Archive for the ‘New Zealand’ Category:
Barefoot Running Progress
I finally have a chance to blog on my latest evolution in running: barefoot style. After reading Born to Run by Christopher McDougall and learning of Barefoot Ted’s Adventures, I decided to shuck the shoes, start at zero mileage, and feel the effects of this natural form of athleticism. My legs still feel a little off-balance on occasion, like I never fully recovered from my wrist injury in 2007 and my left side is still adapting to the extra weight. Nevertheless, as time goes on and my style progresses, I can only hope for the best.
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I was so lazy this past weekend in Auckland and didn’t even find the details for the Human Race (why didn’t they post the starting time/place?) Also been oversleeping for morning runs a lot lately. My body is still getting used to all the physical activity required as the caretaker of a forest monastery – weeding, construction, heavy lifting, hiking – and I’m torn between getting up early and running on an empty stomach or heading out immediately after my shift when my body is worn out and dehydrated.
Still, with my weekly total at zero on a Thursday, I felt compelled to go for a long run. Setting the goal of obtaining a coveted Bundaberg ginger beer in Bombay certainly helped. I was literally past the point of no return from the moment I slipped on my Vibram Fivefingers and began the ascent to Paparata Road.
What a day. My legs were heavy, but more in a pleasantly-used sense rather than worn out. The wind was incredible and against me as I set out towards the setting sun. I love the sensation of barefoot running – in fact, I caught myself landing on the balls of my feet (as opposed to the heel, with shoes) as I dashed around downtown Auckland on Saturday looking for a friend. I know it’s better for form and endurance – burns fat, not carbs – but every now and then along the paved road I’ll let a rock slip under the arch of my foot and make me consider the virtues of “normal” running shoes. Still, the fact that I am writing this at my starting point with a cup of green tea and weary yet perfectly comfortable legs suggests I might be on to something with the Fivefingers.
In any case, the thought of drinking an ice-cold beverage is my driving force as I edge onto the side of the road for car after car. The wind is rustling the trees so loudly I can’t hear anything approaching until it’s right on top of me, but drivers in this area are pretty observant; well, I’m still alive, anyway…
The 3k mark at the T-junction gives me pause… I hadn’t gone past 6k for a few weeks, and although I knew I could just run one way for another few kilometers and hitchhike back, the smarter part of me knew I could never let myself get that close to the finish without pulling through.
The hill at the 4k doesn’t even change my heart rate – a good sign; I must be in better shape than I had thought. A quasi-vegetarian diet and seven hours’ physical labor every day will do that, even if both your legs aren’t off the ground. But now the challenge begins: a big dip to the 5k mark at the turnoff to the Simunovich Olive Estate and from there it’s all uphill for 2-3k. I’ve tried to make the trek over to the store along this route before, only to get winded about 500 meters into the uphill. Not today. Not with ginger beer, chocolate, and a good story at stake. I shift to the left side to take advantage of the sunshine, and try my best to keep pace with the changing grade: 1%, 3%… as the final stretch looms, I can see it’s at least a 5-6% grade, mocking me, daring me to conquer it with my feet. Not so easy after all. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this way while running: CHALLENGED.
And I see, I remember that these moments in training or in races are the only parts worth running for, when you’re really not sure if you have the ability to keep going, but will tear yourself apart to find out. One foot in front of the other…
After that little test of humanity, I’m free and clear, a gentle coasting 2k to the convenience store, where I happen to catch the latest headline: someone is training to run the Taupo Ironman wearing a full Darth Vader costume? Craziness. Oh, and if you don’t believe in karma, I should point out it took a full two minutes for a familiar face to give me a lift back to the monastery.
Swallowing Naki
I’ll say it again: Japanese culture is stalking me. Not only was I able to find a cherry blossom festival in the heart of New Zealand, but my next destination was, unknown to me, the site of most of the filming of The Last Samurai. I know what you’re thinking… Japanese stars, based in Japan, why not just film over there? Well, they did a little:
- Katsumoto’s temple is in fact the Shoshazan Engyoji Temple in Himeji
- The fake Imperial Palace is the Chionin Temple in Kyoto
But by and large, the the majority of scenes were shot in New Plymouth in the Taranaki region, the so-called “Texas of New Zealand” by Lonely Planet for its rich oil deposits. I think I’ll just stick with the local expression and call it “Naki.” Much more concise, don’t you think?
