Finding My Fix: Chronicles of a Travel Junkie

I have a half hour to kill, and what better way to kill it than by writing about my amazingly entertaining and liberating trip to Picton, Nelson and Able Tasman Park? But first I would just like to mention that I would feel entirely unsafe being in this building (my hostel) in the event of an earthquake, as the wind is enough to shake its foundation.

The story:

Wed 12 Oct

I woke up early to get to the ferry that would take me to the South Island. I still hadn’t finished packing because you know me, with a last name like Libelo, it’s impossible for me not to procrastinate. Forgetting my guide book, I headed downtown, and made it in time to catch the Interislander ferry. That ferry is the biggest boat I have ever been on in my life. It moved at incredible speed for a ship, and rocked only slightly. With my slow eyes, I managed to read about 100 pages of Jurassic Park before we entered Queen Charlotte Sound which I have to say is not all its cracked up to be. Too much of the hillsides had been logged. But anyway, it was still something to see as I stood on the viewing deck, shivering in the wind. We were late to birth since when we arrived, there was no space for us to dock, but luckily Intercity Coachlines works with the ferries to exchange passangers, so the bus was waiting when we finally got off.

The ride to Blenheim, where we waited an additional half hour, and then on to Nelson was through incredibly beautiful country. The bus driver explained to us which valley we were, what sounds we passed, what famous people had come from the region and what industry was big there as we went. He informed us the weather would be beautiful, 18 degrees C, and sure enough it was, the entire time. We arrived in Nelson late after all those delays, and about 4pm. I found the hostel where I’d “made a reservation” on the map and headed toward it. I don’t think I’ll mention the name of it as the information I’m about to give could incriminate them.

As I walked I started to wonder if it was in fact worth it to save $3. I had been walking for what seemed like forever, and judging by the map it seemed like I was only a third of the way there. I was walking through what seemed like a suburban neighborhood with my 20 lb backpack weighing on my shoulders, and I stopped more than once to consider turning around. But no, I pushed on. Once I arrived I would ask if they could give me a ride to the bus station in the morning, and if they could, I would stay. I finally found the street and saw nothing that gave the impression of a backpackers, but I saw the name written on a post at the entrance of a gravel road. I followed the road past a horse and a goat, to where there was a house, and dogs came running to greet me. A woman welcomed me in, saying, you must be the one who called yesterday. She showed me around. Inside the house it was dark, and raggae music was playing from a stereo. Turtles swam in a tank in an alcove with couches and a coffee table. Strange, I was thinking to myself. I bet they have a crop of weed somewhere on this property. She showed me the bathrooms and the hut where I would sleep. It was a nice little hut. It reminded me of when I used to go to camp way back when, only it was much nicer with real walls, windows and a door. I dropped my stuff and headed the miles back into town, arriving in time to ask about Able Tasman at the information centre.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t feel like being a tourist. As I was walking through the city if you can call it that, I saw the cinema, so I checked to see if Wallace and Grommit the Curse of the Were-Rabbit was playing. Sure enough it was starting in 2 minutes, so I went in with a bag of peanut M&M’s, and finally got to see what I was longing to see. Nothing special, but a good way to pass the time. After that, I felt blue. I felt alone, homesick, tired. I sat down in Anzac park, and cried a bit. It helped that the park was a memorial to fallen soldiers in WWII. It made an atmosphere conducive to sadness. Once that was out of my system, I figured I better head back to the hostel. On my way back, I saw a boy with a dog, and took a moment to pet the dog before continuing. A man started walking along side me (they seem to like to do that).

“Nice dog, eh?”

“Yeah”

“You smoke weed?” Man, he gets straight to the point.

“No.” Do I have some aura about me that says, POT HEAD! POT HEAD!?

“What are you doing?”

“Going home.”

“Where do you live?”

“Up there.”

“Are you a tourist?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing?”

“Going home?”

“Are you Canadian?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah. What are you doing?”

“I’m going home.”

“Alright, I’ll stop interrogating you.”

“Thanks.”

He shook my hand and told me to take care. I said the same.

So I went back to the ganja farm, and cooked dinner. I talked to the owner (I think he was), who I had correctly identified as Dutch. I could see in the alcove by the turtles. Two kids who were staying, WOOFing (working in exchange for room and board) on the farm rolling joints. A woman came in and sat down. I saw her take a bite out of a chocolate muffin or brownie. Next time I looked over, she was asleep. How funny this all is! I’m staying on a hippy farm! The Dutchman told me he was trying to get citizenship. He observed that he didn’t meet many Americans, that for such a big country, we don’t travel much. He also asked if I had a boyfriend back home.

