Merriment, Muumuus and Motorbikes

Mosquitos probably should have been an added to the above alliteration as well.  Apparently intaking my body weight in fresh fruit juice everyday has made my sweet, sweet blood irresistible to the local mosquitos.  They are impervious to bug spray, citronella candles and my fierce hatred for them.  Bastards.  I look like a festering leper.  No offense fellow lepers, but when the biters have become bold enough to get you in the stomach, titties and EYELIDS, it starts to take a toll on a lady.  It also doesn't help that I have exactly 0% self control; scratching the bites into highly irritated volcanos of red flesh.  That's why I am glad to announce that I have officially replaced the nutritious fruit juices for Johnny Walker Red Label.  

We are abundantly fortunate this Christmas since our friend Jade flew all the way from the motherland to meet us in Bali.  I was not previously aware of the bet, but I guess a special award goes to Jade for beating our other friend Nicolle to the blog.  A very prestigious accomplishment indeed.  You people need a hobby.  I suppose the draw of two hot females, a tropical beach and the birthday celebration of Sweet Baby Jesus was too much for her to resist. And how do you celebrate Christmas in a hot, Hindu land?  Muumuus.  Jade was the glowing recipient of a smoking, chartreuse muumuu from Saint Nicholas this morning.  I guess she narrowly escaped the Naughty List this year.  

Donning our new muumuu uniforms, we set out on motorbikes this morning to Dream Beach on Nusa Lembongan island.  In general, I am against putting my body on a motorbike in a country where there are almost as many motorbikes as people (unlike many of my statements, is not an exaggerated statistic).  The dense motorbike traffic is enough to intimidate me, especially when half of the operators are under twelve years old (a slightly exaggerated statistic) and motorbikes being the leading cause of hospital visits for tourists in this country (absolutely true).  Being the more economic way to travel, due to the superb gas milage, often you will see an entire family traveling down the freeway on a motorbike.  Dad drives with the baby on his lap, mom sits in modest and fancy side saddle position on the back, while the toddler stands up between them, clinging onto dad's back; no one is wearing a helmet.  I guess when you start driving these machines in primary school you tend to be pretty comfortable skirting around in this bustling metropolis.  Luckily the island of Nusa Lembongan is sparsely populated and prohibits any motorized vehicles besides the motorbikes.  Despite all this, it is still a Christmas miracle that I came home without any road rash or collision damage to pay for.  Hallelujah.  

I will admit, a touch of homesickness has crept into our tropical adventure.  I genuinely miss my family and friends during the holidays.  That said, I have zero complaints about spending Christmas getting a sunburn, breezing around on motorbikes and toasting Johnny Walker with some my favorite people on this earth.  

Merry Christmas!

Location: Wouldn't You Like to Know, Bali

Let me say upfront that I know most (all) of my posts are usually non-serious in nature and have a somewhat (really) sarcastic tone.   I've been struggling to compose this latest entry but I really have nothing to be facetious about.  There are no particularly funny stories or humorous tidbits.  My life has just been good.  Really good.  

The lack of funny stories may or may not directly correlate with our lack of drinking in this country.  After single handedly boosting the cider market in New Zealand, we have unintentionally taken a break from the liver abuse.  It was never a conscious or stated attempt to dry out, we just naturally found ourselves shuddering and curled up in the fetal position underneath the table when the waiter asked if we wanted a beer.  So naturally we do what most ten year olds would do while their parents are ordering poolside margaritas by ordering delicious, thirst quenching, fresh squeezed juice at EVERY meal (and Kelly couldn't figure out why she hasn't had a solid bowel movement in a week, ha!).  

While I may have sounded slightly overwhelmed when describing our first week here in Bali (ok, I was definitely overwhelmed), I am totally on the Bali train now.  As previously predicted, our lives have mainly been occupied with swimming in the ocean several times daily, eating to our hearts content for less than $10 a day, reading on the beach, yoga, tea time, cooking classes, daily massages and afternoon siestas.  How to make that into a funny story?  It's beyond me.  How to make this into a permanent lifestyle?  I'm working on it.  

The sole difficulty has been the inability to blend in.  Being overly pasty, sweaty and at least half a foot taller than everyone else, we just scream tourist.  Fundamentally rejecting the Teva-wearing tourist, we are clearly cultural scholars, it has been hard to accept that moniker.  Then you see your puffy reflection in the Starbucks' window and realize that you look exactly like every other camera toting ass-hat (Disclaimer: under no circumstances have we actually patronized a Starbucks).  So much so that everyone thinks we're sisters; the locals even make bets on whether or not we are twins.  We get the twin question at least three times a day.  At a minimum.  Yep, big, brunette, amazonian twins.  Thanks to our scholarly backgrounds and our refined optical sense for detail, we have never confused one asian person for another.  Never.

Most recently, Kelly and I found ourselves in a random, sleepy beach town.  I hesitate to even tell you where it is, because it is one of the few unspoiled areas in Bali (since this blog is so widely read, I wouldn't want the burden of being held personally responsible for the tourist boom).  It has yet to be overrun by tourists, the prices are incredibly low and the people are fantastic, hospitable and put up with the likes of us.  We are staying in the above pictured beachfront bungalow that we have nicknamed the "Honeymoon Sweet" for obvious reasons.  Kelly gets major points for finding this piece of paradise.  The look on the owners face when two ladies showed up to check in was not judgmental, but perhaps a little confused as why we would have choose such a romantic little get away rather than your typical, action packed, bar filled backpacker destination.  So we are politely asked the less awkward, and hopeful, segue question, "Are you sisters?"  