I arrived alone in a dark alley to walk the 2.5 kilometers to my Couchsurfing host’s flat north of town. Although Ryan and his mates were very hospitable once I knocked on their door, I wish I had dragged my feet a little… they were in the middle of a Patrick Swayze movie tribute, and I have to say Point Break really, really sucks. Nevertheless, after my days and nights spent with organic hippie WWOOFers and a few female Couchsurfers, it felt great to hang around guys my own age again, a breath of fresh air. I also learned that one of their flatmates was none other than Jason Eaton, a great All Blacks rugby player whom I would meet the next day.
Sooo… the Naki…. New Plymouth is hardly the center of nightlife for the Taranaki region, but I must admit I was impressed with the walkabouts available to me: climbing Mt. Taranaki (snow-capped at the time), taking a run along the Coastal Walkway into town (trail runs about 10 km), and hiking to the top of Paritutu hillock, nicknamed “Mt. Suicide” for its extremely sheer rock facing the sea. Probably the best place next to Mt. Taranaki to get a decent shot of the city.
Back to The Last Samurai – the “battle in the fog” scenes were filmed in Mangamahoe Forest north of town, but in Pukekura Sports Ground of Pukekura Park, you can see where Tom Cruise ordered a Japanese soldier in training to shoot him. Mt. Taranaki acted on behalf of Mt. Fuji, and was paid $87 million, which it used as fertilizer.
I have to say this excursion was more of an experience in Couchsurfing than in seeing New Plymouth. Although I enjoyed the city and the local mineral pools…
…I was confined to the flat after it rained for a solid two days. Nothing but internet and watching Jason play rugby… on Playstation. Funny stuff, if you think about it. The guys were really sweet as, taking me boarding along the walkway as the sun set, introducing me to the Naki Burger at the Crowded House pub: a dish so large I doubt given the biggest loudmouth on the planet could get his chompers around it. Beef, bread, cheese, tomato, onion, egg, bacon, lettuce, dressing… I’m sure I’m missing something.
If you do surf with Ryan, take your country’s flag with you and he’ll raise it on his flagpole. I only wish I had had one of Texas to donate to their cause, but I settled for teaching them Texas Hold ‘Em over bowls of kava… sweet as. Kava, to those of you unfamiliar with the exploits of J. Maarten Troost, is a drink common to the south Pacific islands, a root traditional chewed by young boys, mixed with their saliva, and added to a little water and spice. Think of a hallucinogen with a lot more ooomph; Troost was out of it for two days when he tried his first bowl. As ours was powdered and imported, I only got the sense of it numbing my senses slightly… and tasting like really dirty water. Worth the experience, though – maybe if you drink more something will happen. And you can always, I mean always, say to the pretty girl next to you: “Maybe it’s kava talking, sweetheart, but I think…”
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Sandwiches and Sakura in Palmy
It’s no secret I make it a goal to compare Subway sandwiches across the globe. Before my time in Japan, I was eating at least six subs/week for lunch… maybe dinner too.
In the states, you can get spicy mustard, spinach leaves, and several kinds of cheese (not to mention the meatball subs). The restaurants are as far reaching as Praesidio, Texas.
In Japan, the bread is cut a little more neatly, the dressings added in precise proportions, and the servings of chocolate chip cookies and drinks surprisingly small (but adequate); Subway is one of the few places in Nippon where one can enjoy decent turkey.
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So when I first arrived in Palmerston North (Palmy as it is known around NZ), it came as no surprise that Kiwis would offer the meat they have in abundances in the greatest sandwich chain to traverse the globe: lamb. Lamb subs… still sounds classy.
Furthermore, stores and even major restaurants in New Zealand towns tend to shut down rather early by US standards; if you’re arriving after 5:30, it’s a safe bet every door will be closed, and it’s unlikely you could even find a coffee shop to enjoy some free wifi. Maybe that’s another reason Americans gain so much weight – we have late night drive-thrus, restaurants open until 11 or 12, and food carts greeting us after a crazy time clubbing. As of yet, I have seen no such food carts in Kiwi territory. Subway in Palmy, as an apparent exception to the rule, keeps its reputation as the place to go after the pubs kick you out: they close at 3 AM, but Subway stays open until 4.