I Replied, “no, but there’s a guy who wants to be.”

“I guess you wouldn’t have one if your off traveling.”

I went to bed early, and read more Jurassic Park, and called a hostel to book a room for the next night.

Thur 13 Oct

I rose early, threw my stuff together, and split. I wanted to try and make it downtown to drop my stuff off at the next hostel before I had to catch the 8am bus to Able Tasman and walk. As I walked toward town, I heard honking. A truck pulled up along side me. The woman from the hostel was apologizing for forgetting that I needed a ride, but I assured her it was ok. When she left, I headed in the direction I thought was the hostel, but I was wrong. So I got on the bus with all my gear and rode through the gorgeous countryside to the park. A morning mist hung all around the harbor, just below the blue mountains. It was a beautiful effect!

The bus driver stopped at the entrance to the park which was unexpected since I thought I was going to have to walk two hours from Marahau just to reach the park. I discovered that there was no clean water to refill my water bottle with, but that filtered water would be available at the first hut, so I figured I could make it, and refill there. I sat down to eat my breakfast when I discovered a huge brown spider crawling on my pack. I jumped away and what I proceeded to do would probably have been quite funny for someone watching me. I began to dance, more or less. I would shake the bag, then jump back, shake it again, jump back. But that little bugger hung on! So I decided to bother a couple nearby.

The man was on the phone, so I asked the woman, “Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but are you afraid of spiders?”

“No.”

“Ok, because I am and there’s a huge spider on my bag. Do you mind helping me get it off?”

“No. Where is it?”

I finally got to eat my lunch in peace before I walked off into the park.

I was amazed at the beauty, even at the entrance of the trail. Abel Tasman is a loop track that takes about 3 to 5 days to complete. Half of it runs along the coast and half inland through the mountains. It’s well maintained, wide enough for two people, and with mechanisms to prevent eroding. There are huts and campgrounds along the trail, with toilets and two filtered water stations. And several beaches line the coast. All I can say was that, start to finish, I was glad I had come.

Abel Tasman wasn’t too busy that day, or too isolated. I never went more than about 15 or 20 minutes without seeing a person, but my guess would be I only passed a total of about 30 people in the whole six hours I was walking. The first time I really ran into people, I was coming around a bend. The track was cut through the mountain at that point, and the wall on the coastal side rose up and was concave in a way that made sounds impossible to trace. So when I heard voices, I had no idea where they were coming from. But as I turned the corner, two guys were sitting resting, looking out over the water. One was blond-haired and blue-eyed, the other had long brown hair. I acknowledged them, as you ought to do when you pass someone while hiking. A while later, they passed me, and a short time after that I passed them again.

It started to be fun. It was like we knew each other. As I would pass, I would say, “See you later, I’m sure!”

Again, as I came around a bend, to pass them for the fourth time, the blue-eyed one smiled a big grin of recognition, which absolutely made my day. He asked me a question I didn’t quite understand, it was either why did you stop or where did you stop. When I asked him which he was he said, “oh.” You’re German, I thought to myself.

I stopped on a beach to have lunch. I took off my boots to rest my feet and feel the sand between my toes. The water was freezing cold! But my feet were swollen from the walking and from having all my gear on my back for so long, so it was welcome relief. The two guys came down to the beach and snapped pictures of it and of the birds.

“You’re in my shot.” The dark haired one said with an accent to the blond one. So you aren’t from the same country and neither of you are native English speakers. Hmm, interesting.

I sat on a rock in the shade to eat some bread. As I sat, listening to the waves, I also began to hear popping sounds behind me. I began to wonder what it could be. I turned around in time to hear another pop and see flower pettles fall from a bush behind me. I realised it was the bushes! They were making the noise! Looking at the flowers more closely, I deduced that the seeds were growing and popping open their cases. It was bizarre!

After some time, I put my boots back on, but not before I acquired a number of bug bites around my ankles. Then I continued on my way. My feet were thoroughly sore by this point, but with no blisters, so my new boots have passed the test. And the lacing technique the guy at the store taught me to keep my tiny heel from slipping out of the boot did the trick. I made time, hoping I’d pass the guys again before I had to turn around. I never did, and I never made it to the first hut with the filtered water, so I rationed my little bit of water on my way back.

