Galavanting Globally

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...