In any case, my main motivation for heading to Palmy wasn’t sandwiches but sakura, the Japanese cherry blossoms. I had been WWOOFing with a great family in Wanganui when a friendly Twitterer informed me that one of my favorite pastimes – eating meat on a stick with pretty girls in kimono looking at cherry blossom trees – would be available in Palmerston North, only about an hour away. Of course I had to partake, especially when I talked my attractive tell-it-like-it-is Couchsuring host into joining me. I’ll say it again: I think I’m destined to be with a Kiwi girl. I love their attitudes and accents.
The Sakura Festival was held at the International Pacific College (IPC) just outside of town. I was expecting the crowd to be mostly Japanese, surprised to find most in attendance were Chinese and Korean. No complaints, however, as the trees were in few bloom, only a few past their prime. The festival included traditional Japanese classes like calligraphy, tea ceremony (and Pokemon), but there were also rooms showcasing Thai, Indian, Russian, Chinese, Taiwanese, Korean, and New Zealand culture: a room full of All Blacks merchandise and pictures of Kiwi birds… nice.
Walking under the falling pedals of the blossoms did bring back some happy memories of my time on Yoshinoyama, but the ambience in Palmy just didn’t do it for me; I suggested to my host that we move on after a few hours, and she already had a few ideas in the works…
Woodville is the windmill capital of New Zealand, or so the sign on the north side of town would have you believe. Te Apiti, the wind farm itself, is atop a range overlooking Palmy. Despite the wind (well… duh), cold weather, and promise of rain, there were a few other onlookers who had driven the distance to pray none of those huge blades come loose and strike them dead… hey, you try standing underneath one of those things and see if you can think of anything but the elephant.
Overall impressions? Palmy seems to be a town with boy racers on the square at all hours, a few decent pubs like The Grand and the Celtic Inn, and not much else. Best to hold out hope for a festival or just chill at the bar drinking JD and Coke. One note: Palmys do tend to take their bicycle security seriously:
Your English lesson for the day:
- British, pavement
- Kiwi, footpath
- American, sidewalk
Hooking up with Couchsurfers
My apologies for the delay in posting, noble readers; I have recently relocated to Vimutti Buddhist Monastery and have limited Internet access.
Some Couchsurfers may have already had the fortune of reading Sleeping Around by Brian Thacker, the story of a man surfing his way across the globe; incidentally, if you are in New Plymouth, New Zealand, I left my copy to their CSing community – find it and leave your autograph to the ages.
From Kenya to Iceland, Thacker takes us on a global tour of the hospitality of those bearing their souls… but mostly their couch cushions. If I had read this back in 2007, I would have been pleasantly shocked and awed. As it stands, from my great experiences Couchsurfing in Thailand – longboating to Kou Raya Yai in Phuket, dining on the beach in Kou Tao, enjoying the company of Americans, British, and Thais over a home-cooked meal in Nahkon Si Thammarat – I already knew the world was full of such generosity… even from those who have little: in Kenya, he stayed with a man in his mudwall house and did a few walkabouts of a small village. But there are also those with resources who want to give a good name to their culture: somewhere in Brazil, there is a huge mansion listed on CSing (you get your own wing; how’s that for a couch?); an Argentinean man offered to set Thacker up in a ski lodge for a few days.
A pity he didn’t choose to surf in Japan, New Zealand, or his native Australia, but I digress… what got my attention, among other Couchsurfing ideals discussed in the book, was a conversation Thacker had with his Icelandic host, inquiring as to whether CSers and hosts ever “hooked up” in their travels.