The hotel owner's sister in-law even makes house calls to our bungalow every morning.  They send over two masseuses after breakfast so Kelly and I can ease into our stressful day of lounging.  Again, I don't know why they'd get the impression that we're on our honeymoon.  Can't two girls just rent a romantic beach bungalow because it's cost effective?  What we call hobo-ing gets misconstrued as homo-ing these days.  I digress.  The massages, for the price of your frappaccino (yuck, another Starbuck reference!), are ultra thorough.  Perhaps too thorough?  Or maybe I'm just underestimating this culture's lack of boundaries.  Prior to this week, I didn't know butt crack tension existed nor do I know how one develops tension in this particular crevasse.  They, however, seem to dedicate some serious time to this condition during each session.  I'm not complaining, it feels nice-ish and I have to give it to them for their keen sense of adventure.  Kelly after proof-reading this would like me to add, for the record, that her masseuse has not entered her most holy of cracks and she remains untarnished in that respect.  Lucky me.  At least they use delicious coconut oil that keeps that area nicely scented and greased (too much?).  It's more than enough to convince us that a mid-morning swim is absolutely necessary.  There goes the two twin, oaf-sized, lovers taking a swim again.  

Cooking Class in Ubud

One of the billions of rice paddies here in Bali

Bali Bali Bali

To your obvious shock, Bali is vastly different from the Kiwi land we've come accustomed to in the past few months.  It is sizzling, humid and densely populated.  It feels busier than even Auckland during the World Cup finals.  Ok, a slight exaggeration, but I haven't been able to walk 50 feet without being asked if I need a taxi or a massage; sometimes both questions coming from the same person.  This description may initially sound like complaining, however, I assure you it is not.  We are, after all, in a tropical paradise.  The sun and beaches do wonders for your mood and skin.  Plus, who doesn't want a five dollar massage?  

It is definitely taking some adjustment though.  For example, the money situation is about as confusing as calculous is to a kindergartner (or your average grown adult).  Roughly $1 US is about 10,000 Rupiah.  I can't figure out how I feel about having a wad of 2.5 million in currency in my pocket; I go between feeling like a baller and just incredibly uncomfortable.  Other Balinese things that are taking some getting used to include: the food, the exhausting ritual of haggling for everything and monkeys.

We are currently in Ubud, which is home to the Monkey Forest.  Fairly self explanatory.  You are warned, repeatedly, not to have any food on you or in your bag; the sharp fanged and sometimes rabies harboring primates will not hesitate to take your Lunchable.  Of course, a fair number of camera toting morons will still bring in bananas in hopes to capture that Kodak moment where the monkey rips your face off.  Kelly was understandably wary and guarded upon entering the forest, whereas I was blissfully unaffected and entertaining myself by taking pictures of all the monkeys with oversized balls.   Don't worry, I've attached a picture below, you perverts.  

Monkey Forest, not just a clever name, is jammed packed with these vine swinging fur balls; you often have to step around a mother feeding her baby, one brother picking the lice out of the other brother's butt or the occasional monkey fight (monkey fights are just inherently funny, even if they do seem a little dangerous in person).  We had to cross a bridge that, not surprisingly, was a prime location to quite a few loitering monkeys.  To my shock, one of the big males suddenly snatched my upper arm in one of his eerily human like hands.  When I tried to pull away, he simply gave me a defying look and then latched on with his other hand as well.  Their faces are also too human like, the fact that I can say his expression was defiant is creepy simply because it is absolutely accurate.  So what do you do with a monkey who has now claimed your arm?  Well, I can tell you that yelling at it like you would your yellow lab is not effective.  "No", "bad monkey" and "get the fuck off my arm!" were definitely ignored.  I'm such a tourist to assume this guy was bilingual, but hell if I speak a word of Malay.  After quite sometime of arm tug-of-war, all the while I was thinking, "please don't bite me or climb on my hair", he finally relinquished my arm without leaving so much as a scratch.  Good thing, since I don't think I'm up to date on my rabies vaccination.  In the end, I think the miscommunication was that he simply thought he smelled food on me.  In actuality, I probably just smelled like a garlic laden Indian curry due to my deodorant's substandard effectiveness in this climate.    

End of an Era

Pig Organ Soup...mmmmmmmmm


If you happen to be reading this with an adult beverage in hand ('tis the season after all!) please pour one out for our dear friend whom we've recently deserted.  New Zealand, you may be the love of my life and I'm not sure I'll ever get over you.  The land of bountiful green landscapes, where the cheap cider flows like water and the compliments from the people (ah hem, men) massage even the most fragile egos into the most confident, arrogant ass holes (ah hem, us).  After two and a half months in the En Zed, I will miss it dearly for many reasons, largely because I don't think the men in South East Asia will adopt the Kiwi men's tradition of referring to me as "tiny".  

We found ourselves on the Equator this week.  A warm, sticky contrast to southernly New Zealand, Singapore is vastly different from our Kiwi comfort zone.  Whereas Kelly and I previously may have blended into the New Zealand countryside, here we stick out like a couple of turds in the public swimming pool.  

We arrived on a late flight and worried there would be no open place to dine at that time of night.  Because of the face melting humidity, it is actually more common for locals to tuck into their meals late when the sun isn't causing you to sweat into your pig organ soup.  Which, by the way, is delicious.  In attempts to impress myself, or to get a raging case of diarrhea, I ventured to try some of the more "authentic" local cuisine.  We were in town for such a short duration, I rationalized the spicy fish soup and pig organ soup as the cliché "When in Rome" motive.  I'm happy to report that all of the delicacies were some of the best food I've ever had, cost around $2 and did not give me a case of the boot scooting boogie...yet.  

The key take aways from our brief stint is that Singaporeans are food-aholics (there are more freaking food centers than people here), there are even more bats than food centers and it's hotter than Hade's balls; the one exception being our very, very air-conditioned hostel.  Kelly ended up wearing long pants, long sleeves and her HAT to bed.  Only then to wake up in the middle of the night to commandeer extra blankets from the closed reception desk in the wee hours of the morning.  The irony is not lost on us either.  

