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.