Let’s explore this further with a hypothetical scenario. You’re a male Couchsurfing host and a single female contacts you about needing a place to stay for one night; altogether, not an uncommon occurrence. From her picture, you can see she’s smokin’… and here’s where difficulties arise: do you try to make a move on this beautiful, well-traveled girl who probably just wants a safe environment with a charming guide for the night? If she responds (good on ya), you might start to question whether she surfs just for casual sex; if she doesn’t, you feel a bit sleazy for even trying in the first place, and chances are, a negative reference is in your future, limiting your Couchsurfing opportunities as host and surfer:
This guy is such a jerk. I politely asked if I could stay for one night, and as soon as I arrive and settle in, he tries to get me drunk and starts hitting on me! Girls, BEWARE! I wouldn’t recommend him as a host or surfer. Definitely an insult to the spirit of Couchsurfing.
It is pretty sleazy to even consider sleeping with someone alone, on the road, and to whom you’ve opened your home. On the other hand… the vagabonding life can get pretty lonely. Sex is often the first real connection in interacting with foreign travelers. And if she’s only staying one night, there is little chance of conflict in ending the “relationship”: you know she’s only staying for one night, she knows she’s staying for one night, and the chances of both of you running into each other again by coincidence are staggering.
From a woman’s perspective (and I apologize for this guesswork, but I will forever remain in the dark as to your minds), let’s play out a scenario between a female Couchsurfing host and a male surfer. The guy tries to gage as to whether a delightful, attractive host would be interested in taking things a bit further this evening… ok, stop there; a nice girl has opened up her house for you, and the first thing you can think of is “how can I hit that…”??? Pretty shameful. On the other hand, if unwelcome advances come from the girl first (whether she’s surfing or hosting) I can imagine it playing out in two ways: either you hook up, or there’s an awkwardness following the both of you for the remainder of the trip (I might add it would take a cosmic event for a guy to turn down a girl).
Why Couchsurfers hooking up is a good thing:
- Ummm… “building bridges” in the international community?
- Some would say that’s called being a good host
- An impermanent thing; you both have time to have fun while traveling, and not deal with anything serious
Why Couchsurfers hooking up can be a really bad thing:
- You betray the trust instilled by Couchsurfing, both as host and surfer
- With a negative reference, you may be permanently couchless on the road
- The chance of that awkward encounter in an international airport later on
My experiences? I’ve had a lot of surfers and hosts and thought about what might have been. I hear stories all the time from hosts, mostly guys, about girls who have surfed looking for a good time. My hosts on Kou Tao met while the guy was surfing her couch in Egypt, and they’ve been together for quite a while (soon to be married, I believe). I guess, in a sense, it’s better than trying to hook up in nightclubs or through random encounters; you know a little about both host and surfer going in, and you already have a common interest that really ties you to each other’s feelings: travel. The differences lies in accountability, i.e. your references. In the real world, if you’re turned down or slapped in disgust, that’s pretty much the end of it (unless you’re unfortunate enough to have tried something in a small community or office); in the Couchsurfing world, the experience is torn open for all to see… one can even change his or her reference after the fact.
What are your experiences with Couchsurfing?
Running Along the Whanganui River
There’s an endless debate going on in Wanganui, New Zealand. No, I’m not misspelling anything; the region and the river both hold the name Whanganui, but the city has been without the “h” for some years. Apparently, there’s always an opinion in the Wanganui Chronicle (NZ’s longest running newspaper) as to whether the town should adopt the “traditional” Maori name rather than the one enforced by European settlers. Confused enough yet?
In most Maori dialects, “wh” is pronounced as “f” (e.g. Ngawha Springs = Nafa Springs), but in Wanganui, the “wh” sound is more of a breathy “w” (Whanganui = whaa – n – ga – nui). It gets weirder; there’s also a city in Northland called Whanganui, pronounced with the “f” sound. With me so far? If you want to sound like an ignorant tourist, walk up to the first local you see and proclaim: “It’s nice as in Fanganui, isn’t it?”
Just one of the many issues I’ve been happy to learn about since my late afternoon arrival in this town of 45,000 or so. Wanganui sits comfortably to the west of the river, in an area with black sand beaches, green mountains, and snow-capped mountains to the north (Ruapehu, I believe). Unfortunately, I’ve been told it’s also the home of a lot of gang activity, with young people too bored to do much of anything else. Shops on the main street, Victoria Avenue, are sure to have signs in their windows stating “students will not be served during school hours”.
