Postcards from New Zealand: Day Twenty-Three

This was our last day in the Northlands, and on the way home we stopped to see the famous giant kauri trees of Waipoua Forest. I like trees, and I like big trees, but the must-see kauris, the most famous of which is likely 2,000+ years old, didn't much move me. I felt much more intimately inclined to a tree of more pedestrian proportions I had found on the beach at the end of Wharau road near Kerikeri a few days ago. This tree's trunk grew right up out of the beach, but only for a few feet before opening like the palm of a human hand into five sturdy branches, with an empty bowl in the center. Here I promptly curled up, leaning my head against one, and stretching my legs up against two others.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Twenty-Two

Today we drove to Cape Reinga, the northernmost point on the North Island accessible by car. On the way there, we could see the pristine beach on the western coast, which stretches out to Cape Maria Van Diemen, culminating with Motuopao Island. All the while, Aldo wanted to go swimming there. From our map, and the sheer drop down the cliffs from the road, I told him that would be impossible. After parking and visiting Cape Reinga's lighthouse with the other tourists, he led me to a trail, which follows the coastal bluffs and drops down onto the beach. The walk took about 30 minutes. No one was there. No one from the lighthouse could see us. We hid all of our clothes behind a bush and walked, like prelapsarian Adam and Eve, down the two mile beach. We swam in the Tasman sea and walked back, pulling on our clothes just as a group of people were arriving. The fabric, even though it was soft, worn cotton, warmed by the sun, felt abhorrent to my skin.

You can see our beach here.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Twenty-One

Stopping at a small local beach today on our way to the fancy-pants Bay of Islands, Aldo pointed out a cormorant in the ocean. I asked how he could recognize it at that distance, and he explained that they have a different degree of buoyancy than most seabirds, and float with much of their bodies under the water. I had merely thought that it was sick, because it looked like it was struggling. As it swam closer to the shore, eventually stumbling drunkenly along the beach on its way to the shoreline pond, we saw that it was indeed struggling; it had a fishhook lodged in its mouth. It wouldn't let us get close enough to help.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Twenty

Driving home from Mitimiti, the end-of-the-road beach west of the Warawara forest, where we had seen Polynesian locals collecting their dinner of fresh mussels off the rocks, we saw a tractor turning onto the gravel road from its farm. My vision is poor at distances, but as we came closer, I could see the strange, heavy load swinging from its front arm: a cow's carcass, dressed and ready for the butcher. The tractor entered the intersection and drove down the road, swinging the carcass through the dust with total nonchalance.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Nineteen

Today, we began a road trip to the Northlands, the northernmost part of New Zealand's North Island. Once we were out of the city, we started to notice an inordinate amount of roadkill—a creature every 100 meters it seemed. We passed a fresh kill at top speed and Aldo said "HOLY SHIT did you see the size of that squirrel?" I said, "That was a fox." It was, indeed, the size of a small fox, with longer forelegs than any squirrel could ever have. After arguing for some time as to whether squirrels have elbows (I erroneously insisted that they didn't), we saw another one, upon whose entrails a hawk was feasting, and slowed to examine it. It was a possum. New Zealand's possums aren't the same as American opossums; they have big bushy tails and snubbier noses; they are also not as road-savvy, it seems.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Eighteen

Tonight we went to dinner with friends at No. 1 Chinese Seafood BBQ. We had been there before and seen other families ordering lobsters, which are brought to the table live for inspection before the meal. New Zealand doesn't actually have lobsters; these are enormous, misappellated crayfish, and they have no front pincers. Tonight, we ordered one, neglecting to enquire after the "market price" quoted on the menu. When the waitress brought the living creature out for us to approve, she mentioned the price: $88 NZ per kilo; this one was 2.4 kilos. We promptly un-ordered it.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Seventeen

Today I stayed home to make another attempt at washing. This time, things went well: the machine finished its cycle promptly after 90 minutes, there was no rain, and the sheets were dry after an hour in the sun. On a sunny day, there is something strangely pleasing about hanging laundry on a line, socks with socks, shirts alongside shirts, underpants marching neatly in a row with other underpants, and a certain satisfaction in knowing that the clothespin has fastened the cotton tightly to the line, so that it won't twist up or slide down.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Sixteen

Today I was sick and I didn't do anything. I sat on Graham's couch and let the snot come out of my nose. If you are going to be sick in Auckland, Graham's living room is a good place to be; the sun comes in through the bay windows, and there are shelves of books and seashells and hand-glazed pottery for your eyes to listlessly explore as you sip red bush tea on the red couch. It's very cozy.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Fifteen

At brunch, we had seen an "apple and feijoa" smoothie on the menu. We asked our waitress, "What's feijoa?" but she could only tell us the obvious: a fruit—saying that it was rather particular and hard to describe. At night, Aldo went to the main house to pay our rent, and returned with two hands full of green, sweet smelling pods—tiny footballs with an umbilicus at one end, surrounded by a stiff crown of tiny leaves. Feijoa, from the tree in the garden, courtesy of our lovely hosts. He cut one in half and scooped out the inside with a spoon: pear and guava. Firm but yielding, aromatic and sweet, a delicately structured lattice infused with tropical juice.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Fourteen

Today we adventured to Whatipu (say FAH-ti-poo—the Maori "wh" is pronounced as an "f"), an expansive beach around the bend from Karekare. It's likely easier to reach Whatipu by foot, walking along Karekare's shore until they become Whatipu's, but ill-planning creatures that we are, we took the car, which meant driving all the way up and all the way back down and all around a mountain for 40 minutes, on a gravel road to boot. This should be considered my formal request that that road, and all roads, be paved. Was it worth it? I didn't personally find Whatipu as compelling as Karekare, although it was at Whatipu that we ran the 100 meter dash from the dunes to the shore and into the waves, stark naked, with no one there to see.