbling, gurgling from yards away. Hissing, spitting, and belching, they seem to have bubbled up from the deepest bowels of hell.
Geysers are the biggest draw; they shoot jets of water that head high and straight into the air before being blown off course by the wind. These eruptions are crowd pleasers; each one is greeted by “oohs” and “aahs” and gets captured by hundreds of cameras.
Almost as popular are the dazzling terraces of silica and other minerals that display a kaleidoscope of color, the pinks and blues are particularly stunning.
In the nineteenth century, Rotorua was a great spa town that drew tourists from far and wide. Many came to see the famous Pink and White terraces before they were obliterated by the 1886 eruption of nearby Mt. Tarawera. An elegant Tudor-style bath house set in the formal manicured Government Gardens remains today, a reminder of grander times. Once a great gathering place for the rich and famous, it’s now a museum.
Rotorua is just one of many spots in New Zealand where the innards of the Earth seem ready to burst outward. The country is located on the Pacific Ring of Fire and it has seen more than its share of earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. As Johnny Cash knows too well, the Ring of Fire is a dangerous place, so I’m moving on to a safer spot.
I’m headed to the Agrodome. I’m a lucky man, there’s no better place on the planet for an introduction to the Wonderful World of Sheep.
When I hear New Zealand, I think of sheep. This nation takes its sheep seriously. Every tourist guide book written reminds us that while the population of the country is barely four million, there are over 40 million sheep.
Nearly every tourist group that ventures into New Zealand is booked into the Agrodome. A lot of travelers are uncomfortable mingling with other tourists, they feel that this exposure to the masses somehow diminishes the travel experience. They want to spend their time only with the locals.
That doesn’t bother me; I enjoy off-the-rack, mass tourism. Some of my best travel experiences have come from being herded around with a group of strangers. Besides, I’m a simple, uncomplicated fellow; I’m not at all embarrassed to lap up the standard tourist schlock. I like to learn new things and I’m not afraid to ask the dumb questions.
At the Agrodome, an eager audience sits comfortably in an arena as some nineteen different breeds of sheep are paraded, one at a time, onto the stage. They’re introduced in much the same manner that you would introduce Miss America contestants.
“Here’s the Merino, highly prized for its wool.” “And now, New Zealand’s dominant breed, the Romney.” They’re all beauties in their own way.
I never knew there were so many varieties of sheep. Some breeds are good for wool, some are better for producing lambs, some yield a lot of meat, some do better in dry climates; all are adept at taking a dump on stage while tourists take their photograph.
After the parade of beauties, one unsuspecting animal is brought on stage and shorn of his wool in just a minute or two. The shearer grabs the electric clippers and it’s done before the audience has time to focus their cameras. It’s like walking into a barber shop and coming out bald before the door has time to close. The naked sheep scampers away, apparently no worse for the experience and everyone applauds.
Later in the morning we watch the sheep dog trials. These are smart animals, they move the flock from one pen to another, reacting instantly, anticipating the movements of the sheep before they happen.
Sheep versus sheep dogs, it’s not much of a match. The dogs have personality, panache, intelligence, and charm, while the sheep are timid, dim-witted, and docile, completely lacking in spunk and courage. The sheep look like they’re going through the motions, punching the clock, waiting for a quitting time.
It’s a short flight down from the Rotorua area to Christchurch, the largest city on the South Island. Every place in New Zealand seems to have either a British name or a Maori name, some have both. The English names—Wellington, Blenheim, Nelson, Canterbury, Palmerston, Marlborough—are a bit easier to remember and to pronounce. Visiting the country is like taking a refresher course in British history.
The Kiwis sometimes say that New Zealand is more English than England and this especially holds true for Christchurch. The British and the Irish were the early settlers of this country, and the link to the motherland has held strong throughout most of the twentieth century.
In Christchurch, you don’t have to close your eyes to imagine that you are in England. The manicured civility of Britain is all around. There’s punting on the Avon River, strolling through Hagley Park and the Botanic Gardens, watching the Christ’s College boys headed to class in their black-and-white striped blazers, attending services at Christchurch Cathedral. There’s enough of England to satisfy anyone’s Anglophile itch. It’s like Christchurch and Oxford are interchangeable postcards with similar buildings, similar names, and similar ancestors.
From Christchurch, I move on to the Southern Alps, which run from top to bottom down the western side of the South Island of New Zealand to form a natural dividing range. There are only three main passes connecting the eastern portion of the South Island with the sparsely populated West Coast. I’m making the journey on the TranzAlpine Express from Christchurch in the east to Greymouth via Arthur’s Pass.
New Zealand doesn’t have much in the way of passenger trains, the population density is just too small, but the TranzAlpine Express has proven to be a big success with tourists. There are a few locals aboard, but it’s like the Glacier Express in Switzerland; mostly sightseers, everyone has a camera cocked and loaded for action.