Wanganui is also the home of the glass festival in late September; blowers from around the world gather in this small New Zealand town to show off their wares, demonstrate glass blowing, and provide a regional must-see event (though if I were you, I’d buy a lotto ticket here).
I had the chance to observe a goblet being blown at Chronicle Glass by one Katie Brown. Quite an interesting process really: first, the mouth of the goblet is formed by dipping a tempered glass-blowing metal rod into a vat of molten material and blowing it out slowly, giving the rod the appearance of a wizard’s staff. Another piece of molten material is added and precisely spun to form the handle, then a third attached and flattening to make the base. Each time a piece is added, the glass is heated to “temper” it, if you will – reinforce the new shape and strengthen the bonds. As a side note, I didn’t know glass would be so viscous while cooling off; seems more like a very thick marmalade.
As far as running is concerned, Wanganui is the way to go. Try starting from the black sand trail off Balgownie Ave (you’ll see the entrance before the street dead ends) and head north along the riverbank. Better yet, if you’re looking for something longer, try the north end of Kowhai Park near the jungle gym and playground full of giant animals and fairy tale creatures; as far as I know, you can follow the stretch of road past the airport until you hit the seas. Great for early morning runs.
The Lost Years
An event that I would have assumed spelled the destruction of the universe and the end of all life on Earth has happened to me. I guess I should have seen it coming; I’m 27, my high school classmates are 26 or 27, and every day on Facebook, I see some reference to marriage: an engagement, a fancy proposal, wedding pictures, children being born, honeymoon plans…
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A friend of mine who I would have pegged as the last person on Earth to get married has… – no, he didn’t tie the knot – but he actually started talking about it, considering the fact that he’s 26 and not dating anyone seriously. This buddy of mine is on the fast track in Los Angeles: zipped over there straight after high school without looking back, landed a job as a sound engineer with a great label, and spends his time commuting between the UK and the states. Not too bad a gig.
I guess you could say the same about me. I graduated from university, made my way to Japan for a few years, volunteered in Thailand, did walkabouts in New Zealand, lived on a Buddhist monastery, skydived over Mt. Doom, ate blowfish without dying (not likely, anyway), beat the bad buys, loved the maidens fair…
But I still feel as though I’m giving up on a great deal, on the potential wife and kids who don’t quite exist… yet. On the other hand, after experiencing life with some WWOOFing hosts this week and remembering just how a 2- and 6-year-old behave 24/7 (screaming; nonstop screaming), I wonder if the only reason people get married and have kids in the first place is maybe they’re just not thinking about it. Running on emotion alone, not planning to start a family, just having things fall where they may. Maybe that’s why I’ve heard more low-income, less intelligent couples have children. Maybe I’m wrong; like I said, I am a novice.
Both scenarios scare me. A life with no life, no privacy, no hygiene, no freedom… and a life alone. This doesn’t even necessarily take travel out of the equation, but those with kids certainly have to think twice about where they’ll go and what they’ll do. I don’t. I can accidently walk into an active volcano and feel completely guilt-free about my actions; after all, no one is following close at my heels.
I guess I’m looking too far ahead. I’ve dated plenty of women, but I’ve never met someone with whom I would want to spent a few months, let alone a lifetime. Why must I be so picky? Because now women who aren’t the least bit interested in travel have no appeal for me, mentally (let’s ignore the physical aspect for the moment). Women who aren’t up to date on world affairs and curious about the history and issues of the nation which they occupy have nothing to offer me in the long term. Women who haven’t quit their jobs on the spur of the moment, continue to do crazy things in the middle of the night, run because it feels like it’s what we’re meant to run, or looked at a guy and thought about more than his clothes and haircut, mean nothing to me. I probably couldn’t hold myself to similar standards from the other side.
The bottom line is: these things really didn’t concern me at all when I was 24. Not so much when I was 25 and 26. But time is creeping up, and it almost feels as though I have to make a conscious choice, an intention to continue living as I have been, or make a concentrated effort to try and meet someone and find my future. 27 is a weird age; it seems as though I’ve come so far from being a kid, when in actuality so little time has passed. I’ll just have to keep in mind:
- I can’t measure my worth in the eyes of others
- I’m still growing; maybe I will reach the point where I completely want to be someone else
In any case… I’m in Wanganui for another few days; will leave to check out a cherry blossom festival in Palmerston North on Saturday. That’s right – the Japanese influence is neverending.
