jforbess.org

I woke up and did a whole yoga class this morning. It was good.
I need to do more. (Writing this a day later, I can certainly feel it.
Sore hamstrings, hips and shoulders.) I wonder if I can get a good
enough internet connection to download another class from Alive?
I really wish I had the first class I bought on CD. Lots of twists.

I got coffee with Jofish’s friend Cat. We hit it off well, and she
invited me to coffee and cake at her apartment with friends, one of
whom works in the NZ dept of Energy Efficiency and Renewable
Energy. Unfortunately, he wasn’t too excited to talk about work, so we
only discussed it a bit in general terms, but he said California was
an amazing test bed, with all the government subsidies and highly
flexible markets. He said NZ had just gotten on the wind bandwagon,
with something like 12 or 15 plans in the pipeworks over the next 18
months.

Oh, and Cat served amazingly good homemade Christmas cake. You know
how Americans joke about the fruitcake that one continually regifts?
It’s just because Americans make crap fruitcake. If they made it like
Cat, it would never be regifted, it would be fought over.

I stayed for dinner with a different set of friends. We chatted quite
a bit about American politics, and how the power is distributed across
senators, Congress, the president, and governors. Miles pointed out
that one reason people vote more in NZ (83 percent in the last
election was considered a small turnout) was partly because the vote
is so much closer. When there are only 3 million voters, it’s easier
to feel as though you have a say in matters. Miles also spent a bit of
time complaining that he was a big fish in a small pond, and that it
was going to be awesome to be in London. (He and his fiancee are moving
to London to work and travel Europe in a couple of months.) I silently
wished him well, but imagined he’d probably miss being a big fish at
some point.

I was also amused to hear him flippantly say that at some point they
wouldn’t be happy anywhere, because wherever they were, they’d miss
something from the other places they’d been. And I said, “Welcome to
my world.” For some reason they seemed surprised that I missed things
from the States. When they asked for examples, I listed things from
Belgium, since they were going to Europe, and likely to pick up habits
there. Beer, chocolate, and frites. I can actually get good American
substitutes for the beer and chocolate, though possibly more
expensive. But the frites are still a real problem.

After dinner we watched Love Actually, which I had never
seen. Victor had told me I needed to see it, the reason for
which became clear once the British dweeb got to Wisconsin.

Then it was out for dancing. 80s Night at Electric Avenue.
Unfortunately, it was nothing like Castlevania. It was disturbing how
much of the music was straight from my middle school dances. Poison,
John Cougar Melloncamp, Starship, Whitney Houston. I woke up in the
morning with no hangover (weak bar drinks) and “Tainted Love” running
through my head.

Up at first light, since I’d gone to sleep early the night
before. Wandered around, but only took a very few photos of the Art
Deconess of it all.

The bus driver was pretty grumpy about whether my bike would fit in
the luggage, but he opened up a separate space for me, I folded my
bike up, and it popped in nicely with the trailer. His grumpiness was
extra confounding since the flyer for this bus service said “Room for
your and your bike” on the front.

I sat next to a music scene-type guy returning to Wellington for New
Year’s Eve. He did silk screening in Napier and was mainly into
jazz. I kept trying to pick his brain for tidbits of info about
Wellington, but our spheres of interest didn’t overlap much.

The hostel I’d wanted to stay in (with tent sites) was full when I
called, so I stood in line at the i-centre to take advantage of the
nice tourist services. It had worked well in Napier, and it worked
well here. I ended up in “Sanctuary”, the women-only floor at
baseBackpackers. For only $3 more per night I could have had nice
shampoo and a bubble bath, and maybe some other girly perks, but I
declined. As it was, I ended up in a six person room with only one
other girl. There was a nearby lounge with a nice view of the
harbor. And I’m writing this two days later, and it’s rained off and
on for the whole time, so I’m quite happy not to have a tent site. I
can even get wireless network if I stand in just the right place in my
room with my laptop on the top bunk.

Explored down to Cuba Street, the cafe center of the town. The
pedestrian mall section is a bit corporate, in the same way that
Harvard Square is, but I headed away from the harbor and it got nicely
sketchy soon after. It started pouring while I was standing next to a
nice coffeehouse, so I had some hot tea and veggie spanikopita (more
like a quiche in filo).

When I returned to the hostel, the other girl in my room showed
up. She was German, and was happy to practice her English. She said
that she’d been in NZ for eight days, and this was her third extended
conversation in English, since everywhere she went, there were
Germans. She also said it was a relief to hear my American accent,
since it was more familar to her from various classes and of course,
the movies.