Today we are off to Bali to spend the duration of the year, in what we imagine, sipping umbrella festooned cocktails on lazy beaches, occasionally breaking to surf, swim and do yoga.  Can you say Namaste?  

Summer Camp

Ok kids, the Kiwi word of the day is "dagging".  A very important part of sheep farming, it is the bi-annual task of chasing down and then sheering off all the shit caked wool from the asses of your entire stock.  It is indeed as glamorous as it sounds.  Just when we thought our minds we done being blown here on the farm, we returned just in time for summer dagging.  Sexy.  

It is very sad to write that we have finally left the farm, for real this time.  As we are now faced with the reality of having to catch our flight to the next destination on our around the world ticket.  Our departure is filled with mixed emotions and I've spent a lot of time contemplating why leaving here is so difficult.

The best explanation I can surmise is that this place has been like adult summer camp.  All the same ridiculous activities (horseback riding, canoeing, bonfires), but without the booze bans, curfews or kumbaya.  In fact, drinking is encouraged, highly encouraged.  Stark improvements over my childhood summer getaways.  Even the activities themselves have been suped up for our adult enjoyment.  For example, midnight capture-the-flag is now midnight capture-the-pig.  Night time is apparently particularly conducive for pig hunting.  

Luckily Kelly and I actually followed some of the travel book's advice (no, not the part where they suggested only bringing three pairs of underwear) and brought headlamps.  I originally imagined using them for reading books or urgently trying to find the outhouse at night in a drunken stupor.  My baby blue and pink REI head lamp may have looked pansy in comparison to our hunting compatriot's high powered, gun metal head torch, but let me assure you it worked brilliantly for the rugged pig expedition.  I hesitate to mention that I had to jimmy rig it with duct tape to keep the batteries in place, piece of shit REI plastic.  

Pig hunting is largely just hiking into the rain forest and quietly waiting for the pig dogs to pick up a scent.  We were instructed  to wait quietly, not Kelly's strong suit, and listen for the high pitched squealing indicating the dogs had cornered some swine.  At such time we were supposed to take off like Rambo, bounding over fallen trees and sprinting through stinging nettles, to relieve our faithful hounds.  The first couple to reach the boar are supposed to grab it's hind legs, all the while avoiding be impaled by their gnarly tusks, and flip the porker onto it's back.  Oh sure.  The next person then runs in to "stick" the pig.  "Stick" is always the term that is used, but I'm not really sure why they try to soften the reality which is just stabbing them in the neck.  This is truly hands on combat hunting.  No guns, no bows and arrows.  

Alas the pig hunt was unfruitful and I never got the chance to actually grapple with a wild boar.  It was too still of a night and the dogs never were able to pick up a fresh trail.  I guess that's how summer camp goes sometimes.  It was still pretty satisfying to trek around in the pitch dark, looking for pig tracks and following the signs their routing like the early Native Americans, or so I imagine.

It is not hard to see why we are so devastated to leave our New Zealand playground.  With only one week left, we'll be making our way back to Auckland where we fly out to Bali.  I'm not sure we'll be able to top the shenanigans we've been getting into at the farm, but I'm sure we'll try...

A Horse is Horse of Course of Course

Brace yourself for this shock...we are back at the farm in Whakahoro.  Or should I say, we're back home.  That's what it feels like at least.  We were sad that we didn't have a chance, between goat slaughtering and sheep wrestling, to go on a horse expedition last time we were at the farm.  So we jumped on the chance early this time.

The trek was led by our friend Chad, the horse man on the farm.  A past guest once told him that he reminded her of Woody from A Toy Story; tall, gangly cowboy with big bright eyes.  A description that Chad even resigns as fairly accurate.  He is easily one of the funniest people I have met on this trip.   Despising tan lines, he already has the beginnings of a permanent white tank top early in the summer.  So he asked us if we mind if he "Hollywoods" it that day.  Hollywooding is just his fancy way to say "slutty, shirtless horseback riding".  Hell, if I had his body I would have played Brokeback Mountain right along with him.

So when people ask me if I am an experienced rider, I always say yes.  This I've come to realize might be a little misleading as most of my "experience" is derived from the summer horse camp my parents made me attend when I was ten and the handful of times I've helped various friends move their horses.  There are a couple of minor details to note here.  First, I was in fact suspended from horse camp for punching a boy in the face (Whoa, whoa, whoa before you judge, he started it by pulling the horse lead out of my hand so fast it gave me a wicked rope burn.  That shit hurts.  I'm lucky I was even able to close my hand into a fist to clock his smarmy ass).  Second, I'm pretty sure I've been high all the other times I've help friends move their horses.  That's how they usually persuade us to help them in the first place.  I generally take the attitude that the horses sure as hell know how to navigate the forest better than I do, I'm just along for the ride.  

Nevertheless, I still tell people that I'm experienced.  It's not quite lying, but I don't really think it paints an accurate picture of my true equestrian abilities.  Because of my slightly inflated stated experience, I usually get paired with the asshole horse who should generally be reserved for the experienced horse whisperer.  I am more of a horse hollerer.  Crockett, my trusty steed for the day, had only ever been ridden by two other people prior to me; his trainer and a farm owner with 30 plus years of experience.  Oh bother, where's my joint?  Luckily I fancy myself a good bullshitter and can even trick a horse into submission with some mustered confidence.  He only tried to take my head off once.  Crockett and I are both tall and it was a low, swinging bridge, which horses are notoriously awkward on.  A forgivable mistake, even if I was yelling "whoa!" and pulling on the reigns with all the strength of an olympic weight lifter.  Fortunately my cat like reflexes and lower lumbar flexibility saved me this time.  After a few choice words, Crockett and I had a fabulous rest of the day.