WWOOFing So Far
Give a man a fish, and he will eat for a day. Teach a man to fish, and he will sit in his boat and drink beer for a lifetime.
Outside a house in Wanganui, NZ
After this week, I can add “falling off a horse” and “getting electrocuted” to my list of life experiences. Don’t panic over the second: it was just an electric fence and the shock was limited to my arm. Still, the left side of my body is still rather sore. Oh, and did I mention these both happened in the same day?
I wanted to try WWOOFing in New Zealand ever since I heard of the concept; after all, who wouldn’t enjoy room and board in the country and being fed delicious natural foods in exchange for a little outdoor work? Best thing in the world for you. After my five months back in the states, I had had plenty of time to peruse the WWOOFing guide and narrow my list of choice farms to one in Northland, and one in Wanganui, both areas I had not yet visited.
Sirocco Lodge in Kaeo seemed like a great choice: open country, horseback riding, and the chance to meet other WWOOFers. How mistaken I was…
Took the bus from Auckland early in the morning (confirmed my arrival time twice with my host). Kaeo isn’t exactly main street in a metropolitan area; in, there is just the one street. So when I arrived at precisely 2:10 as scheduled, I was surprised to not find anyone waiting for me. Also had to endure the stares and taunts of passing students as they must have wondered who this crazy backpacker was, waiting in “downtown” Kaeo on a Sunday morning.
In any case, after thirty minutes roadside and snapping the main strap on my backpack, I called my host’s mobile; she was stuck out on a boat in the middle of a lake, but assured me she would be there soon. Now, I wasn’t really resentful or anything at this point; mistakes happen, and other opportunities arise. I just had a bit of a walkabout in Kaeo (though EVERYTHING was closed on a Sunday) until she arrived at 3:45.
Still, there was nothing to be done for it; I resolved to approach her with a positive attitude, in the event that she might spread the word about this wanker WWOOFer: “Started complaining two seconds after I met him in town… bloody Americans.” She in turn made up for it with her outgoing personality and a huge lamb dinner with some friends of hers. If I could have muted the conversation, I would have sworn I was in west Texas: the country clothes, the salt and pepper mustaches, the rustic house, even the lines on their faces brought on by years of outdoor work… all the same.
The next day, a German girl joined our ranks, and together we cooked up a feast of sausage and vegetables. Even met up with her outside our trailers to observe the constellations on a clear night; there might have been sparks, had the language barrier not been a bit thicker than usual – hard to gage, that girl, even under the light of Venus.
I suppose I saw the first indication of trouble the following day; our host was apparently a distributor of vending machine stuffed animals, and had to make her rounds to cities within a 200 km radius. Now, I had no problem with this; she’s a businesswoman, and had to hold another job on the side to make ends make. My concern was just how she acted after that morning: like it was a huge inconvenience for us to be on her farm, and as far as she was concerned, nothing in her schedule was flexible. Not the best way to accommodate WWOOFers.
In addition to that, I noticed she was speaking very condescendingly to the German girl (due to the difficulty understanding the Kiwi accent). I was practically an intermediary between Kiwi English and textbook English. This wasn’t so much of a problem… it’s just that if she were reacting to one German girl who spoke near-perfect English in such a way, how would she handle those with lesser abilities? Not all WWOOFers are fluent, after all. This treatment didn’t exactly raise my opinion of her, or WWOOFing in general; this was my first experience.
The following day. We finally get to saddle up and try our hand at some riding in Northland. Sweet as. I had mentioned to our host that I had ridden horses before – I am a Texas boy, of course – but that it had been a few years, and I was far from an accomplished rider. Apparently something was lost in translation between English and English, because she got the impression I was vastly skilled in the noble art of horseback riding. Yeah…
Let’s just say the trails were steep and very muddy. My horse, Spartacus, bucked me off during a difficult ascent and galloped away past my host. Not exactly my proudest moment. I would have been quick to offer apologies over my mistake, had our host not quickly spat out in her most condescending childish tone:
“I knew that would happen we started out. I thought you said you could ride. You put us all in great danger.”