Today the sun shone bright. I wandered down by the beach before
wanting to deal with my trailer attachment, and showed up just at the
right moment for the Art Deco tour. I decided to pay the big bucks for
the guided tour, rather than just the brochure, because I was feeling
sociable. The guide had lived all his life in Napier, and his mother
had, too, so he seemed a good choice. He was fairly informative and
well-spoken, but not brilliant. Of course, I forgot my camera, but I
decided I could go back later and get the photos, since we were only
about three blocks from the tour. Of course, the light was never as
good as it was right then, so I only ended up with two photos the next
morning on my way to the bus.

Art Deco Napier is a result of an earthquake in 1931 destroying the
town, and it all being rebuilt in the middle of the Great Depression,
when construction labor was cheap, so a bit more could be spent on the
design and implemenation. The ziggurat, the simplfied classical,
Spanish Mission and a bit of Prairie style from my own backyard,
Taliesin East, showed up along the tour. In addition, a few of the
decorations incorporated Maori symbols, making the buildings even more
historically valuable. Apparently Napier is compared to Miami, but I
haven’t been to Miami, so I wouldn’t know.

I really prefer Art Nouveau to Art Deco, it turns out, though I do
have a weakness for the Prairie and Arts And Crafts movements, which
are all related. Art Deco seems like a version of Art Nouveau in which
only the initial curve of any design is used. All extraneous curves
are removed. I’m sure there are plenty of other differences, but that
seems to be the one that matters to me.

After the tour I sat on the roofdeck with some bread and cheese and
internet for awhile. I finally was chased off by a young man
practising his English on me FOREVER. Also, he may have wanted to
marry me for American citizenship.

So it was time to deal with my trailer connection. I really wanted to
get it fixed in Napier, since getting my bike and trailer to and from
the bus in Napier and Wellington would be a pain without it.

The Home Depot equivalent in the center of town was tantalizingly
close, but closed to make way for the MEGA Home Depot equivalent a few
km away. I finally tracked that down, but was told by a helpful
employee that I needed a real hydraulics place, since it was a
pressure fitted collar on the hose. Luckily, he said, there was one at
the next corner. I went in, explained what I wanted, and they started
taking the ripped hose out to replace it with a new, longer one. I
realized that I could take apart my trailer frame so I could bring in
the bit that the hose was bolted to, so I made the 30 minute roundtrip
bike ride again to go get it. It turned out to be a totally necessary
thing, since it took two guys with tools and a vise a long time to get
the hose in the aluminum tube, and then they could easily drill a hole
for the bolt. And then they didn’t even charge me at all. I wished I
could buy them a beer, but it didn’t quite seem right.

So how does one propitiate the god of mechanical difficulties? Burn rubber
instead of incense? Because I really need to do something. Today
my trailer hose connector sheared off. Luckily, it was 100 meters
from the i-centre, where I was able to locate a hostel bed (single
room! for $22! really ghetto!) even closer to where I had left the
trailer on a church handicap ramp. I can’t begin to imagine what I
would have done anywhere else. I guess I might have had to hitch
to town.

Also I had planned to stop biking in Napier, sight-see, and then get a
bus to Wellington for another round of sight-seeing and bike-tuning
and errand-running. So I wasn’t totally freaked out. Plus Napier was a
nice place to chill for a while. And the industrial supply stores were
close to the city centre.

So I decided to worry about it the next day, and got a shandy and some
internet to relax for awhile. I had been dreaming of a shandy on the
hot hot windy hills. (Hey Death, at least we didn’t have a crazy
headwind on Bonny Doon Road.) Specifically, the shandy Lani made with
hefeweissen and homemade lemonade, though I knew that I was unlikely
to get one of those. Instead I ended up with a Tui and fizzy
lemonade. Better than nothing.

Then I got a pizza from Hell (the vegetarian Purgatory (no, that
didn’t mean they put pepperoni on it)), and sat on the hostel roofdeck
using wireless(!). Finally my laptop battery ran out and I was forced
to put it away and socialize with people in real life. Luckily, there
were some entertaining guys from Wellington drinking wine who invited
me to join them. It was nice to have a social evening again. They ran
out of wine fairly quickly, so we ended up at a nearby Irish pub. They
were in town to see the cricket match between NZ and Sri Lanka, and
were drowning their sorrows as NZ lost fast (in six or seven
hours). They refused to try to explain the rules of cricket to me,
saying it was something you had to grow up with. I was a bit
disappointed, though I doubt I had the attention span to really learn
the game.

Today’s Eggs Florentine included bacon, smoked salmon, pesto and
spinach. I gobbled it down thinking that perhaps it wasn’t the most
epicurean of the various hollandaise-topped breakfasts I’d had, but I
wasn’t going to complain about the extra protein.