The bush is even more beautiful than last time we were up here now that summer is in full swing.  Halfway through the hot summer ride we parked (parked?) our horses at a waterfall and took kayaks through the glowworm caves.  Before returning to our horses, Kelly, Chad and I stripped down to our skivvies (to quite the shock of the german tourist) and took a quick plunge in the frigid waterfall pool.  The subsequent saddle chafe from the wet drawers was inconsequential compared to the experience.  It was more enchanting than Disneyland and it seems unbelievable that I used to spend my Mondays in a cubicle.  

Queenstown Skydiving

So that "maybe" on the last post turned into a "hells the fuck yeah"!  Kelly and I, I still can't believe this happened, threw ourselves out of a plane.  Ok, the tandem instructor threw us out of the plane kicking and screaming.  None the less, it happened.  Happened big time.  When faced with the options of a 9,000; 12,000 or 15,000 foot drop, we went for the full monty.  Jumping at 15,000 feet, high enough to be classified as a high altitude jump.  That's right, because we are bad ass (suckers).  You might be thinking, "Wow, Krista, you are so responsible to plan for this expense on your budget backpacking around the world tour".   No, this was not a planned expense, but we figured it was a once in a lifetime opportunity.  We're just going to pretend for a moment that skydiving only exists in Queenstown, New Zealand and not EVERY single city in the United States.  Once in a lifetime for sure.  I'd like to take this moment to thank MasterCard for their generous limits and no questions asked attitude (MasterCard, if you're reading this, please send your sponsorship royalties payable to Krista M. Gust for the free advertisement you just received, obviously this blog is read by millions).  

The high altitude jump requires a waiver swearing upon the head of your first born child that you are by no means hung over.  Oddly enough you could have drank your weight in Malibu Rum before the 9,000 and 12,000 foot jumps without cause for denial.  So we crossed our fingers, the fail proof way to get out of a contract or death, and certified that we had not, in fact, drank Queenstown under the table the night before.  After a shockingly brief instructional section, we were handed a jump suit, complete with FUPA enhancer, and sent off to be awkwardly bound, S&M style, to our newly acquainted tandem instructor.  I would usually find the crotch-to-butt bondage situation uncomfortable with most new friends, but considering my life was now securely in their hands (groin?), I felt it was only appropriate to skip the formalities and get straight to the personal part of our relationship as soon as possible.  My new back buddy, Dimitri, was a short, stalky trunk of a man from Bulgaria.  His accent was as thick as his thighs and I'm not quite sure he understood when I asked him, in all seriousness, if anyone had ever peed on him before.  Somehow the dense Eastern European accent was comforting.  As if he had grown up in a highly regimented soviet camp where he grew up eating rocks for breakfast.  Trained and tough, just the kind of guy I want handling the complexities of jumping out of a moving vehicle.  Kelly's instructor on the other hand was a 7 foot tall perverted Russian who kept making her sit on his lap in order to "affix the harness better".  After he asked her if this was her first time jumping, he said, "me too".  

The actual flight up was gorgeous, overlooking the Remarkable Mountains (it seems like they're tooting their horn a little with a name like that, but they are actually pretty amazing).  I might have actually enjoyed the view too if I weren't totally preoccupied with keeping last nights vodkas in my digestive tract.  At this point you have absolutely no power over whether or not you are jumping.  I think they call it "jumping" to give you a false sense of control.  You are literally shoved across the floor of the plane and thrusted out the door.  As we tumbled out of the door my only thoughts were "sweet bajesus, what have I done"?  And then you fall and fall and fall.  And in my case you scream every expletive you've ever heard your mom say to your dad growing up and then some you make up.  I'm apparently very creative in this aspect when faced with life and death situation.  65 bowel shaking seconds of the noisiest, wind whipping free fall and Dimitri deploys the life saving shoot.  The next several minutes were the most peaceful moments of my life and I actually can appreciate the surrounding mountains and pristine turquoise waters of New Zealand.  Dimitri even gave me the reigns to the parachute so I could do all the 360 spins and turns to my stomachs content.  I don't know what made me so trust worthy, but apparently Kelly's perverted Russian did not relinquish control of the reins.  As we approached landing, it only then occurs to me that Dimitri's legs only hang down to my knees.  I'm I supposed to land this myself with the weight of the tree truck of a Bulgarian on my back as well?  Thank god I am instructed to lift my legs as high as possible and we slide on our asses to glorious stop.  Kelly got the courtesy of the more respectable, and ass saving, upright landing.  Chaffed buttocks be damned, the high of being alive wins.  The high, however, unfortunately does not cancel a hangover.  So many life lessons learned that day.  

The look of success

Wine and Fur Seal Pups, your average combination


We finally left the farm.  I know my dad personally thought I would never come out of the deep New Zealand bush, but alas we needed to explore the south island before we take off in less than a month for Bali.  Holy f word, where did the time go already?  

Donning our new rugged exterior (aka the lingering smell of sheep shit), we rolled out of the bush and down to Blenheim, the wine country of New Zealand.  Blenheim is purely known for their wine and if there is anything else to experience there we blatantly ignored it.  We spent the day on a biking wine tour, which sounds more official than what actually occurred; renting bikes, following the tourist wine map we were bequeathed and trying not to fall off our bikes as we ripped through one wine tasting after the other.  Now, it's been a hot while since I've been on a bike.  I spent this last year living in the hilliest part of Oakland and, being the fair weather biker that I am, have only ridden a handful of times in recent memory.  It's a good thing wine is an anesthetic, because my undercarriage (I think that's the nice way to say lady taint) was severely abused that day.  Owie owie owie.

