Happy Racism Time

For those of you (I think I am standing strong at 3 readers now) who occasionally tune into this site for my wondrous (though somewhat dated) accounts and visually stunning photograph of my New Zealand trip, I apologize. This post will be the angry ranting of an angry man ranting angry angry rants angrily. A post concluding the New Zealand trip, while in the works, will have to wait. I have a some steam to blow.

I want to preface with a forethought. I oftentimes get vexed with foreigners who work in this country that wax on about how superior their country is and how "fucked up"[sic] Japan is. Don't get me wrong, I love my country, and I by no means fall into the camp of whose special kids who clutch steadfast to their manga and proclaim the superiority of the Japanese. I still choose Superman over Ultraman. Part of the experience that I have opted to enjoy for a second year is, however, to experience a different way of life.

All this being said, let me get to the matter at hand. Today I took a driving test for my Japanese license. Now before anyone goes into the subtle gray area of "Shelala lefts" and "observing the speed limit," let me say I know how I drive. I am from New York, and if that does not come through in either my accent or the fact that I proudly proclaim that the wheel, jello, democracy, chess, electricity, Finland, etc. were all indeed created/discovered or founded in Brooklyn (Isaac Newton may have invented the calculus in Britain, but he him self was in fact the son of Borough Presdent Joey Newton who clearly passed along his intellect. He was also pretty sick at basketball - also invented in Brooklyn) my driving remains as the most compelling evidence of my hometown.

Still, mamma didn't raise no fool, and if there is one thing we New Yorkers do better than everything else, it's beat the system.

Before I go on, there is something else that needs to be noted about the infamous Japanese driving test - apparently foreigners, as a rule fail is the first time around. In the months before my road test, I heard horror stories from every single licensed driver that I know, from a bunch of different countries, each storyteller ending with the "BS reason" why they were failed.

Here's the kicker, not one reason mentioned can be found ANYWHERE in the driving manual that is given to English speakers.

Back to my plan to beat the house. For the past month or so, I spoke to a few friends and compiled a list of "Stupid reasons that people failed." When all was said and done, I ended up with around fifty tips and failing points. My plan was simple. After reading the book, I would go to the course early (here the tests are done at a closed course, not the open road) MEMORIZE the track, and visualize driving it with all the stupid failing points in mind. Just for edification on what constitutes a "stupid failing point" according to the people I spoke to, here are a few:

1) Failure to look under the car for babies or cats prior to entering the car. (I swear to God I am not making this up)
2) Failure to accelerate to 40 kph on a straight way (apparently this driver made it to 38.... Close but no cigar)
3) Indicating earlier than 3 meters (threeee shall be the number of the counting, and the number of the counting shall be threeee...)
4) Failure to prepare to change lanes using the correct order of actions (nb: the 'correct' order is as follows:
i) look in rearview mirror
ii) look in sideview mirrors
iii) turn on indicator
iv) look in sideview mirrors
v) drift towards the edge of your lane with a close eye on the lane you want to merge to
vi) look in sideview mirrors
vii) change lanes
viii) turn indicator off

Apparently my friend made the mistake of turning on his indicator before looking in his mirrors. On the open road, who knows how many lives that may have jeopardized.

I would not even presume to criticize the strange abundance in steps to change lanes. Again, if that's what they want to teach, then more power to them - but to fail a man who completed the necessary steps but merely signaled first is ludicrous.

Speaking of ludicrous, I do indeed hope that you all can appreciate the absurdity that after being legally permitted to drive in the country for one year on an international license, we all have to line up and subsequently fail a road test. How could you be sure that I am capable to drive in Japan? Well, for one thing, I have been driving since I was sixteen, and I have been doing it in Japan with no incident for a year now. I suppose that is irrelevant though.

All of this brings me to today, 12:00 PM as I prepared to take my road test (after scoring perfectly on the insultingly simple written test, mind you.) The tester steps our of the test car and greets me.