40 km to Wairoa, the only major city of the day. I had been informed
by my gracious hosts at Morere that there was a backpackers 48 km
beyond Wairoa, which was the only place to stay between Wairoa and
Lake Tutira, 75 km after Wairoa. I had been thinking I was going to
have to stay in Wairoa, after only 40 km, but the backpackers sounded
perfect, if a wee bit far. How was I doing 90 km days with Victor? Oh
yeah, I was carrying at least 10 pounds less.

Headwinds and many km of climbing made this another red punctuation
day, though I was better fueled from a stop in Wairoa for a flat white
(I’m still not sure how it’s different from a cappucino) and some
apple cake with whipped cream.

The backpackers was perfect. I had a six-person suite all to
myself. The host, Hamish, said anyone arriving on a bike got a free
beer, and I was happy to accept. The 1.4 km driveway was loose gravel,
and I pushed my bike on quite a bit of it, as I’ve lost my nerve after
the fall a few days ago. I’ll be pushing on the way out, as well, as
it wound up and down.

Hamish also provided two eggs for breakfast, and some grapefruit. The
inside of the place is beautifully finished, with nice colors and lots
of solid wood furniture. There is a fireplace, but it’s not quite cold
enough to warrant lighting it. Though I am tempted just to see if I
can do it.

I thought I might see the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean again, but
it was cloudy. I called my parents today for the first time since
Auckland. It was good to catch up on the news.

The 15 km ride before breakfast was nice and flat. Just before I got
to Gisbourne, I noticed a police car going the other way. Then I
noticed it passing me and slowing down. Uh oh, where’s my helmet? My
explanation was rather garbled as I tripped over my words trying to
explain myself, but I explained I was planning to buy one in
Gisbourne, and the policeman opened his trunk and handed me a new blue
helmet, which fit. Merry Christmas! Thank you, District Council of
Gisbourne!

Gisbourne is a town of about 30,000 people. It’s interesting to
contemplate how much better the Eggs Florentine I had was than any
Eggs Florentine I might find in Brownwood, TX or Kearney, NE. And for
that, I am thankful.

After my standard errands to the secondhand bookstore and the internet
shop ($2 every 15 minutes!) (my first internet exposure in a week!), I
headed out of town towards Morere Hot Springs. Unfortunately, my Eggs
Florentine lacked the substance needed to propel me 78 km up hills,
and there was no food in between. The hills were hard. Today was also
the first day it was really muggy. I was reminded of Bonny Doon Rd
from the lack of wind, and the continuous climb. It looks like it
might have been a 10 km climb, and then, to really destroy my morale,
there were significant climbs even as I was tending down.

The hot springs were worth it, though. The man at the front desk
recommended the five minute walk up to the site of the orginal
bathhouse, and since there were lots of kids in the closer one, and it
was close to the main road, I thought a five minute bush walk sounded
nice. Not to mention the need to stretch after a 78 km day.

There were two hot pools in the bathhouse, and one was empty, so I got
in that one with my book. I just stuck my feet in for awhile, it was
so hot. When I put my bottom in, I hoped that the minerals would be
good for the chafed bits. Later, I tried the populated pool that was
less stingingly hot. I think my tired muscles were better off totally
obliterated by the hot hot pool.

My tent site was on the edge of a running stream. The burble of the
brook nicely drowned out any road noise.

At sunset the sky was like a bruise, blue with highlights of
purple-pink. I thought of taking a photo of the last rays of sunlight
illuminating the white breaking waves, but was too late. I thought of
Death and the Pfeiffer Big Sur Beach and how we waited for the
platonic shot of the waves breaking in the arch with the sun streaming
through.

I did finally get the shot of the Pacific Coast Highway sign that I
wanted, with a puhutukawa tree in the background. Though again, I
didn’t go out of my way for the perfect frame of the shot.

The donkey’s bray sounded like a rusty pump. It sounded often, as
though it were mating. The boy’s exclamations in the family game of
cricket echoed its creaks. How does a young boy have such a creaky
voice? Smoking too young? An asthmatic condition?

Today I watched the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean. I didn’t even
have to get out of bed to do it. Tokomaru Bay is a nice little beach
town, and the sky was brilliant blue, except for some billowing clouds
far off on the horizon. In addition, I had the not particularly smug
satisfaction of knowing I was one of the first people in the world to
see the sun rise this morning. The east coast of New Zealand is the
closest body of land to the International Date Line, barring a few
islands. It’s mentioned in all of the tourist propaganda.

I believe I accidentally left behind an item for the first time this
trip. My bike helmet. You might think it wouldn’t be the easiest thing
to forget, but when you’re already wearing a bandanna on your head,
and you never look back, it’s easy. I had taken it off during a snack
break, and only remembered it 5 km down the road. I decided not to go
back, as I would be replacing it no later than Wellington anyway,
since it took a battering when I fell over the day before, and is
something like two years old. Now I just have to hope I don’t get
fined in the next couple of days.