Post wine tasting, we hitched down to Christchurch where we were meeting up with our friends, Miranda and Arden.  On the way down the black sand lined beaches of the east coast, we stopped at an inconspicuous pull out off the freeway in Ohau Point.  You would easily miss it, except our host in Blenheim had tipped us off to this little treasure.  It is less than a ten minute hike into the forest, where you come upon a majestic waterfall and fresh water pool full of baby seals.  That's right, baby seals in a fresh water pool.  I have yet to learn the exact logistics of how a sea bound mammal makes this transition, but I think it's fair to say that's impressive.  The mother seals give birth and then leave the little guys to play and live in this fresh water pool until they are old enough to leave the protection on the forest.  They leave them for long periods of time while they gather food, apparently not concerned with the humans who come to ogle their newborns.  Fact; it is impossible to stop giggling when you see baby fur seals walking through the forest.  I don't know what alternate universe I ended up in.  

We finally made it to Christchurch thanks to our new friend Ricky, the semi driver who graciously picked up our half frozen, rain soaked selves.  The trip was amazing and hilarious.  He even took us all the way into town and pulled us up right to the front door of our hostel in his big rig.  Luckily Miranda and Arden happened to be standing outside when our chauffeur hand delivered us in the lime green semi.  I've never had such a stylish, impressive entrance.  Limos be damed.

Poor Christchurch is as decimated as you might imagine after all of those earthquakes.  I have never been thanked to be a tourist until we got there, but they are stoked to have much needed revenue coming into the region.  It is going to take a long time to rebuild, but the city still maintains it's cool, almost Portland-like vibe even among the rubble.  

Off to Queenstown, the adventure tourism capital of New Zealand (which really means it's expensive as hell).  Maybe we'll launch ourselves out of a plane.  Maybe...

Cultural Lessons

For all the reasons I mentioned in my previous post, we have been unable to leave Whakahoro aka my new favorite place in the world.  Luckily Kelly is charming and likable, so our new friends were suckers/kind enough to let us continue to stay with them.  This week has been a lot of the same ol' outdoorsy things that us outdoorsy girls do such as wrastling with sheep.  Shh shh little lambs, a little castration at the hands of inexperienced Americans never hurt anyone.

Now any of you reading this might, ok definitely, know that I am a complete nut for dogs.  I pine for dogs the way most women's biological clocks beg to breed.  The big difference being that dogs don't cry, talk back, need college tuition or require the birds and the bees talk.  Plus they are smushy and adorable even in their awkward teenage years.  So in addition to Whakahoro being the most amazing place ever, it is also serious Dog Palooza up in here.  Jaden, the farm manager for one of the farms, currently has 11 dogs to his name.  Eleven.  Initially that just sounds like borderline hoarding, but out here every one of them is actually necessary and each have their own jobs.  There are sheep dogs who's job it is to bark at the sheep to get them moving, sheep dogs for herding, pig dogs for tracking and corralling wild boars and let's not forget the puppies all so important job of being stupidly cute.  And all of these dogs are wicked smart, super obedient and know their left from their right, a distinction I still struggle with, ask any of my rugby teammates.  One dog can singled handedly (pawedly?) herd hundreds and hundreds of sheep from one field to another.  These dogs make all the dogs I have ever known back home seem like they might have a touch of down syndrome.  Sorry friends.  These dogs, however, are not the soft, sleep on the couch, get fed out of fancy dog feeders so they don't swallow their food too fast kind of dogs.  They are the sleep outside, work their asses off and sometimes get trampled by horses kind of dogs.  I was constantly warned that I was making the farm dogs soft by my over zealous affections.   I was also warned not to let them lick me in the face, farm dogs also have free range to whatever they find out in the paddocks.  I'm sure your imagination can fill in the blanks on the farm fresh entrees.  I'm not saying I'm going to give up snuggling on the couch with my favorite canines anytime soon, but I might expect Fido to at least take the garbage out every once and while when I get home.

Along with the dogs, you've probably noticed several cultural differences mentioned since we've started this trip.  Preparing for our departure yesterday, Kelly and I wanted to make all of our new friends dinner, a mediocre gesture of gratitude compared to the kindness and hospitality we were shown over the last couple of weeks.  The nearest town to Whakahoro is a seriously curvy, motion sickness inducing, hour plus drive away.  We braved the drive to the store for the ingredients necessary to make lasagna for a small army.  We like to think we made quite a few friends (and us Americans get nervous about not having enough food to completely gorge even the most metabolism gifted 18 year old farm hands).  As we start cracking into the SIX Costco sized cans of tomato sauce, our friend Anna asked, "Why the hell did you get so much tomato sauce?"  Duh, we're making lasagna for the apocalypse.  "No, but why so much tomato sauce?"  Ok, now I know we're on a different continent, but it's still an english speaking country, what am I missing here?  Cultural lesson #563; tomato sauce in New Zealand is actually ketchup!  Those American sized cans were for refilling ketchup dispensers.  We had already braved the gravel roller coaster of hell to the store and back and now all we had was enough ketchup to supply Fenway Park.  Our hosts thought the cultural debacle was hilarious.  I, however, didn't think there was a swear word appropriate enough.  Luckily we were able to commandeer enough real tomato sauce from our friends to make it work in the end.  But my question still is, what the hell are you supposed to call "tomato sauce" then?

November 5, Guy Fawke's Day

Goat on a picnic table, that shit is just funny

Whakahoro (Yes, it's pronounced phonetically!) 

At the beginning of this trip Kelly and I decided we wanted to become more "outdoorsy".  As "sporty" girls, we realized it is drastically different, though often confused, to be athletic and willing to get dirty than it is to be real outdoorsmen (insert manly grunt here).  What that really means is up to anyone's interpretation.  This week we got away from the city life to follow our little pipe dream.