Tester: "Where are you from?"*
Me : "America."
Tester: "Oh, are you going to be ok driving on the left side of the road?"*
(Note: He has already inspected my paperwork and acknowledged that I have been living in Japan and driving on an international driving permit - on the left side of the road - for one year now)
Me: "Yes"*
Tester: "You know, in Japan, you have to follow the Japanese driving rules, not the American ones."*
Me: "I understand.*

* All in Japanese. Yes, despite the fact that I have been living here for a year, and speak this man's language, he feels the need to ensure that I know he only sees me as a foreigner who is going to do things wrong.

I hope you'll allow me a momentary segue here (as though you have the choice.) Before I continue, I should first define a Japanese term that this instructor and many people insist on using.

Gaijin (g-jn): A shortened version of gaikokujin, literally meaning "outside person." A foreigner. SYN: ALIEN, immigrant, stranger, outsider.

This label is used DAILY to describe myself and the other English teachers and residents from abroad. Now I know in America, if people started referring to visitors or people immigrating as any one of the above terms, it would most assuredly be considered derogatory. This is mainly because it is. I can understand the occasional need to refer to a collective group as foreigners, you understand, but to go so far as to label someone with the nickname "outside person" daily is pretty terrible. This point really hit home today as I will continue to describe.

So, after imparting his sagacity to the ignorant gaijin that in Japan I have to follow the Japanese road rules, not the American ones, we approached the car. From the start, I began running through the course and my checklist. I checked under the car for babies or cats, made my adjustments, and set off.

I completed the course, flawlessly. Every single little item on my mental checklist was well met. I returned the car to the starting point, thanked the driver using the proper honorific "thank you," and returned to the waiting area.

Now, I don't want to give you the wrong impression. I was in no way cocky or overconfident. My heart was pounding through my shirt. I knew from the moment I met the driver, he already had his impression formed on us damn dirty gaijin. I hoped sincerely that he would prove me wrong, that I was just being paranoid and over sensitive after hearing all the horror stories and that wicked word for the past 363 days. Alas, sometimes it's not fun to be right.

The driver called me up to the window and explained that I failed. Then, in a manner that seemed to strain his imagination, he explained the reason which i will now add to the list I created so that I can pass it on to Joycie who will take (and fail) the test next month.

Tester: "When you turned right, while you did first move your car to the far right of your lane, I felt you could have moved it further. Also, your left front tire was not at the proper angle for an efficient turn."

I was seething. First off, I couldn't get a clear explanation on what "the proper angle for an efficient turn" is. I asked the tester, and he referred me to the text (which is roughly 100 pages, none of which come close to mentioning anything about tire angling or efficient turns.)

I apologize. One more interruption to make an observation; all of this is taking place at window number 16 at the driving test center. Hanging over window 16 is a sign saying "Foreign applicants." Now, it should be understood that no body in the driving center speaks anything other than Japanese (or if they do, they are not public about it). All paperwork I filled out was in Japanese, and required me to fill in information in Japanese. When I phoned to make my appointment, they told me that with the exception of the written test, everything is Japanese, and if this is going to be a problem, I am responsible to bring my own translator. The written test is bilingual and everyone receives the same test.

Also, as policy, they only allow 4 "gaijin" test takers per day.

So, same bilingual test. Instruction and paperwork in Japanese. The license I am applying for is not a specialized license but the same one Japanese citizens apply for. I am one in a group of 4 people that will be visiting the Licensing Center today. One must wonder, what necessitates a segregated window? Since all the paperwork is the same, and I am applying for the same license, why wouldn't they group all four of us with the rest of the applicants? I suppose four is a tedious number.

While this is all floating around my head, the tester executes the final "screw the damn gaijin" combo. Apparently, after an initial failure they will not reschedule you for another 8 weeks, which is fortunate because it is more than enough time for those who did not pass the test to find time to take their three day driving course (only costs $300). I guess that it is strangely comforting that discrimination is not the only motive here. There is also a money angle. After all, why pass me after only collecting the $50 test fee when they can get me to take the class and then charge me another $50 to test again? $400 bucks per gaijin? Not too shabby.