We’re barely underway when a thin, frail man in his sixties hears me talking. His name is Arnold and he stands about 5 feet 2 inches tall and probably weighs no more than 110 pounds on a good day. Arnold grew up on Long Island, the son of a rabbi, eventually making his way to Southern California some 30 years ago. He’s now enjoying a splendid retirement with frequent trips abroad.
Arnold recognizes a touch of the American South in my speech and quickly gives me his card. It is inscribed with his name, rank, and the name of his Vermont regiment.
Arnold is a Civil War re-enactor. He live
s and breathes the Civil War, for him it’s like the war ended last week. He heard my accent and thought I might be someone to talk to. A lot of people think that Southerners still focus on the Civil War, but in reality, we are like most other Americans, many of us can’t even tell you the correct century in which the war took place.
We talk about Vicksburg, Gettysburg, Jefferson Davis, and so on … or rather, Arnold talks about them. I know enough to slip in an occasional comment but mostly I serve as a listening post, an unwitting, taciturn representative of the Lost Cause. Arnold knows where every unit on both sides fought. He tells me all about his kit, what type of fabric, shoes, and weapons he owns. He knows everything about supplies and material and would have probably made a good quartermaster.
Once we’re into the Alps, I break away from Arnold to go to the open-air viewing car and get a better view of the mountains. Arnold follows me; we just passed something that reminded him of the campaign in the Shenandoah Valley, and he’s off and running again.
Strangely, I feel good, like I’ve done a good deed. I’ve listened patiently, I’ve helped Arnold enjoy his hobby, I’ve made his trip a little better.
Now, if I can just get somebody to tell me a little about these mountains we just crossed.
Nestled between the Tasman Sea and the Southern Alps, the West Coast of the South Island is wild, wet, and rugged. It’s not a place for someone looking to lead the soft, easy life. There are large tracts of temperate rainforests and the bush is so green and thick that you can almost watch things grow. It’s hard to get to, Kiwis living here are isolated from the rest of the country.
The roaring forties blow unimpeded across the Tasman Sea, dumping large amounts of rain on the sparsely populated area. The West Coast runs 360 miles from north to south but has a population of barely thirty thousand. Much of the native bush has returned and everyone I talked to told me the country is feral. This seems to be the perfect word for describing this area, a tamed area gone wild.
The West Coast was special to the Maori, they would travel to the rivers to harvest greenstone, a form of jade. This was the hardest material available in New Zealand, and the Maori would fashion it into weapons, tools, and ceremonial items. Today it’s difficult to find a shop in all of New Zealand that isn’t selling greenstone pendants, necklaces, bracelets, etc. Various shapes signify various things to the Maori. I select one design at random to take home, and the Maori salesclerk congratulates me for being a man of peace.
The 2009 IRONMAN® New Zealand incorporated several Maori traditions. At the pasta dinner there were Maori singers and dancers, prior to the swim a waka, or war canoe, patrolled the shore line. Just before the start of the race we witnessed a haka, or war dance. The haka is an aggressive, threatening ritual. Maori men squat and chant forcefully, eyes and tongues protruding, facial tattoos adding to the menacing appearance.
I invariably find the Maori to be genuine people, warm and open, proud of their heritage, anxious to be helpful. They’re a big-boned, hearty group, descendants of a people able to paddle thousands of miles across the Pacific. It’s an honor to visit their country.
I feel a little isolated as I drive south from Greymouth, the terminus of the TranzAlpine Express, down the West Coast. It’s late summer and everything is dense and dark, the sun never appears. The Tasman Sea on my right crashes on the rocky shore and pushes horizontal sheets of drizzle onto the road. I’m traveling on the main highway, a two lane road that narrows to one lane for bridge crossings. Vehicles going in opposite directions have to take turns in crossing the bridge, but the traffic is so sparse that it isn’t much of a problem.
The few people on the road are headed, like me, to see the glaciers. There are at least three thousand of these frozen rivers in the Southern Alps but I’m traveling to see the most visited ones, the Franz Josef Glacier and the Fox Glacier.
This is a unique area; the glaciers descend into a rainforest, ending just a short distance from the Tasman Sea. Some years the glaciers advance a bit, but in general they have been receding. They do flow at a fast rate compared to the glaciers in the Alps of Europe. Watching glaciers flow is a lot like watching trees grow; unless you make repeated visits or take photos, it’s a question of faith.
From a short distance away, the Franz Josef looks like a big wall of dirty ice. It seems to need a good scrubbing before being ready for the front of a postcard.
One day I hook up with a guide; we strap on some crampons and go a short way up the glacier. After crossing a few crevasses, we stumble around a little and call it a day. It’s a very modest Alpine excursion, commensurate with my experience and abilities.