Mike and Anna, in addition to their parents we stayed with in Rotorua, also has family in Whakahoro.  The combined family has 8,000+ acres of gorgeous countryside where they sustainably, and quite beautifully, farm sheep, beef and honey.  In addition, they run one of the largest endangered bird and indigenous tree conservation projects in New Zealand.  You can almost hear my little hippie heart chanting to mother nature right now.  Dan, who leads these conservation efforts at Blue Duck Farm, took us city girls, I mean sporty girls on with open arms.  Within an hour of arriving we were asked if we wanted to go possum hunting.  Oh boy did we.  In addition to our new possum hunting passion, here's a list of other things we've done in the last few days that would have previously been on my "I never imagined I do this in my life" list:

1.  Sheep Docking - tagging, castrating and removing the tails from the lambs. 
2. Picking up dead boars on a four wheeler - from the tourist boar hunt, obvi.
3. Goat Hunting - both Kelly and I shot and killed our first animals, it was way more exhilarating than I would have ever imagined.
3a. Kissing the dismembered goat balls of my first kill in Kiwi tradition
3b. Finding out that kissing balls is in fact NOT a Kiwi tradition, but it is Kiwi tradition to trick gullible Americans.  At least Kelly did it too.

Before you all go thinking that we are now blood thirsty hunters, I want to clarify that all of these animals are introduced pests to New Zealand that cause major environmental strife and, in the case of the boars, kill the livestock.  In addition to the non-native predators, possum ravage the cute little kiwi bird who is in danger of extinction and many other rapidly disappearing native flora and fauna.  Also, as I previously laid claim to my hippie status, I am a meat eater and find that most of us are too far removed from our food source.  If I am willing to eat the dead animals, I should be able to take part in the ending of their lives.  Plus, the lodge made a delicious curry for the tourists out of goats.  Goat curry, nom nom nom.  Ok, ok, it was also really fucking fun to shoot some shit. Outdoorsy card earned?

In addition to our killing spree, we've also been spending a lot of time gardening, taking scenic boat rides down the Whanganui River and lazing about in the gorgeous New Zealand country side.  The people here are just as amazing (with the exception of that son of a bitch who convinced us to kiss the goat balls), so much so that we decided to stay another week.  It just gets harder and harder.

Back in Black

So, I know this post is a bit behind and you all already know this but...THE ALL BLACKS WON THE WORLD CUP!!!!  Whoopty Whoop!  I thought Auckland during the semi-finals was crazy.  The finals were certifiably insane in comparison.  We watched the game at a pub as the cheapest nose bleed tickets were a cool $750.  We and a bar full of Kiwis nervously watched the narrow 8-7 win over France.  I befriended the rugby savvy midget sitting next to me as we both twitched and danced with anxiety the whole second half (Side note: I do realize the correct terminology is little person, but it lacks a certain luster for story telling purposes so you'll have to forgive my insensitivity in this case).  The relief of the final whistle gave way to mass mayhem as the All Black haven't won the title since the inaugural World Cup in 1987.  The home win was just the extra poop on top of this shit storm.

As we fled to the streets to celebrate, a group of body paint clad men were drunkenly passing a rugby ball across the streets of Auckland.  Kelly, being the generous person she is, went to retrieve their ball when it was dropped.  The Kiwis, expecting a Bret Farve over hand football throw from the American girl, were shocked when Kelly and I took off running through the crowds, eluding them with our rugby passes and gazelle like speed (I always feel lighting fast when running drunk).  We led chase for what seemed like kilometers and were only thwarted when my jacket that was tied around my waist was liberated and lost in the sea of people.  When you are living out of a backpack for a year you definitely go back for your only jacket, even if it means sacrificing your pride over a impromptu game of drunk street rugby.  The whole experience exceeded any expectations I could have ever dreamed of, but my liver and I are so glad that the World Cup over now.  

We've been fortunate enough to stay with friends and family of friends for the majority of our trip, but our last night in Auckland we stayed with our first Couch Surfing host.  Couch Surfing is a kind of social networking site where strangers offer up their couch for free to poor vagabonds such as ourselves.  It's a little more official than that, but you get the gist.  We arrived to their house to find our host making a chain maille coat for their Live Action Role Playing (commonly known as LARPing) event the next day.  I don't think I have the space or energy to correctly explain LARPing to those of you who are unfamiliar, but I highly recommend you YouTube it and then continue to read.  Now, this LARPing encounter may not sound very interesting to all of you, but I know for a fact that some of my friends are peeing their pants with excitement right now.  Frankly, I thought these kinds of things were special the eccentricities of the United States.  I assumed incorrectly.  I also incorrectly underestimated Kelly's ability to speak the LARPing language.  Apparently, as a lover and frequenter of Renaissance Fairs, she is fluent in the land of medieval dress up and battle axes.  The very generous and kind LARPers were more than happy to educate us on the finer points of sword play.  This is exactly what I set out to do, meet people and see things I would have otherwise never experienced.  Well, I might eventually have met LARPers  back home, but not a LARPer with a Kiwi accent...

Paihia

We spent most of this week in Paihia.  The easy going beach town of Paihia was a stark contrast to the bedlam of World Cup finals week in Auckland.  We took the "must do" day trip to the most northern part of New Zealand, the sacred Cape Reinga.  It is at this point where the dark blue Pacific Ocean and the turquoise Tasman Sea crash into each other creating massive waves and even crazier colors.  It truly looks like the end of the earth and is easy to see why the Maori believe this unworldly scene  is where your spirit travels to depart the earth.  It's hard to believe they still let us in.