Of course, there s always the "screw the man, I'm not taking the class" approach. A friend of mine tried that. He took the test 3 times. 3 times they asked if he took the class. 3 times he answered "no." They finally passed him the 4th time. I suppose they were content with only scamming him out of $200. He managed to save himself some money, but imagine how much time this can end up taking (by the way, we also have to use our vacation days at work each time we test. Be sure to factor that into the "losses" category of your calculations.)

As the tester handed me back my paperwork, and the information on the school, he smiled. "Don't worry, no body passes the first time."

After getting home I spoke to nearly every Japanese friend I made in the past year. They all passed the first time. Not even one failed. That tester must be permanently stationed at window 16, from which he is drawing his statistical analysis on the pass rates.

So I sit here, 2 days before my international permit expires, without a license for the summer. Apparently although I live here, pay taxes, support this country's economy, work for their government, and teach their children, I am as ever an outsider.

A gaijin.

It's raining, it's pouring, Jane Conrad is snoring...

Ok, I'll play fair, that title was chosen more for its cleverness than its veracity. While the former is accurate, our tent was far too uncomfortable to allow for a deep enough sleep to accommodate any snoring. In any case, we woke up on the final day in Abel Tasman to a gray day. While not the longest hike in our trek, the third day's adventures would by far be the most uncomfortable.

My eyes opened and my first breath of air was that sort of wet musty air that brings with it the immediate realization that although I did not hear the steady syncopation of raindrops, Abel Tasman was soaked.

By day three of no showering, the last thing you want is the stickiness that accompanies high humidity. We were tired and in pain, but we were also on a strict schedule. Not only did we have to cope with two major tidal crossings, but also a deadline. Our boat that would bring us from the apex of the park back down to the beginning where we would meet a bus back to civilization was expected at a very specific time. Miss it, and we are stuck camping again and the rest of our plans would go out the window. We quickly organized ourselves and set off.

The first crossing...
The benefit of never being able to sleep is that you never have to stress waking up on time for anything. As soon as it was light out, we were up and dressed. Tent collapsed, sleeping bags rolled, cereal bars in our bellys and we were ready to go. Within a half hour of our departure, however, we were met with our first challenge. A tidal crossing that was at a less than favorable depth. We could not wait, and had to make the crossing as it was.

... You only wish you had a pair of Spider-man boxers as cool as mine were. Note the water shoes that Jane was wearing. Clever girl, she managed to save herself the joy of impaled objects in the soles of her feet (whereas mine plagued me for the rest of the trip.) On the flipside, those along with my adidas sandals that were Eventually used (after I got sick of pulling shell fragments from my bleeding feet) ended up producing a unique odor that plagued us for the remainder of the trip.

After we made the crossing, there was a lot of hiking. Of all the days, this one was the most grueling, not because of the distance, or the terrain (day 2 took the cake on both) but more because of the time concerns. We HAD to make it to the end of the road in time to catch the boat that would bring us back, and we had to do it with a few tidal crossings that would not make our lives any easier. We prayed earnestly to the Maori tiki gods to ensure our safe passage.

Clearly the Tiki gods were not pleased with our lack of offerings. As soon as we reached the next beach clearing, we were met with a horizon obscured by dark clouds, harbingers of the storm that would soon ensue.


Of course, Jane's suspicions fell on the eye of Sauron casting its gaze on us, or more specifically the ring she carried around her neck. I too was tempted by this ring and was (for a while) changed into the creature Gollum.






For a while the rain maintained itself at a manageable steady drizzle which had momentarily ceased by the time we reached the next crossing. It was a long one with water low enough that it did not necessitate pants removal, but high enough that sneakers had to come off. I don't remember much else from this crossing except SWEET BABY JESUS! AY DIO MIO!!!

The blinding white pain of broken shells passing through the inch thick kendo-calluses on my feet and managing to penetrate new skin that has still not yet been exposed to air is a special pain to be sure. My "water shoes" were also not a help as they were a pair of adidas sandals (some of you may remember these from such places as the shoes I wore every single day at college) - they are the ones with the little massaging bumps that are wonderful under normal circumstances. The problem is, there was still enough water on the ground to 1) suck the soles of the sandals into the sand so walking was tricky, and 2) float a few shells in between the stuck sandal and my foot, struggling to raise the sandal - this happening in such a way that the raised bumps and rigid rubber of the sandal provided the shells with a base much more sturdy than sand, a base with which they could easily secure themselves so that when I stepped back down, the broken shell could penetrate my feet with maximum force and pain.
From here on in, walking became more of a method of lightly stepping, ow, picking an impaled shell from my foot, limping to the next step... wash, rinse, repeat...