Later, to get the big picture, I spring for a helicopter ride. We swerve in and out of the mountains, photographing several glaciers that all appear remarkably the same. At one point we stop on the Franz Josef and track around in the snow fields.
All alone atop a glacier, it’s a humbling experience. The great disparity between human time and geologic time is astounding.
I head from the West Coast eastward through the Southern Alps by way of the Haast Pass. Crossing through vast forests of beech on what used to be an old Maori trail, I continue down through Wanaka and into Queenstown. Along the way I traverse some of the most expensive real estate in the country. This area is often picked as the best place to live in New Zealand.
Queenstown lies on Lake Wakatipu nestled in the shadows of the Remarkables mountain range. The waterfront is packed with adventure outlets, restaurants, coffee bars, outdoor clothing stores, and pubs. The town has a little of the Alpine village ambiance, reminiscent of an anglicized Chamonix or Zermatt. This is the place for the young and rich.
Some of New Zealand’s appeal is action and adventure, but most people come simply for the scenic beauty. There’s a great variety of landscapes, vegetation, and wildlife; it’s a country that bedazzles you at every turn.
New Zealand has fourteen national parks, and the largest and most famous one, Fiordland National Park, takes up the whole southwest corner of the South Island. This park is home to the country’s most famous fiord, Milford Sound. No less an authority than Rudyard Kipling called it the Eighth Wonder of the World.
I head from Queenstown to Te Anau, the entry spot into the Milford Sound area. It isn’t a big place, mostly motels, restaurants, and outfitters, plus a handful of pubs.
The Moose is my pick for a drinking spot. It is early evening and the pub is virtually empty but I soon hook up with Eddie, a real Kiwi bloke. He appears around sixty or so, a thin, wiry man with leathery skin, a dead ringer for Willie Nelson on Slim-Fast®. Eddie has to have spent his entire working life outdoors. His accent is so thick that it borders on a speech impediment, I have to ask him to repeat every other sentence.
Eddie has been at the bar for a good while, he’s at least three drinks ahead of me and anxious to talk. We quickly decide that without cold beer, life would not be worth living. Eddie is a long time helicopter pilot who spends most of his time nowadays shuttling tourists and sportsmen in and out of the Fiordland. He tells me that he has seen and done a lot in his time, but he’s convinced that today’s world has gone soft and mushy.
I very easily qualify as an old-timer so I have no trouble agreeing. If he thinks it’s bad in New Zealand, I tell him, he should come to the United States.
Eddie still flies some deer hunters about but, he tells me, it’s not like it was in the old days when his crew would take a hundred or more deer in a single day.
This seems like a big dose of Kiwi bull to me, no one can kill one hundred deer in a day. He can tell that I’m skeptical. Sure they can, he says, you can watch it on YouTube. Eddie fills me in on the details.
New Zealand has no real native mammals, but in the late nineteenth century, red deer were brought from the United Kingdom and released for hunting. New Zealand proved to be the promised land for the deer, it was an ecosystem with no predators, plentiful food, and no hunting allowed.
The deer were in heaven,
they thrived and multiplied and soon began eating all the native plants and trees, eventually helping themselves to the grazing land used by livestock.
By the 1930s, the problem was so bad that the hunting of deer was permitted by the government in an effort to control the herd. Unfortunately, many of these areas were so remote and inaccessible that the arrival of hunters did little to thin the deer population.
In the 1970s, when Eddie first got involved, helicopters were introduced. The deer were everywhere and chopper crews, many operating illegally without a license, could kill a hundred or more in a single day.
In those days, Eddie would pilot the helicopter and one or more men would stand in the back shooting the animals. The carcasses were then loaded onto the chopper and flown out for processing.
Guns and helicopters, this is a hell of a story, something that any full-blooded Kiwi would be proud of. I’m duly impressed, but Eddie tells me that there’s more.
The 1970s also saw the legalization of deer farming in New Zealand. These animals could be raised like cattle. One thing that all deer farmers need to be successful is live deer for breeding, the more the better. Eddie and his buddies set out to satisfy the demand.
There was no playing around for these boys, this was a man’s game. Eddie would locate a deer and fly his chopper just overhead of the fleeing animal. Another buddy in the back would jump from the helicopter onto the back of the running deer, wrestle it to the ground, tie its legs together, and load it into a canvas sack. The chopper would airlift the live animal to a waiting truck for delivery to the farm. At one point, the value of the captured deer for an aspiring farmer reached as high as $1,600.
It’s an amazing story, but Eddie makes the whole process sound simple, like picking up a few bags of groceries from the supermarket.
Those were the good old days, Eddie tells me, nothing like the humdrum chores of today. He says the government is making it harder and harder for him to make a living. He and I commiserate about how bad the government rules are. After another beer, we both sound like indentured servants working for an unappreciative government master (that’s close to the truth).
Against the Odds Page 15
