Safe in the Sounds

I may have made my first major mistake of this New Zealand escapade: I only spent a single day in Wellington.

Leaving Turangi on the very crowded Nakedbus on Monday afternoon, I caved and got the first McDonald's meal I've had in a scattered while. But, I wanted to check my email (they have free WiFi here in this country), and I got to try a New Zealand-exclusive Kiwiburger (it's like a Big Mac, except with a fried egg and beetroot on it). The whole trip into Wellington took about 6 hours, going through some mountainous country, compact city-towns, and eventually a long strip of the Pacific Ocean as we rounded off the southern tip of New Zealand's North Island. A few traffic jams later, we stopped alongside the docks of Wellington Harbour.

New Zealand's capital city is a lot smaller and more compact than Auckland, with less than 400,000 people. It's walkable, built into the hills surrounding a harbour, and is otherwise known as “Windy Wellington” – is it any surprise I found a natural kinship to the place? And to prove I wasn't just jumping to conclusions, I met up with a girl from New Brunswick for drinks, and having lived here for a couple months, she claims the spot reminds her of Halifax. Halifax and St. John's have always had a natural connection in my mind, and after spending a few hours roaming the city and watching the very orange full moon rise over the harbour, I decided that Wellington belongs to a fairly exclusive list of cities around the world that I would actually enjoy living in.

So, having just a fragment of the afternoon to have Wellington impress me, I had to make it count. I thought about Te Papa Tongarewa, the national museum not far from the hostel where I was staying, but I've heard that the museum is so large, thorough, and entertaining, that you'd want a full day there. I might as well do it right – so that's on the list for next time (although this cool exhibit on the history of video games might well be finished by the time I make it back this way). I wandered until I found myself at the Parliament Buildings at the end of Lambton Quay, a collection of buildings from the Gothic-style Library to the Beehive, the Executive Building whose colloquial name is no surprise when you actually size the thing up. Again, I thought about taking the free tour, but time was of the essence, and it was the kind of sunny day that you'd rather spend outside than in a Government building.

So I went looking for the Wellington Botanical Gardens, 25 hectares of trails along the hillside that offers views of the city, plus a whole lot of trees and plants that a botanist could tell you all about, and a goofball like me could tell you were different colours and sizes. The Lady Norwood Rose Garden, just one part of the Garden, has over 3,000 roses, with 110 different beds set in a circle around a fountain.

Plus, in between a few modern art sculptures, there was a bizarre, fully functional Sundial of Human Involvement. Bonus points if you can figure out how it works.

Hint: that column in the middle has months and dates on it

But before I could get here, I had to find it. I mean, I just showed you a couple of pictures from it, so you can guess that I got there alright, but humour me. My one complaint with Wellington is its lack of signage. Maybe I'm just stunned, I don't know, but I'd be at intersections and not know what street I'm on because there's no sign. Or I'd be looking for a significant city landmark and have nothing to point me in the right direction, making it tough even with a map.

Just as I figured I had run out of time, I found the station for the Wellington Cable Car. There are two red, Swiss-built cars that ascend a 120 m slope overlooking the city, taking about 6 minutes from bottom to top. I hoped on one of these, made a quick pass through the Garden, then back to the bottom of the hill to get my bags at the hostel and get checked in for my Interislander ferry.

When I got dropped in Wellington the day before, the bus stopped near the docks, and I assumed that this was where I'd be leaving from the next day. So I timed it in my head, and had my itinerary all planned out. You know my ferry terminal was not only unmarked, but an extra kilometre down a busy motorway. You know it was a blistering hot day that I had to start running in, my entire backpack on my back with the detachable daypack swinging around haphazardly with each sprinting step, throwing me just a little bit off balance until I ripped it off and started wearing it around my front like an over-sized fanny pack (I might as well have put on my wide-brimmed hat with some socks and sandals, just to complete the image). You know that when I spotted my ferry it would be moving and have people all on the decks, and you know I ran harder then, hoping I remembered the drivers go on the left hand side so I wouldn't just duck out in the middle of traffic.

You probably know that it was my ferry I saw, but that it was just arriving from the South Island. So after I nearly collapsed at the arrivals desk and threw my drivers license at them like it was a hand grenade, I had to wait for about half an hour in the terminal with the civilized people, feeling like Rambo bursting into a funeral.

So long, Wellington. You grabbed a chunk of my soul though – I'll be back. Pinky promise.

The passage across the Cook Strait on Arahura takes 3 hours to go 92 km, and it's a ferry ride unlike any other ferry ride (not just because there was a juggling troupe onboard). It feels like one of the world's best-kept secrets; the route leaves the enclosure of Wellington and slips around the tailend of the North Island, passing through the open waters of the Strait. At no point though are you totally tossed to the ocean – land is always in sight in one direction or another. It seemed distinctly New Zealand, to have Wellington fade in the distance behind us as I looked at a freight trip full of, you guess it, sheep.

But it's the South Island that captivates you. The hills start approaching, covering the horizon, and they're covered in this light mist that makes you feel like you're stepping into a storybook world. In some ways I guess you are. Then, they fill your vision, and suddenly you're in them, weaving your way through the narrow channels of the Marlborough Sounds (in particular, the Queen Charlotte Sound). Look at a map of the area to appreciate how this entire section of country is bordered by a labyrinth of drowned valleys rising to green rolling hills.

The North Island seemed a lot farther away already, like you're being lulled to sleep and having a dream world slowly close in around you. The Cook Strait is not particularly wide, but it's the gulf between two very different worlds.

Once we arrived in Picton, the InterCity Bus was waiting, heading with a small crew to Nelson. Nakedbus and InterCity are the two national bus lines, and having travelled on both I had a much nicer experience with the latter –the seats were roomier, and the driver acted as a tour guide, which was especially nice as we went through some radically different landscapes.

First, the vineyards. This is wine country, here in Marlborough, and the rows and rows and rows of grapes just stretch on forever, into the hills. Three hundred thirty billion, if the driver is to be believed. After leaving Blenheim, we went up into the valleys, where farming took over – sheep, cattle, even alpacas (so now I don't have to go out Stephenville way when I get home to see those weirdos). Pulling over on the side of the road, we came to Havelock, a tiny town built around a small bay at the mouth of the Sounds, and the self-proclaimed greenshell mussel capital of the world.

With hills all around, Havelock is what you think of when you think of the middle of nowhere. But maybe that's an ok place to be right now – wasn't it the Cheshire Cat who said that if you don't know where you're going, any road will take you there? This is my jumping off point, a point to gather my thoughts and plans and embark on the South Island part of my New Zealand adventure, with roads going in either direction. I'm working for accommodations at the Blue Moon Lodge, sharing a dorm room with 5 other workers from around the globe (though Germany is disproportionally represented) – it's not the height of luxury, but with just a few hours cleaning, watering the gardens, and looking after some youngsters on the swing set, it's not exactly hard work, either.

 

We even ended up on a walking trail through the woods last night, keeping our eyes on the hillside around us to see a vast lattice of glowworms – insect larvae giving off a little pinprick of luminescent light. At one point the hill stretched a good 20 feet into the night sky, presenting a brilliant Lite-Brite display that was like being in space rather than just looking up at it.

Kind of like being in a lucid dream, drinking wine on a sunny deck and hidden from the rest of the world in the Marlborough Sounds.

Cheers,

rb