On the Edge (Loose Balloon)

On a foggy day when the mountains are obscured, it's surprising how much the cliffs of the Kaikoura Peninsula look like something along Iceberg Alley on a summer afternoon. Teetering on the edge of familiarity and the unknown can be something of a headrush, it turns out.

In fact, I ended up running into a couple from Quebec (I spent the first two minutes seriously convinced that it was Hawksley Workman) who had never been to Terre-Neuve before; I assured him that right here wasn't that different from it, but he should still go, to get the full effect. “It's so far away though!”

It never dawned on me until I'd left that it takes a couple of hours to fly from Montreal to St. John's, and we're in New Zealand right now. Funny how easy it is to change your perspective of the globe – a few months ago, an isolated island on the other side of the world was New Zealand. Now, well . . .

I took a bike from the farm on my afternoon break, cutting down the transit time by a chunk. Too bad that when I picked up the clown bike from the shed and thought, “This will do,” I didn't take into account that that's never true. Every turn of the pedal brought one of my knees closer to its respective earlobe than it should ever be, and once I came out from the inland farming terrain to the oceanside, it was legs pumping against the gale. But it was still a whole lot faster than walking.

The Peninsula Walkway is one the must-do things in Kaikoura, going from Amers Beach to a seal colony at Point Kean, and on around the jutting piece of land as far as South Bay if you've got it in you. Along the way are plenty of photo ops of rugged, rocky coastlines – I took about an hour to wrap myself halfway around the peninsula, ending at Whalers Bay. Kaikoura is known for its whale watching tours, but it owes its inauguration to the whale fishery (Fyffe House overlooks the sea on Avoca Street, not only the oldest building in Kaikoura but the only standing remnant of the 19th-century whaling station established by Robert Fyfe). This little harbour marks the launching point for those whaling boats back some 150 years ago.

 

A wooden stairway brought me from the top of the hill to sea level, where the well-worn trail turned to the rocky coast of the shoreline and you had to scramble from rock to rock. You have to be careful, to keep your distance from the fur seals – they look lazy, lying like sunbathers along the rocks, but I've heard that if they get it in their noggins to come after you, I might be glad enough to have that stupid tiny bike after all.

The route along the water's edge ended abruptly where the tide blocks your path – rather than turn back though, I found a slew of foot holes dug into the grassy, near-vertical cliff like a ladder. Up we go, and one slipped bike chain later, I'm back at the farm park just in time for dinner.

We tried our luck at the Whaler Quiz Night again on Thursday evening – I figured we were in for entire categories on the All Blacks and New Zealand cinema (which, other than the gimme question on Lord of the Rings, I'd know nothing), but the quizmaster was an Irish dude with a crush on Americana. The worst part about winning a $50 bar tab is getting up at 7:30 the next morning – but at the time, the champagne and potato wedges are pretty friggin' wicked.

Almost as good as pints at midnight in a pub with live music and a dude in a chicken costume. Saturday night is definitely still Saturday night. They say that they won't serve you if you're intoxicated in a bar in New Zealand, which basically translates to two words: challenge accepted. But you know what? I won't remember what it's like to have my phone alarm buzz at 7:30, or even listening to the rooster caw outside the door – I'm more inclined to remember not wanting to sleep in the first place because the night sky is a whole lot more exciting than dreaming.

When I started getting things together for my big ol' round-the-world jaunt, I signed up for Couchsurfing, the online community of cultural exchange where you can meet people in different cities you're visiting and crash at their place, if they've got the room. It's this romantic, bohemian idea, and that unshaven guy in ironic sweaters that still occupies a chunk of my mind is all for it. And really, if you've only got a short amount of time in a new place, what better way to get a feel for how it really operates than by staying and chatting with someone who lives there. Camping out at a hostel, you're a lot more drawn to backpackers' bars and tourist traps. I haven't had any luck yet, but I sent out a call for aid in Christchurch for next week.

Ask and you shall receive. An invitation . . . at a place that is both gay and nudist friendly.

So, I feel like I veer towards the open-minded part of that whole ideological spectrum. And, to be totally clear, I'm ok with the gay part. This though, it's almost like you tell someone you like ice cream, and their response is to invite you on an expedition to Antarctica. It's a bit of a jump. Maybe that hipster presence inside is arguing that it's only for a few days and is already writing a song on banjo about walking around . . . erm, on display . . . but the rest of me, even that Western definition of open-minded, is many, many times too square to stay there. So it looks like ramen noodles and a hostel dorm room in Christchurch.

Christchurch, a few hours south of Kaikoura, is the second largest centre in New Zealand, and a city in rebuild mode. A magnitude 6.3 earthquake burst to life about 10 km away from the city centre in February 2011, killing 185 people and costing upwards of $15 billion. Large parts of the city are still inaccessible and in a wrecked state – the face of Christchurch has been forever skewed, the character altered. For the immediate future, it's difficult to separate the city from the context of the earthquake (removing that natural association is as essential to the rebuilding as the construction work).

The story of Christchurch is something I almost take for granted at this point – since I've arrived in New Zealand, I've met people who lived in the city before it was ravaged. I've met people who have lost family in the quake. I've met people who are flocking to the city for employment bringing it back together. The earthquake occupies something of a Katrina-like status in my mind – I won't say that I'm excited to see Christchurch's “After” state, but at the same time I do think it's important to walk along the streets and just try to understand what happened, not in a detached, scientific way, but at the human level.

Understanding to acceptance to having fun in spite of it all. Tumbling off the edge and finding that there's still plenty to see, so long as you can find your feet again. I'm headed off the grid now to wander for a bit, but I hope you'll come looking for me when I turn up again – I plan to have a story or two to tell.

Cheers,

rb