Episode 7: Yin Yang

8 Mar

大家好, Dàjiā hǎo. Let’s go with Mandarin this time round, to match my philosophical Chinese metaphor. Hope Google translate has done me proud here, Nina. Does that say “hello everyone”?

I feel as if I’ve travelled to the other side of the world, been mollified by the number of similarities, so have proceeded just a little further and bloody nearly fallen off it. Let me expound. First, the Yin side of the story.

My old pal Jim Bruty, back in Tittybangles, cheerfully shared his theory on where the line of a guest outstaying his welcome lay. He said it was “the same length of time as it takes a fish to go off”. I was worried he was dropping a pointed hint at the time, but have taken it to heart since.

Thus, after four nights at Hancey’s I moved on to David’s parents’ house, in a different suburb of Wellington. I am like a case of humanoid chlamydia: lots of people have had me, and although I carry only mild symptoms and indeed, picking me up can be good fun, no one wants to put up with me for any great length of time. Also, I am inclined to move on when the, err, opportunity presents itself. This is not my most tasteful analogy. Moving on.

Word of the Week is Tātou, which means “all of us” in Māori. It is the slogan the NZ government has emblazoned on their census forms, which were to be filled out yesterday by everyone. This includes foreign visitors currently in NZ, such as myself and Harry Styles. Among others.

My stint with the Purchases senior is a fascinating one. I confess, at one stage it felt as though I may have taken my cost-cutting measures to a self-defeating extreme, given that I end up spending my 19th birthday not in the company of a hot girl in downtown Wellington (the Amelie subplot unhappied endily), but with a not-quite-octogenarian couple in a quiet suburb, just because they were kind enough to let me stay for free. But this feeling soon dissipates, for myriad reasons.

First and foremost is that Anne and Larry are so wholeheartedly generous that they make every effort to treat me. We climb the Stairway to Heaven - a mountain walk - go out for lunch with one of their grandsons Neo, and I am given a guided tour of the Waikanae area. Secondly, I have never really invested in my own birthdays anyway. Thirdly, I am reminded that inviting myself into people’s homes is as much about the people themselves as it is about being unable to afford hotels.

I mentioned the similarities between NZ and home. In truth - it’s a banal revelation, this, and it cost me thousands of quid - there are many. This is one of many topics of conversation broached in the company of Anne and Larry. We discuss cultural differences between the two countries too - both having spent lots of time in England - but agree that the simple commonality of being English-speaking makes the transition between the two countries much less jarring than the distance might suggest. This is why, I speculate, my far-flung travels thus far have been much easier and more comfortable than my month alone in France last year.

In Anne and Larry, too, I find many familiarities and comforts. Their home is large, their hosting genial. Both are also steeped in family connections. They were present at my 13th birthday, remember my folks, and know my oldest and bestest friend Scarlet, through whom I know David and Nicola. Anne and Larry are my Restaurant at the End of the Universe; I have travelled thousands of miles to new lands, and they are my final, southerlymost outpost before the wilderness of the South Island. They are comforting; the North Island, in retrospect, feels comforting. Yeah, it had Mount Doom, which was black and ominous, like the Yin. But Doom was a known quantity, well-trodden and conquerable. It is time to step into the unknown. Bloody Norah, do I step.

I stay the night with a couple called Fi and Chris, back in Wellington city, because my flight to Christchurch on the South Island is early the next morning. Another pleasant evening ensues, as I revel in our collective grip of the English language and its power to conjure fraternity from thin air. I sip a brandy on their high apartment balcony in the rain, watching the late night traffic and bright lights pass me by. It is serene. Easy. Known.

Now for the Yang.

I am collected from Christchurch airport by Emily, my contact at Mount White Station. I would give you a nearby reference point, if there was one. It is a 40,000 hectare ranch. The driveway is miles from Christchurch and takes us 3 hours. The driveway is 25 kilometres long and takes us 45 minutes. Gone are the bucolic gardens and quaint shires of the North Island, replaced by staggering landscapes, dramatic mountains and more Lord of the Rings sets. Pictures below, as ever, but nothing prepares you for this scale. Roads are sparse. There is nothing familiar about this.

And remember my great weapon, the bridge of any divide, the English language? Next to useless. Emily is mostly deaf and can scarcely hear. Her son, Charlie, is a screen addict (unsurprisingly, given he lives about as close to penguins as he does to the nearest other 10 year old) and can scarcely talk. The shepherds, bee-keepers, and managers of Mount White’s operation are rural grunters, and I can scarcely understand them. It takes a special kind of person to retreat to a location so secluded that the nearest shop is a 3 hour round trip. I have very little in common with them, although they are gracious enough to let me hang out with them and try to join in on conversations I can only understand 50% of.

By day, I step out into one of the most stunning vistas you will ever wake up to in your life, cram in the Weet-Bix, and get my head down. I have been set to weeding the veg patches to earn my keep. Snow-capped peaks flank me, and such is the scale of this landscape, you are made to feel appropriately tiny and impermanent. As the sun sets, the west-facing mountains are capped by golden sunlight instead, as if dipped in honey glaze. By night, I listen to the howling, exposed elements and wild fauna in my lonely, single room house, the crystal clear moon and starlight casting strips of white on the oak floorboards.

I try to read my book - King Solomon’s Mines, sorry Dad, I searched high and low for the sequel but to no avail - and I watch films, and cricket highlights, and Top Gear, and other familiar comforts of home, because fundamentally I am frightened. I’m not showing it or anything, but I can confess to you, my readers, that I have truly left my comfort zone. My phone is my last remaining scrap of blanket; knowing my folks, they’d have me drop that to my ankles as well, to stand stark-bollock naked and shivering in the colossal shadow of Mount White, as white as the Yang itself. I’m not sure if I will do it.

There is absolutely no mobile service, so don’t bother trying to ring me for the next week or so. Texting works, so long as it is over the internet. I will leave when someone with a car says they will take me back to civilisation, and not before. I don’t know where to next yet… but any waters will feel warmer than these by comparison. Queenstown, I’m thinking.

Something has just howled outside in the full moon. Probably one of the sheepdogs, right? Right?