In the off chance that the world
doesn't revolve around me and you haven't been following the weather
patterns of New Zealand in 2013, they've been going through an
unseasonal drought this summer (the worst in some 30 years). For those involved in agriculture,
it's gotten seriously worrisome, but to the bumbling tourist, that means days
of sunshine stacked on top of days of sunshine. I can only count a
handful of times that it's actually rained since I came here in
January, and the strange thing is I don't even particularly remember it
raining – all I know is I have a few disjointed memories where I'm
doing something and the rain is happening in the background.
But oh buddy, is it supposed to rain
soon. The drought has nearly passed, and this part New
Zealand has a penchant for being a wet place, given its geography (mountains right up
against the ocean and westerly winds). Fiordland is (possibly) going
to get hit by this dousy on Monday:
The
legend is missing, but trust me, these colours
don't fit in the “good
weather” range
So I decided this morning to postpone
my Great Walk (that's not me being over-dramatic, either – there are nine
tracks in the country that are a cut above the rest in terms of
scenery, maintenance, and popularity, and the Kepler is one of them),
but after stocking up on bread, pasta, and chocolate yesterday, I'm
still definitely doing it, once I've had a chance to reassess that
nasty weather moving in.
We took a spin through part of the Catlins yesterday, an area that's a dramatic mix of temperate
rainforests, farmlands, and rugged seasides. It's not made for heavy
traffic flying through – large stretches are still dirt roads, so
you'd best take your time and pay attention to the journey, not the
destination (shite, that would make a good yearbook quote). We
started at Waipapa Point, a grassy, windy bit of headland with a
newly restored lighthouse from 1884, as well as a colony of
cormorants and a few sunbathing sea lions off the narrow trail.
There was hardly any traffic in this
whole wide area (it was a semi-cloudy weekday in autumn, to be fair),
and you get the sense of real isolation. It's not that I haven't seen
such stretches of nothingness before, but in the Catlins it was all
laid bare: you could see for miles, over rows of shallow green dips
and patches of forest, and know exactly what was between you and the
hills in the distance. For the most part, it was just sheep.
We did a little drive by Slope Point,
the southernmost point of the New Zealand mainland (Stewart Island
being off the southern coast, not to mention that the country owns
several subantarctic islands en route to the South Pole), and then
on to a beachside shop on South Head, a small patch of land
separating Porpoise Bay and Curio Bay. Over steak pies and
milkshakes, we caught glimpses of a few Hector's Dolphins leaping out
of the water. The playful creatures are Kiwis through and through
(you won't find them anywhere but New Zealand waters), but they're
also in danger of extinction – a pod lives in the bay, and their
presence has propelled some conservation activity in recent years.
Just up the hill is an outcrop that
looks down on Curio Bay, which is the louder, meaner brother of
Porpoise Bay. Huge swells of white waves bashed against any rocks
stupid enough to try to hold their ground, and I had to wonder what
pisses the sea off so much, so often, that it can summon the kind of
fury you see along the coasts? Moreover, why is it that no matter how
dangerous and cruel it can be, there's still an enchantment and
appeal about it? People have always had a dysfunctional, unhealthy
relationship with the ocean (the sea giveth, and the sea taketh
away), but those are sometimes the hardest ones to get out of. I know
I could watch the ocean for a long time, especially when it's all
riled up and and the wind and spray is pounding on you.
Down the bank was a petrified forest –
trees from the Jurassic Period got caught in volcanic debris and,
rather than rot away, they turned to stone that stayed in the Catlins
for well over a hundred million years.
We finished the afternoon loop via
Waikawa and Tokanui, stopping for a coffee along the way in Niagara
(any running water in the town is colloquially dubbed Niagara Falls).
You never know who you're going to run into in Invercargill – I
swapped catch-up stories that night with Dorothy, one of the
resilient crew from the Kaikoura Farm Park.
After vetoing my Fiordland adventure
this morning, I poked around the Southland Museum (which has a large
enclosed space for some Tuatara, a lizard endemic to here that is
pretty much a living, breathing dinosaur) before myself, Rory, and
Dorothy took advantage of the sunny calm before the storm and drove
to Bluff. The southernmost town in New Zealand is also one of the
oldest, stretching back to the 1820s – today, it's a small seaport
with a big aluminum smelter, oysters, and an ancient forest walkway
(the Glory Track) and lookout on top of Bluff Hill.
State Highway 1, which goes up the
entirety of New Zealand, either starts or ends here at Sterling Point, depending on which way you're going. And there's a sign there
to remind you not only how far it is to Cape Reinga at the other end
of the road (1401 km), but also how far other places in the world
are, from London to the South Pole. The sign couldn't be much
clearer: the world is relatively far away from Bluff, New Zealand.
After some fish and chips in the late
afternoon sun, it was on to Invercargill and a clear evening where
you almost assume the forecasters are lying. Still, I'm waiting this
one out for the time being – Rory has a Couchsurfing friend in Te
Anau who has graciously agreed to hold onto my baggage when I do end up doing the
Kepler Track, and I spoke to him tonight about the shuffle in the
plan. He came back with a Maori phrase: Ma Te Wa.
Everything
happens in its own time. Waiting doesn't have to be the hardest part
either, no matter what Tom Petty says – you just have to be open to
taking your chances and letting that happen as it will, too.
Cheers,
rb
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