After this arduous struggle, we made it back into the woods. The dark clouds were still looming, but the rain had yet begun. The beach, the proverbial "calm before the storm" could be seen from between trees.




That's when it hit. Rain. The kind of rain that first drove man to shelter and years later would inspire Sal Umbrellione, a resident of Brooklyn, to invent the first umbrella. The tears of the tiki gods crying out about whatever makes a tiki god cry (insert clever remark about the white man killing Maoris, taking their land and relegating Maori culture to underfunded museums....here.)

Still, there is something wonderfully pure about sheets of rain baptizing you after three day hike. I looked at Jane, and she had the same look on her face as I imagine I had. A wide ear to ear smile. Within the final hour of this hike, on a trip marked by 100 meter cave dives, ocean kayaking during a storm, hitch hiking, misadventures with shady vagabonds, and more to come - this was fitting. The rain was soothing, not the pit pat of inconsistent rain, but a strong downpour with constant cadence that soaked through clothing, hiking bags, and sneakers and wrinkled digits. It was earned rain, and we loved it.

We had to love it quickly, however, as time was really running out.



Of course, we made it successfully, with enough time to applaud each other on a job well done, and a few moments to pull the remaining shells from my feet as well as survey the damage.





Of course, there still had to be one more test of will. Over the horizon, we saw our boat as it arrived ashore. We anxiously waited at the edge of the water when all of the sudden the boat, our salvation and passage back to the world of men, stopped about 10 meters out.


As it bobbed in the waves, Jane and I stared at it for a while. The captain was at the stern of the boat waving some sort of signal at us. It finally dawned on us, he could not come all the way to shore, we would have to walk out to the boat.

Back to tidal crossing mode... The water was fairly shallow, but everything had to be put in or attached to our hiking bags, and they had to be carried above our heads as we waded out to the boat. Of course, even something as mundane as boarding a boat couldn't be easy.


Safe, sound, and soaked we got on board and headed out, leaving Abel Tasman in our wake.

As we waited for our bus back to Nelson, I had a staring contest with this cow. He won, he always does... That's why I come out here.... Naaaaatureeee....(Goulet)







While I lived out an inside joke that nobody who reads this will understand (I am not exactly sure if anyone reads this anyway) Jane munched down the final PB&J sandwich.



Back in Nelson, we both showered, recouped, and dined on long missed Pizza Hut... Note the "I've been hiking with a baseball cap on for 3 days in the sun" tanline that I managed to score... That and spider-man boxers... Don't you wish you were me?















Finally, after an interesting walk, with an interesting conversation about the stars, we returned to our hostel where Jane pontificated on the more exciting aspects of rubber warming bags (which she erroneously insisted on calling bedpans.)

Bedpans.

Abel Tasman - Day 2

I don't know what woke me up first, the sun, the cold or whatever was under the tent that kept jamming into my leg. Maybe I never fell asleep in the first place. I looked over at Jane, she had the same look on her face that I imagine I had; tired, uncomfortable, and ready to hike.

Despite its beautiful beaches and wooded areas, Abel Tasman does not really lend itself to long lazy leisurely hikes. Deadlines come in the form of daylight and tidal crossings. In some cases missing the low tide means a 2 hour detour. In other cases, where there was no other way to go, missing the low tide means camping out for an extra day and trying to catch it the following day. The latter was a luxury we could not afford and suddenly I felt like I was back in Manhattan living in city life complete with all of the schedules and timetables. Still though, there is a cathartic difference between rushing to catch a subway to make it uptown for a meeting and aggressively trekking on a coastline in order to make a tidal crossing.