Silence on my part, struggling to hold back retorts. I pretty much shut down emotionally after that, even to my fellow WWOOFer; we did share our complaints over common ground a few times before my departure, but I had practically given up on this farm, this host, and WWOOFing.
Thankfully, I now know not all hosts are resentful of help on their property, or the presence of foreigners. I’m down in Wanganui, near the sea between the North and South Island, staying in the home of a healthy, intelligent family. And hey, there may even be someone better around the corner. Good on ya, mate.
Ngawha Springs in Northland, NZ
When it comes to living abroad or at home, I like fewer options; why should I decide between twelve brands of toothpaste when the decision can be made for me with only one available? In Kagoshima, there was generally only one event going on for foreign residents; rarely did I have to divide my time. In Thailand, the 7-11 was my sole source of non-restaurant food. And in northern New Zealand, there is only one hot springs within a few hundred kilometer radius.
To be honest, the hot springs of New Zealand had yet to agree with me. Even with towns like Rotorua smelling like sulfur, I didn’t get the sense that Kiwis appreciated bathing culture like the Japanese: a dip in the hot springs was nothing more than a light swim to them, not a spiritual cleansing at the end of a long workday. Even the names seem to be in dispute; depending on where you are in the country, “mineral pools”, “hot pools”, or “springs” refer to authentic waters. The Maori, on the other hand, seem to be on top of things, calling the pools waiariki (chiefly waters), and enjoying its medicinal and meditative effects.
As such, most of the pools I had visited until now like Miranda, Rotorua, and Taupo had strayed from their ancestral paths (assuming they ever had any), becoming nothing more than glorified swimming pools in which I’m sure schoolchildren would not hesitate to urinate. When I came across Ngawha Springs near Kaikohe, however, I was pleasantly surprised.
First of all, the operator loves to talk shop; mention your interest in hot springs culture and he’ll prattle on to no end about Ngawha and some of the best places to soak. Second, the pools are separated according to mineral content and temperature; if you feel like getting scalded, try the “Bulldog” at 45 degrees Celsius. I settled for Soloman, but would have preferred it to be slightly hotter.
Due to its remote location, Ngawha reminded me a lot of the onsen on the southern slopes of Mt. Aso in Japan: high sulfur content, relatively isolated in the mountains, wooden-sided and mud-bottomed baths. Check them out if you’re up in Northland. Unfortunately, few people make that journey in the winter months.
P.S. These springs are not featured in Lonely Planet. In addition, don’t wear anything you particularly like in the water; the minerals will stain clothes brown and leave them with a strong sulfuric stink.
Welcome to Once A Traveler
My name is Turner Wright, and I’ll be your host for this new travel-themed website. For those of you who have not seen me online, I work as a freelance writer for The Matador Network and as a regular contributor for Vagabondish. I’ve spend the majority of my time on the road in Japan, but will be in New Zealand until the end of 2009 catching up on the Kiwi lifestyle.
Want more information?
Matador Travel profile
Couchsurfing profile
Most recently, I’ve been restricting my travel blogs to my Matador Travel rants and raves and my Japan blog, Keeping Pace in Japan. However, from this point forward, I will be making an attempt to concentrate all my efforts here, at Once A Traveler. And what will I be talking about?
Japan? Of course – I’m a big fan of Japanese food, hot springs, and teaching English abroad.
New Zealand? On the agenda; in fact, by the time you read this post, I should already be living and working at Vimutti Buddhist Monastery, just south of Auckland.
Running? Naturally. I’ve finished two marathons (Austin and Boston), but my goal is to run one on all seven continents. Would have gone out for the Tokyo Marathon with a goal time of 2:55 if I hadn’t broken my wrist in Kagoshima.
Taiwan may be in my future beginning in 2010, but I’m open to all sorts of possibilities; the time I have spent back in the states has taught me I don’t think I can live over there for an extended period: life is too fast, things are too loud, people are too shallow (well, for the most part), and the food… is delicious… and incredibly fattening.
So begins a new chapter with Once A Traveler. All my experiences abroad or at home and thinking of the open road are at your fingertips. Just as John L Parker, Jr. said: Once a runner, always a runner. Well, once a traveler…