I was happy to discover, as I was coming upon one of the streams, that the two guys were crossing the bridge. I had passed them without knowing it sometime back. I stopped for a brief moment to chat with them, long enough to find out that the blond was, in fact, from Germany, and the dark-haired one was from Israel. An interesting combination, but one I’m glad to see. They would be in the park for three more days. Had I been walking the whole track, I probably would have had company. They seemed nice enough.

It took me only about 2.5 hours to walk back. Walking such a long way without enough water gave the illusion, whenever I looked at the sky, of the clouds and the air moving away from me. The psychology dork I am, it reminded me that perceptual psychology has pointed out that when you see the same movement or color for a long time, when it’s taken away, you’ll see the opposite. So by continuously walking forward through a tunnel of trees, when I was in open space, suddenly everything looked like it was moving away from me.

When I got back to the trail head, I could barely walk. A cafe was open so I stopped and chugged an apple, mango juice, then settled down, changed to my street shoes acquiring more ankle bites in the process. I sat waiting for my bus, wishing it would be leaving earlier. Finally, shortly before 5, with another 40 minutes to go till the scheduled bus, I walked over to three drivers standing around talking.

“Is this the intercity bus?”

“Yep.”

“The 5:40 bus?”

“Could be.”

Could be? I stood confused.

“If you want to take the 5 o’clock bus, you can. What hostel are you staying at?”

They didn’t recognize the name, so the man called them to see where they were. My wish was granted by the ever accomodating Kiwis, and I left Abel Tasman on the earlier bus. I was dropped off at my hostel.

This hostel, called Accents was wonderful. Not your ordinary backpackers. It wouldn’t be for everyone, but it was the perfect place for me with my sore feet and aching shoulders. The place seemed more like a hotel than a hostel. The linens were entirely clean, as were the bathrooms, and everything else for that matter. I took a quick walk around Nelson before the sun went down, then I hit the showers to wash off the grime. The showers were incredible and I stood under the streaming jet of hot water for a good five minutes. When I came out my shoulders, which had been replaced by rocks from carrying my backpack, were almost back to normal, and I felt refreshed. I treated myself to a glass of wine and some chocolate mud cake. The owners of the hostel were very bubbly, talking to every guest making them all feel at home. It was a nice homely atmosphere after a hard day. And just for the sake of observation, my roommates for the night were a German girl and a Kiwi who was very open about the fact that she was bipolar, had a young daughter and had recently fallen in love with a man over the internet.

14 Oct 2005

I woke up at 6:30, unable to go back to sleep. I left to catch the 9am bus to Picton to catch the ferry. I was wishing I’d given myself an extra day in Nelson, but that’s alright; I’ll just have to go back. I think I had the same bus driver as the first day. He was as tourguidish as the first one. When I arrived in Picton, I checked my luggage at the ferry terminal, then went to get my ticket.

“But you don’t sail until tomorrow.” The woman at the counter said.

“What?”

“It says here, Oct 15th.” She handed me the paper.

“Oh my god!” I’d managed to book the wrong day somehow. Crap, if I’d known, I would have hung out in Nelson an extra day, stayed for the beginning of the art festival, but could I afford it? I’m out of cash. I don’t want to stay a night in Picton.

“I guess you don’t want to sail tomorrow.”

“No.”

She took the paper back and despite having bought a ticket that, according to the terms and conditions, COULD NOT BE CHANGED, she changed it for me. My luck had been incredible all during the trip!

I took a stroll through Picton which doesn’t take long considering the size of the town. I stopped and had some nachos, which were horrible. It wasn’t necessarily that they tasted bad, but they’d been Kiwified. The only kind of tortilla chips you can find in this country come with cheese already on them. When a restaurant serves nachos, it comes with the normal sour cream and cheese, but the salsa isn’t quite right, and they use kidney beans which just mess up the flavor with there sweetness. I suppose it’s no surprise considering the amount of ocean that lies between Mexico and New Zealand.

The ride back was, aside from an emergency drill, highly uneventful. How I got a story this long out of a three day trip, I don’t know, but I did. Now I’m back in Wellington until Oct 22 (6 days).

Tags: 1. Australasia, 1A. New Zealand, 1A2. South Island

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