We were hungry. In no time, we packed up the tent and instantly our entire 2 square meter campsite, bedding, trash, and laundry were back on our backs. We sat on the beach, found some comfortable rocks, and ate a breakfast of fruit cups and energy bars. Our journey would begin with a short hike to the first tidal crossing; at least that was the plan. When we reached the crossing we found out that in our efforts to not be the slightest bit late to make the crossing, we were grossly early. We could either have waited an hour and a half to make the crossing, or taken the two hour detour. We decided as we were already up and genki, we would do the latter.

It is interesting how sometimes mistakes lead to discovery. While walking on the detour, we saw a sign for Cleopatra's pool. Neither of us had the vaguest idea what this could be, but I knew that if I did not take the detour, Bob Brier would certainly be disappointed, and I would never disappoint Bob Brier... that man has taught me so much.

We hiked on a while longer until we reached a break in the path. In one direction, we could hike another three and a half hours to Onetahuti, the next campsite. The other direction was for a one and a half hour detour to a waterfall... We chose waterfall.

Walking the steep path up with my gear on my back, I thought about Sisyphus rolling his boulder and I wondered if the hills in Hades were this narrow and steep. We managed though, and at the very end we sat down and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at the foot of the waterfall.

Simply stated... amazing.

Going back down the steep path from the waterfall was surprisingly as difficult as going up. The detour took us a while, and we were still so far from Onetahuti. Although that day's trek did not have us worrying about tidal crossings, we still had to consider daylight. The light from our convenience store flashlights had already changed from that fresh store-bought bright white to a more amber color after the first night of camping. After sunset, we could not count on being able to see very much.

We reached a path alongside the beach where we walked for a while. The tide was still out and there was a tiny island that one could walk to. I wanted to walk to the island and explore a bit, but we could not risk running out of daylight, so we pressed on.

Soon after we reached the only impressive manmade thing I saw in Abel Tasman. Uncle Steve, Uncle Frans, if you are reading this, know that the suspension bridge that you built upstate will always have a special little place in the section of my hears where I reserve room for the category of "small suspension bridges used to cross rivers." That being said, this one was pretty impressive.

We stopped at another beach to put our tired feet in the cold water and noshed on some M&Ms. Here is the part of my blog where I abuse my wonderful travel partner.

"I miraculously grabbed a handfull, only to discover (to Rich's disgust) that I grabbed all blue ones! What are the chances?!? Well, we won't show you that pic of them in my mouth..."

Yea, she won't show you that picture, but I will...

As Jane said on her blog, this last stretch, though only about another hour was hard but we ganbatted. Once we arrived at Onetahuti I made us a nice dinner (which we actually got to eat on a proper picnic table.) Our luck also held out - as soon as we were ready to close up the tent it started to rain a bit.

Our trek so far: The light blue trail in the water is obviously from day 1 (kayaking) from marahau to Anchorage. The purpleish line is from Anchorage to Onetahuti (with the detour to the waterfall).

Say tuned for day 3.










Rex out.

Blackfoot Fell on Her Head

Or at least that is the assumption that I have to go by based on the continuing and blatant lies that have become all too common on her blog. The logical conclusion that I reached is that at some point during the course of our two days of caving, or our three days of trekking or even sometime at the airport or while SCUBA diving, poor Jane must have fallen on her skull and anything resembling a factual account of our trip to New Zealand might have tumbled out of that hole in her eardrum.

Here is the Jane Conrad "Fair and Balanced" account of our conversation preceding our kayaking adventure:

"...Neither of us had ever kayaked before (although Rich lied to me and said he did - which is why I made the reservation!)..." (source: www.xanga.com/Mr_mephisto Captain and Raccoon Kayak Through Abel Tasman April 24, 2006)

Let me take a moment to explain how the conversation really went:

Jane: Would you be interested in kayaking?
Rich: Sure, that seems great.
Jane: Should we get a guide?
Rich: I don't know, do we need one?
Jane: Well, you kayaked before, right?
Rich: No.
Jane: (laughs) Yea, OK.
Rich: (kinda boggled as to why that is funny) Do you think we do a lot of kayaking in Brooklyn?
Jane: Whatever, you can just teach me what to do.