Lunch was at The Pickled Walnut, a bistro-type restaurant. I treated
myself to a glass of wine since it was Christmas Eve. I think that
Sauvignon Blanc is so nice because it smells sweet and fruity, and
tastes tart. I’ll have to see what good Sauvignon Blanc tastes like at
some point. The waitress was a chatty teenaged girl and was
entertaining in her informality. After the meal I was told I could
pick plums off the tree in the backyard, and did so, plus a lemon.

I am haunted by the god of mechanical difficulties. The weather god
smiles on me and only sends rain at convenient times, like when I’m
WWOOFing or at night. His little brother gleefully torments me with
major bicycle issues in the middle of nowhere on the Saturday before
Christmas.

In short, I fell off my bicycle and broke the internal hub
derailleur. The pin that is pulled in and out is bent, and the
mechanism that is pulled by the deralleur cable is in an odd
state. The cable is in bad shape itself, but that was already the case
from its daily jostling by the handlebar bag.

I can still bike. I can even still bike up decent sized hills. The
derailleur is stuck in either the granny gear or the middle gear, I
can’t quite tell. (I haven’t had to go up a killer hill yet, thank
god.) My current plan is to bike two short days and end up in Gisborne
on Boxing Day, to see if a bicycle store is by chance open, and
possibly can fix my bike. I suspect I will have to wait until Napier
or Wellington. (My criteria for a worthy bike shop mechanic
have shot up drastically since I entrusted the SRAM derailleur to LL
Bean and wasted $20.) I think it’s a three day bike ride to Napier,
and I’ll take the train to Wellington from Napier, so it’s feasible to
wait for a better mechanic, especially since I’d rather spend multiple
days in Napier or Wellington, and am actually already planning to.

In other news, I biked another 90km day. My ass hurts. I don’t know
what is wrong with these bike shorts. Maybe it’s my ass. Luckily my
right knee doesn’t hurt, despite hurting so much yesterday to make me
consider spending a day in the same campsite. Oh, but I have two
sandfly bites on my ass. If they progress as normal, they should be
gone in about ten days. They will itch for about seven days. Kill me
now.

In the boring bits of today, I stopped for a latte and some ginger
cake at a Manuka Honey factory store and cafe. The factory cat was
incredibly lovable.

I ended up at a backpackers in Tokomaru Bay, rather than pitching a
tent behind a sketchy looking hotel with bar and hot pools in Te
Puia. Only because I knew it was 11 km all downhill to Tokomaru
Bay. (Almost all downhill.) It’s a very homey backpackers, somewhat
like the Treehouse. I came in rather antisocial, though, since I hurt
and was very hungry and tired. Nick the biker from Auckland is here,
too. I recognized his bike before I recognized him. Huh.

I spent a lot of time dreading the hill up to Te Puia, since it looked
lethal in the Pedaller’s Paradise. It wasn’t lethal at all, and
I figured out that the author had squeezed in more mileage
(kilometerage?) than usual on his topo line, making the hills look
even steeper.

Wow. A French woman here just started talking about how bad women were
with maps, and I just couldn’t let that go, so I piped up saying, “I
got myself halfway across the US, so I don’t you can blame bad
map-reading on gender.” Way to be socially inept, Jess. I wasn’t even
in the conversation.

Woke up late to avoid biking with Nick. It was great to bike that 15
km, but I think I would go crazy doing it a whole day. Not to mention
how much harder I pedalled with him, and how much I felt it in my
thighs.

The greatly anticipated breakfast didn’t show up in 18 km. Another 19
km later, I had a rather downmarket one. Sigh.

At 70 km I was done, but I had 20 km more to go. Sigh.

The roads here are nice and empty, but the East Cape is very
empty. Occasional views of beautiful bays, but the puhutukawas are
past their prime, and the rest of the flora isn’t stunning.

It’s hard to know how I decide between two practically identical
campsites. I ended up going to the one that was listed as a
backpackers, not a holiday camp. It was almost deserted. The regular,
Albert, didn’t chat much, but offered me two eggs and bread, seeing as
how the stores are so far away. I was very thankful, but didn’t get a
chance to chat with him.

I went for a walk on the beach at something approximating sunset. The
clouds to the west were thick and promised rain. The sky to the east
was full of little fluffy clouds that spoke of sunny days ahead. The
beach was dark grey sand, with dark grey stones and bleached white
driftwood. It was striking, almost like an Andy Goldsworthy piece had
been there, and then was destroyed by the tides.