AAGH! A week without a home

Nelson was a beautiful city, where
we had Turkish dinner with a
German who we met outside of the
hostel, which, along with all
other hostels, was completely
booked full. The next day felt
lovely, and we relaxed in the park
all day before catching the bus to
Takaka ( pronounced with all long
a's in Maori fashion). We slept
in our tent because those dumb
hippies double booked us at the
"barefoot hostel."
The next day we met with our
upcoming host family, dropped off
most of our gear and headed to the
Abel Tasmen trail for a week of
roughing it. I never really got
the appeal, only so much eight foot
high scrubby trees, and scrub land
one can handle. Really, truly,
was not a beautiful place. "It,"
also, rained everyday and I said
everyday, "I flippin' (except the
other, better, word) hate this
country." But the world has a way
of compensating: I found a copy of
The Godfather and read it in three
days. I also asked the park
ranger about the upcoming forecast
and she replied "It will rain
lightly for a while, then clear
up, nothing you can't handle." It
rained all Wednesday night, and
sprinkled in the morning. As we
put up the tent, it began to mist,
then rain. As we started to trek
out, it poured. I continued my
mantra, and added a few unsavory
comments about any possible
meeting with the aforementioned
park ranger. When we arrived at
the mouth of the walk, Wanui,
Kelsey called our host family,
tearie eyed, "we are completely
rained out, how can we get to
Pohara?" "Walk to the Tui
commune, and hitch a ride out."
At that moment, an RV began to
pull out of the parking lot. I
walked over, and begged for mercy.
They obliged. Once inside their
RV, we noticed something was
amiss. It was a couple, middle
aged and quiet. They drove us into
the hills, curving back and forth.
They stopped the RV on an
isolated dirt road, and turned to
us, shivering from the rain and
cold, and the gaunt man asked us
"Do you like games." The partner
hissed with delight. The night
consisted of wire clothes hangers.
The morning, clam chowder. In
the afternoon, they left us alone
for more "good juice," which I
only assume meant orange juice, to
help with our immune system. I
gnawed off what remained of my
left hand, and crawled to Kelsey,
who lay motionless, yet breathing.
I, too weak to carry her and not
finding the keys to her
imprisonment, the RV nor the
chains, fled madly through the
bush. By night fall, i had found,
help, yet the search for Kelsey
turned fruitless!
No i am kidding, they were
Canadians! Who loved their deli
meats! (that story was for all
those parents out there!)
we were dropped off in Pohara,
found lodging at the Backpackers
accommodation, and proceeded to hang
and dry all of our belongings.
And what do ya know, the rain
stops, the sun comes out, and we
take a romantic walk on the
expansive beach. The next three
days consisted of the same, except
our clothes smelled like mildew.
The beach at Pohara undergoes an
epic transformation at the tides.
from a small beach, to a huge
beach, where one can walk out and
pick oysters for dinner.
Delicious, this coming from one
whom particularly does not like
seafood.
finally, Takaka is filled with
hippies. white hippies with dread
locks. Hippies smelling worse
than we did without clean clothes,
thus smelling like a week of
camping and mildew. Hippies
everywhere, and driving
everywhere. can't afford shirts
or bras, yet drive their camper
vans and hippie mobiles across town
and back, with laptops better than
outs, and constantly texting
between drum circles or
dingereedo-ing! Apparently, they
also howl, and the Tui communities
hold seminars on how to make
Yurts. AAGH!
Then we meet up with Chris and
Sylvia, our hosts.