(Later at the Kayak place)

Steve: So, either of you guys ever kayak before?
Rich: Nope.
Jane: Wait, I thought you said that you HAD?!?
Rich: No, you're confused. You said that I had, I said that I hadn't.
Jane: I thought you were kidding?!?

Ladies and gentlemen, THIS is why I will really NEVER understand ANYTHING that has a second x chromosome.

Now, I will be fair, aside from that initial "No, I don't know how to do it" I did not continuously protest Jane who was so adamantly doubtful of my inability. I am known for oftentimes going into something that I had never done before (which may or may not be potentially fatal to the inexperienced) with a "how hard could it be?" or "what's the worst that could happen?" (famous last words, as Nash would say.) Still, I am always upfront about my inexperience, though perhaps overconfident in my abilities or safety at times.

So, Blackfoot is a libelous scoundrel. That being said, it is a good thing that we were guided.


Ok, so here is where we were. You'll recall that we finally reached Abel Tasman on day 5 of the trip. Somehow despite being delayed for one day in Narita, and taking two days to bus, ferry, and hitch hike from the North to the South Island we were still perfectly on schedule and ready to start the three day trek through Abel Tasman.

Abel Tasman is a beautiful...BEAUTIFUL (read: most beautiful place I have ever been to, ever) coastal park. I won't get too involved in describing it here, however, as there are plenty of pictures and stories to come. Anyway, the coastal path we were planning on taking was about 17 kilometers long. We would complete the first 5 kilometers (from Marahau to Anchorage) on day one, an we would travel via kayak.

So, with cereal bars in our stomachs and a half hour crash course on sea kayaking, we headed out to the bay with our guide, Steve.

Now, a brief word about Sea Kayaking. This is not kayaking in a bay or a lake or someplace where you maintain the option to stop rowing for a bit and relax. When you are Sea Kayaking, you have a lot more to worry about such as cutting through waves that go over the top of the kayak, getting swept out further than you would hope to be, and when you are fortunate enough to paddle around shallow water, there is always the hazard of jagged rocks that make life more interesting.

Of course, this is not necessarily to say it is an extremely dangerous sport either. Under the right conditions, the occasional "stop for a second to bob around" is permitted. Under the right conditions, once you get through an initial set of waves, a rhythmic paddle with light to medium cadence is sufficient to keep you in control.

We, however, were kayaking in conditions that could be best euphamized as "less than ideal," or more realistically stated as "insane." Unbeknownst to our guide, there was a swell and water was a rough. During the day of kayaking, for 5 kilometers, we had to row at full force, maintaining enough speed to control the boat. Also, to avoid being swept back to the jagged rocks lining the shore and the base of the cliffs of Abel Tasman, we had to do much of the rowing out to sea.

We stopped twice, one to prepare, and one to recover. For and from what? The Mad Mile. The Mad mile is a bluff named as such because for approximately one mile there is no place wheresoever to stop. The specific course between Marahau and Anchoage is spotted with tiny beaches that are completely inaccessible except for by boat. During kayaking, if one were to get overwhelmingly tired, there is always at least the option to make it to one of these beaches to rest for a few moments. We were not granted this luxury as with the conditions that day, stopping to rest would almost be counter productive. The amount of energy that would have to be exerted in order to brake through the wake line again and make it back out after stopping on a beach would have negated the entire rest period.

Before the Mad Mile, however, we stopped to rest for a bit. Steve gave us a small snack and some juice to re-energize. After some time, we were ready to take on the Mad Mile.

The moniker Mad Mile certainly was apt, I tell you... APT! In order to make it around the bluff, we had to paddle out far then cut across it. The plan was to stop for lunch at a beach right after the Mad Mile. You would think that while heading back to shore we could just coast and let the waves bring us in. Yes, logic would support such a theory, however somehow that was strangely not the case and we had to continue the heavy rowing back to shore. It seemed ridiculous, kinda like having to walk up hill to come back down the mountain. Once we made it back though, we flopped down on the tiny secluded beach and ate the yummy sandwiches that Steve had brought along. From there to Anchorage would only be another short stretch, but we needed the break. It also didn't hurt that the beach was amazing and it was a beautiful day.

