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18/12-22/12/99 Various B&Bs Charlotte's becoming increasingly fed up with the chauvinistic attitudes of the people we meet. Every man we speak to looks directly at me, every question concerns my job, my career - never hers. Everyone assumes that I do the driving, that I make the decisions and the world revolves around ME. Well... leaving aside my early 90s phase when I most assuredly did think that, and hence behaved accordingly, this is extremely unfair on Charlotte. Maybe what we're experiencing is the standard city/country folk divide. (South Island is very rural.) Maybe people react like that towards us, because they note the disparity in our ages and assume we must have an uneven partnership. It is throwing a shadow over an otherwise extremely hospitable country, though. Near Hokitika, at a farmstay on the side of the freeway, we experienced this worst. The wife was clearly the motivator (interested in social care, fostered numerous children). Yet it was the loud-mouthed husband who made all the observations - most of which we wished he'd kept quiet, considering the racist tint of a lot of them, mostly concerning Maoris at home, and Pakistanis in England. Very tiresome. He was so much nicer when directing us and a pair of German girls around the night sky and glow worms in abandoned gold mines later: pointing out their spun webs, and the way they glow brighter or softer, depending on hunger. The spa was nice, if a little large. (Does this matter? It made me, momentarily, yearn for Andrew's hand-built version in Fitzroy, where the warmth was at direct odds with the Melbourne winter's chill.) Amberley, the night before, was the proud exception. No time for such silly nonsense as sexism here! Bob and Veronica - a very stately, impish English couple from Kenya who nurture an ostrich farm - regaled us all night with tales of exploding golf balls, thieves who trample over roses to reach the poppy supply and EC butter regulations. We stroked and watched in awe at their creatures, of course: ate a little of one, too, at the fancy restaurant round the corner. Such stately, yet such comical creatures. I'm amazed more cartoonists haven't used them for inspiration (aside from Windsor McCay). I had my hand pecked by one, and a 10 foot tall male version blew out its neck like a bagpipe at Charlotte's red jersey. We could've stayed for days here: the company, the outside 19th Century railway carriage, converted into a children's den, the English rose gardens, the intricate metallic devices the couple had somehow ended up making for MacDonald's, the lawn tennis court, the ostriches... I thought of Kristin Hersh's stories of jacking off ostriches into Big Gulp cups (told to me all those years ago, in Rhode Island), and wondered at how different people's perceptions can be. Earlier that day, in Hamner Springs, we argued badly - over virtually nothing, the way lovers do - and I finally reached a conclusion on the bothersome Spin article that had been blighting our holiday so long. Great to write, but oh! The timing! A massage helped, but the facial didn't do much for unshaven me. The whale watching in Kaikora didn't occur, either. Bad weather. Oh, incidentally. Any new visitors impressed enough by the superficial glossiness of New Zealand's art magazine, Pavement into buying a copy. Don't. Sheer Western, youthful banality. The only item of interest was a very humdrum article on the machinations behind the NZ Spice Girls, True Bliss. (Any editors reading: yes, it's a great story. Ask me.) Far better to stick with Woman's World copy, The Listener... or maybe not. We've taken to buying Time for our entertainment. I never thought I'd be that old! (Or conservative.) After the glow worm night, we took route 6 south through Okarito, to see both the Franz Josef and Fox glaciers: the latter, we walked upon - surreal, to walk on solidified water. Charlotte nearly fainted on the arduous walk up, but the guides were truly sensational. Dry, buoyant and very personable, like all the best Kiwis. They truly made the day for us. That evening, stayed with negligible - though nice enough - couple on a beef farm with a massive Christmas tree, and truly fixed views on the government. No one seems to appreciate that white rasta fella who's just been appointed a Green MP. Very distrustful of appearances. Good home cooking. Where else? The folk in the Blue Duck Valley near Kaikora stole out hearts, with their tales of sheep farming. In the early morning - waking then so we could see the whales (not) - we fed the dribbling lambs, much to our and their delight, and watched an impromptu, virtuoso display of sheep herding from the farmer's favourite work dog. It's all done with the eyes, y'know. In the early evening, we watched a bad Agatha Christie-style TV detective drama, starring a sadly diminished Diana Rigg and part of (my favourite, at least) The Mask. (I just appreciate all the references to Tex Avery in the film.) I also ate the worst recorded meal of our holiday so far: packet pumpkin soup and rice. (Mostly, we've been sticking with penne pasta: and very solid and satisfying it is, too.) Then there was Picton, where we cut out Queen Charlotte trek short by 4 hours - the rain was too much - and found a sweet enough homestay in town. I worked on the Spin article some more, and phoned surprised friends in Seattle, while Charlotte discovered a quay-side laundry, and did her exercises. Felt we deserved a decent meal after all that exercise, and got one, at the Barn. Large pizza for me, cool salad for her. Mostly, the past few days have been characterised by long car drives past stunning scenery: the numerous lupins, snow-clad mountains, and forbidding clouds lurking in the rolls of hills. We love it here. |
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