Being at the end of the earth, Cape Reinga is not particularly accessible.  You have to take a organized bus tour, which we've been trying to avoid in general, to get to the tip of the island.  The highway of choice is literally the national Ninety Mile Beach.  Our huge charter bus, no kidding, actually drives the entire length of this public beach which New Zealand has also zoned as Hwy 10.  Waves crashed on shore and under the bus as we clipped along, being sure to avoid the numerous quick sand areas.  The driver assures us of our safety as the rules of the road still apply to this sandy highway, such as the leisurely 100 km/hr speed limit.  Safety First!  It is quite a contradictory feeling to lovingly gaze at the serene, blue-green ocean all the while my butt hole was securely clenched, willing the bus to stay on course.  

As you guessed, we made it, but not before stopping at the Te Paki Sand Dunes for a little sand surfing.  Essentially you haul your ass up a huge sand dune, gasping for breath while you try not to let the 60 year old bus driver beat you to the top of the god damn K2 of sand.  About the time when your calves feel like they might explode, you're there.   Jump belly first onto your body board and launch yourself down the sandy Mt. Everest, face first.  The only instructions are don't bail (because it hurts really bad) and dig your feet in to stop before you hit the soggy quick sand pit at the bottom.  Kelly diligently followed one of the two directions.  It was a good looking run, sticking to the board as she zipped down the dune, hair blowing in the wind.  By the end of the run, part two of the instructions were completely ignored as she sailed past the end point into the slop below.  This was much to the delight of the Asian tourists who, perhaps smartly, forwent the sand boarding part of the tour and were still at the bottom of the hill to see the splash down close up.  Though the hilarity was recognized by good-natured Kelly, it was quickly forgotten as she had to spend the next six hours exfoliating herself in her wet, sandy clothes.  And I still say Paihia is more mellow that Auckland.

"God Defend New Zealand" World Cup Poster - Jesus tackling an Australian player


Auckland

Kelly and I are in Auckland.  Auckland has been electrifying/thrilling/crazy with the semi-finals here this weekend.  We couldn't even get accommodation the first night we were in town.  Since we are learning to embrace the hobo lifestyle, we figured we would simply forego accommodation the first night town (Mom, what I mean by "forego" is that we totally stayed with a really nice old couple in a super safe neighborhood).  Bars are open until the wee hours of the morning, so we simply checked our bags into our hostel and hit the town until the breaka breaka dawn.  We apparently think we're 22 again.  Our livers were not as easily convinced.  Worth it?  HELL YES!

The next night was the semi-final game between New Zealand and Australia, and epic rivalry, especially for the semi-finals.  I had the absolute pleasure of sitting in the nose bleed section, so obviously I needed to yell louder so my dear All Blacks could hear me.  Two days later and it still sounds like I've been gargling with glass.  Again, totally worth; the All Blacks beat the bloody Aussies 20-6.  Auckland went ca-razy (as well as me and Kelly).  22 year old Kelly and Krista kicked our ass once again that night.

In addition to rugby, New Zealanders also partake in the sport of Speed Sheering.  Speed Sheering is two men, two pairs of clippers, two adult sheep in the need of a haircut and a timer.  Ready, set, go.  So when we stumbled upon a national Speed Sheering contest the day after the semi-finals, it was an easy decision.  Since we woke up the morning after the rugby game feeling bright and shiny (that is if bright and shiny = dog shit), we figured an leisure day of spectating was right up our alley.  Unfortunately New Zealanders have an uncanny way of sniffing foreigners out of a crowd.  When they asked for volunteers for the "half time show" we were the easy targets.  The half time show was an old fashion Speed Sheering competition, where one person has to manually crank the power for the clippers and the assigned professional shaves the sheep accordingly.  Thank god they didn't actually trust those poor sheep in our city folk hands.  We were the crankers.  Did I mention we were feeling bright and shiny?  Kelly and I went head to head cranking those damn machines.  It was two minutes of feverish cranking during which I sweat out a good litter of booze from the previous night.  Feeling nauseous and like my arm might fall off, I'm glad to report I came out the winner in my speed sheering debut.  

Afterwards I found out that my partner (the professional sheep sheerer who skillfully didn't cut the sheep to bits while I cranked away) was the father of Daniel Kirkpatrick who plays for the Hurricane's; one of NZ's Super 15 teams.  Note for the non-ruggers:  Super 15 is essentially the NFL of rugby for New Zealand, South Africa and Australia.  Am I becoming too much of a celebrity whore here?  The answer is yes and I like it.

The semi-final weekend was so epic that we decided to come back to Auckland for the finals this weekend.  I'm not sure we can live up to our sheep sheering escapades, but we'll do our best.  Expect a full report.  

Swellington


On our journey through the north island, we descended upon my friend Naima in Wellington.  The attmosphere was electric with the quarter finals going on.  Wellington was the first true "city" that we've hit since we've been in NZ.  A city touting the free Te Papa museum and synthetic marajuana.  Whaaat?  Aparently Wellingtonians have no patience for those pesky drug laws and as one synthetic drug is banned, they just turn around and make another.  Touche Wellington.

Speaking of things that should be illegal, letting an American drive in Wellington may be at the top of the list.  I did, however, take a hand at the challenge of driving on the opposite side of the road.  To our shock, no one died durring my chauffering escapade.  I can't tell you how many times I turned on the windsheild wipers instead of the oh so important turn signal.  I would say it was slightly more awkward than having toilet paper on your shoe, but not quite as awkward as farting during sex.  Success!

After Wellington we took the 7.5 hour bus ride to aromatic Rotorua where we stayed with Mike and Anna's mum (see, I'm learning), Ruth.  Rotorua is famous for their sulfuric hot springs.  People complain about the eggy smell, but really it's no less tolerable than your own brand of gas.  Plus the water leaves your hair oh so soft. 