Once we made it back to Anchorage, we were met by a boat who transported our hiking hear to us. Before the sun set, our tent was pitched and Jane was passed out. I watched the sunset on the beach and took some photos. Jane woke up and we made dinner before settling into the tent.

Ok, take some time to appreciate how beautiful Anchorage was.















Next time: the trek to Bark Bay.

Rex out

Interlude - Insanity

It is difficult to try to record the events of this trip while simultaneously making an effort not to post blogs that are too similar to Mephistos... then again, we were on the same trip, so with that in mind, I give you day three/four -- the adventure between adventures.

23.03.06 Early Morning.

Blackfoot wakes me up. My muscles are still sore from the previous two days. Since I left Nakano I have not allowed my body much rest. While the night before I still had a good 6 hours of sleep, it seemd strangely inadequate. I get out of bed and grab my things. I welcome the idea of a day of busses and ferrys. This day should be easy. I can catch up on sleep.

There is a problem though. As I pack my things, I am reminded of a glaring ommision from a backpack meant to accompany me on a three day hike: a sleeping bag. Our journey to Wellington requires a few transfers without even seconds to spare. We will not reach any major city until night, and by then stores will be closed. Hopefully we will run into a bit of luck otherwise the nights in Abel Tasman are going to be chilly ones.

We check out of our hostel. The girl behind the desk is little and blonde. Her name is Hailey. Blackfoot asks her where we could find camping gear. Her answer is the name of a small town that we never heard of and would never remember. Most importantly, its a small town that we will not have time to reach before our noon bus. Situation does not seem good until we get that miricle we were looking for. Hailey offers to meet us in Otoranga (which Blackfoot will call "Orangatang" for the remainder fo the trip) before our bus picks us up, and take us to a store to buy supplies. God I love this country and the people in it.

We hop in a small van that takes us from the hostel to Otoranga. The driver, Freddie, the self proclaimed "oldest living fossil in New Zealand" drove us there while sharing all maner of facts on the kiwi bird and rabbit shearing.

It is raining in Otoranga. Good, let the rain get its kicks in before we start hiking. Hailey picks us up and takes us to the store to gear up. Turns out its her day off AND she cancelled an appointment to do this. I love this country. We try to give her money for gas but she won't accept.

The bus rides down to Wellington were long, but not awful. The drivers made frequent rest stops which I could have done without. We reached Wellington a little after 8pm and had to kill time before the 3am ferry down to the South Island. The bus station is in the middle of nowhere between the city and the docks and it's raining. Big deal. Blackfoot and I don our Uniqlo raincoats (purchased as we were leaving Narita...in case) and walk towards the city.

Wellington is windy. That, plus rain and the fact that we hadn't eaten in a while, keeps us moving quickly, but with absolutely no idea about the city or where we are, an uneasy feeling sets in. I take out our lonely planet and try to look for a map that could tell us anything. As we trace the map grid, trying desperately to shield the pages from the rain and wind that had already started to tax the book, a young woman comes down the street smiling.

"You looking for somehting?" she asks? She does not speak with a Kiwi accent.
"Food" we reply. She chuckles. Unless you are flying, the ferry is the only way down to the South Island, and Wellington is the port city. If she spends a lot of time around here I'm positive she often runs into more than her share of travelers.

She is a Canadian working down in New Zealand. Nice girl, but seems like one of those high energy sort of people that you are happy to have leading you somewhere but will start to grind on your nerves as the night goes on. I never caught her name. She leads us to the city center and left us to handle ourselves. I'm not wearing a watch but its probably past ten. Still plenty of time to go. Problem is, where?

There are a number of Chinese restaurants. They look greasy, like the ones in New York. God I miss the Chinese food in New York. Could these be the same? Only one way to tell.

No. They don't have General Tso's Chicken. Unless a Chinese restaurant is familiar with the General, I am not interested.

There is a guy standing against the wall in the shadow of a convienience store smoking a cigarette. He is looking right at us and I realize that I saw him a few blocks back as well. Why is he looking at us?

Blackfoot senses it too and with a smile walks over to him.

"Hey dude, know where we can grab a bite?" She asks. While the situation did not seem to be kosher, something in my gut tells me that this guy is ok. His name is Max. He rattles off the names of a few bars and pubs and asks us if we would be interested in having a pint with him. Japan doesn't have many import beers and the ones they have are hella expensive. One of the bars he mentions is Irish. Blackfoot is on the same page as I am. We both crave the same drink we haven't tasted in far too long.

Guiness.

I always love when you are in a bar where the bartender knows how to properly pour a Guiness. The initial tip pour until the glass is slightly less than three-quarters full, then the waiting period when the drink settles and the head nearly shrinks away, then the final pour, a perpendicular blast from the tap that fills the balance of the glass with a tan froth and disturbs the blackness in the rest of the glass. If the bartender does it right, you get a perfect stout with proper head and a full body. Wrong in either direction and you are either drinking foam or Guiness juice.

The guy behind the bar knows what he is doing. First two rounds of Guinesses are on Max. I pick up the third. Max is a little crazy, but a good guy. He is from the UK and launches off into stories about how he ended up in New Zealand, helicoptors that follow him, and his various inventions. He buys the table a round of Jamesons.

Blackfoot and I realize that we still hadn't eaten. We go to a burger-king and get double bacon cheeseburger meals. We go to another bar and keep drinking until it is time to catch the ferry.

24.03.06 Somewhere in Between Dreams.

On the ferry we find a comfortable room on the upper deck. We take our sleeping bags and crash out. At 6am we arrive in Picton on the South Island.

Our journey is no where near to being over. Picton is on the eastern side of the south island, but we have to head west towards Nelson, so at 6am we hold out our thumbs to hitch a ride across the island.

It is not too long before an old SUV car pulls over. The driver is tall and his shoes are untied. I wonder for a second if he is too tall and cannot reach his laces. Jane hops in the back amidst tons of machine parts and equipment. I sit shotgun. The song "Go to Sleep lil Baby" from O Brother Where Art Thou? is playing. The man is hurried, he is on his way to work. He is a research scientist working on developing biodesiel as an alternative for fossil fuels. He drives us to an intersection near a convienence store and heads to work.

We wait longer this time for another driver. Another SUV pulls over, this one is also old. The driver is stocky with unruly white hair and a large nose. He clears aside some antique books and helps Jane put her bag in the car. I put mine in as well. He is running late for work and hurries us into his car. We are underway and he talks a lot which is fine because he is interesting. He is an archeologist studying the Maori. He tells us the story of an orange cat named "Fatty," his daughter who playes golf, and a toilet in Abel Tasman that engulfs you in orange sunlight as you are eliminating. Midway through a story a car cuts into the road and the Archeologist lets out a string of curses that would make Dice blush.

He drops us off on a road outside of Havelock (the green-shelled mussel capital of the world). We are halfway to Nelson. We wait for over two hours on the side of a road that is as busy as a sex shop near a church. For two hours we sit and wait. A car pulls up. No luck they are just pulling a U-turn and felt that pulling oveer next to tired hitchikers would be fine. Other cars pass pretending not to see us or give an apologetic nod.

The problem with our current location is that if we do not get picked up we are screwed. There is nothing for miles. We try not to lose faith but it is becoming harder not to. Another car pulls in. It is nice, we don't even bother getting up, it can't be for us. A young girl pokes her head out of the car.

"You guys need a ride or not?"

We get in the car. Her friend (or sister) is around the same age and sits shotgun. The trunk is small and can only fit Jane's bag. I put mine on my lap and we squeeze into the back seat. The passenger offers us beer and potato chips. I take stock of my situation. Two young girls pick up hitchikers and offer them beer and chips...and they say movies are not realistic.

It turns out the driver was a single mother. After about a half hour of driving, she pulls over. The car is overheating and she has to pour cold water over the engine. We sit for a while until the car cools off. She drives us the rest of the way to Nelson. We force her to take gas money




Nelson is a beautiful town. It reminds me of the Hamptons. We plan out our three days in Abel Tasman and get some falafel. I pick up a Maori pendent. It is a bone hook, a water sign that provides protection for travelers. We find our Hostel, and prepare food and supplies for our next three days in Abel Tasman.