We found ourselves at Craft Central while at Ruth's house.  She could knit you a 40,000 spectator rugby stadium if you just gave her a couple of days.  Obviously Kelly and I forced her to teach us how to knit, a hillarious undertaking on our part.  My first project looks like a sea sick beaver attempted to make a dam out of pastel green yarn.  Who wants a scarf for Christmas?

NZ has taught me many things, most importantly how to diet more efficiently.  I'm calling it the "Move to New Zealand, The Land of Large Islanders, Where Everyone Calls You 'Tiny' and Guys Hit on Anything That Moves Diet".  Tiny, seriously, like several times.  Don't get me wrong NZ, please keep bringing it on, but my self esteem is becoming seriously delusional.

We're off to the Semi-Finals in Auckland this weekend.  Whoopty whoop!

With the Jobblins in Nelson


Nelson, New Zealand

Kelly and I have a really really rough first week.  We posted up with Jobby and his parents in Nelson, the northern part of NZ's south island.  Let me tell you how rough it is to wake up, without an alarm clock, to the sun peaking over the lush, green, lamb filled hillsides of New Zealand.  Or just how awful it is to have a homemade breakfast of farm fresh eggs that came straight from the family chickens that morning.  Don't get me started on the torture of having a personal tour guide who toted us from one breath-taking nature walk to the next.  Only then to be forced into a home-cooked (gluten-free) meal every night.  Yes, yes, it's been a challenge.

Before sounding like a total dick, the Jobblins were the nicest, kindest and most freaking hilarious family ever.  I hope they know we are moving in with them when we are done with this world tour.

Kelly and I had tickets to the Australia v. Russia World Cup Game our second day in town.  We saw Saia Fiangga (Australia's Hooker) and Nathan Sharpe (Australia's Captain) hanging out in Nelson the day before the game.  I acted super cool, of course.  After the game, Samo (Australia 8 Man and sometimes wing) and Quade Cooper (Australia's Fly Half and My Boyfriend) came to the bar/club where Kelly and I happened to be cutting the most serious of rugs.  Rumors have been spreading and I'm here to tell you that they are true; I did in fact creep up on Quade Cooper to to caress his sweet sweet buttocks in my hands...twice.  Besides the celebrity citing, there a few key take aways about the Nelson bar scene:

1.  Men to Women Ratio is 4:1
2. The men are large, rugby playing beasts (stark contrast to the frail, homosexuals I've been ogling in San Francisco this last year)
3. If you put a house beat behind "Walking on Sunshine" it is totally danceable
4. The dancing is subpar which means Kelly and I looked like dancing goddesses
5. Men drink these horrible, sickly sweet, wine cooler-esque, pre-mixed Jack and Coke drinks (though delicious when they are free)
6. People told us that we were "exotic" because we sounded like we are in the movies

I may never leave.

We also saw the breath taking Able Tasman and Lake Rotoiti at the Nelson Lakes National Park.  I'm pretty sure the sound of lapping water and beach walks will cure cancer.

We can definitely call the first week a raging success.  Wait, I mean terrible failure.  Don't try to find us; we're beyond salvation now.

32 Hours

Cracked Out After 32 Hours of Travel


Departing for an adventure like this, there are certain risks and losses that you just accept when you travel with your life on your back.  Frankly, Kelly and I fully expect to be ripped off, to have things stolen or just to lose things ourselves.  Last time I was in Prague my shoes were stolen; we are well aware that any of our belongings are fair game.  What we didn't expect though, is that I would lose my sweet ass new camera before we even left the country.  Ballz.  

Yes, I cried.  Lucky Kelly got her first taste of just how useless I will be in future crisis.  Kelly made calls to airlines.  I cried.  Kelly talked to the airline gate reps.  I cried.  Kelly commandeered a strangers iPone to make more calls.  I cried.   When the acceptance faze of the grieving process starting setting in, we queued up to board the plane for Fiji.  An adorable old man must have noticed my puffy face, roughly the color of a baboon's ass, because he came directly up to me and asked, "Did you lose your camera?"  Why yes, yes I did.  My dumb ass apparently took it out of my bag when retrieving my boarding pass and left my prized camera just sitting in LAX.  Well, who knew so many lessons would be learned before leaving american soil.

Blog Schmog

Able Tasman


Ok, here it is.  The Blog.  It's pretty intimidating (maybe that's because Ramey has personally threatened me if I don't keep this up).  Most of you may have noticed that I am sparse on FaceBook, inactive on LinkedIn, always invisible on G-chat, but here I am attempting the sole endeavor of maintaining a travel blog for a year (so dramatic).  Good luck.  More to you guys than me.

Since we have established that I am a sub-par communicator at best, please allow me to catch some of you up on my plans.  Kelly Brittan (aka The Raddist Individual I Know) and I have quit our secure, well paying jobs with benefits to travel the world for a year.  I keep trying to think of other ways to tell people that, but I still come of sounding like a smarmy jerk.  I guess there's no nice way to say, "While you're slaving away in your cubicle this year, I'm going to fly to that exotic beach that's on your screensaver".  Smarmy indeed.  Here's the rough itinerary (keeping it flexible for optimal vagabond experiences):

September - December: New Zealand
December - January: Bali
January - April: SE Asia (Thailand, Laos, Vietnam & Cambodia)
April - May: Madagascar
May - September: Europe (All over the place)

Why? Look, it's been an unkind year and we really tried to think of less disgusting ways to say "find ourselves" (Sprit Quest?  Maiden Voyage?  Conquistador Calling?), but it all comes out sounding like we are chasing our Eat, Pray, Love adventure.  And this most definitely has nothing to do with Julia Roberts or her stupid mid-life crisis.  

I hope I can provide some mildly interesting information for you over the next 12 months.  No apologies, but I do warn those faint at heart that this is my year off with no responsibilities.  And after all, we are young and single...sorry parents.