travels with janne

With this last, 13th entry on my New Zealand blog I would like to thank Aotearoa (New Zealand or “The Land of the Long White Cloud” in Maori), for being so lovely, for making its nature so accessible, and for its friendliness. The landscape is incredibly varied and multi-faceted with snowy mountains, earthy rainforests, pristine beaches, dramatic rockscapes, green-hilled farmland, tumbling waterfalls and rushing rivers. In the company of my travelling companion I drove 4430 kilometres, took 1697 photographs (60 of which I inadvertently deleted, including those I had taken of the world’s rarest penguin – arrgh!), and packed and unpacked my suitcases 14 times – all of this about 12.000 kilometres and 12 hours’ worth of time difference away from home.

I have tasted home-baked Bed & Breakfast bread with great pleasure and accidentally choked on the salty waves of the Pacific

My body has felt the steadfastness of an ancient kauri tree, bobbed like a cork on alarmingly large ocean swells in the company of curious dolphins, felt at one with the gentle waves of the Tasman Sea, been cooled by the breath of glacial mountain air and been sizzled by a sun glaring through the Southern Hemisphere’s too-thin layer of ozone

I have listened to the earthy quiet of the rainforest, the raucous greetings of a nocturnal penguin homecoming, the pounding of the surf on the miles and miles of New Zealand’s coastline, a frightening haka and a hauntingly beautiful love song performed by Maoris, the bark and growl of seals and sea lions, and the wind chime song of the bellbird.

My nose has smelled tangy sea air, stinky seals and mouth-watering, tender New Zealand lamb chops.

And oh! The sights I have seen! No more words – look at the photographs and enjoy!

Petals and pebbles

Feathers and ferns

Blossoms and bark

Sand and snow

Stars and stones

Slopes and skies

Masterpieces tinted

By strokes of Nature’s paintbrush

In pastel hues of salmon and lilac

Turquoise and ochre

Charcoal and blushing pink

In Shadowland misty clouds hang low

Cushioning the peaks in soft mystery.

The mountains weep hundreds of tears

That nurture new growth and freshen the salty sea

From soaring peaks

To delicate blossoms

From earthy rainforests

To mighty oceans

The Land of the Long White Cloud

Offers up its wonders

Allowing us to admire,

Explore,

Immerse.

But also tapping us on the shoulder and telling us

That we are not the only ones on this earth,

Saying,

“ Take care.”

It is a very special feeling to sit outside and drink a cup of coffee while royal albatross from the world’s only mainland albatross colony circle elegantly overhead. With a wingspan of three metres they glide with snowy white grace on hot air currents, sometimes accompanied by their noisy but pretty cousins, the red-billed seagulls – that spend their time squawking, flapping their wings and landing beside us to check out the possibilities of gleaning some tasty crumbs.

Such traffic there is in the late afternoon when the birds come home to roost after a busy day in the air! It is like Heathrow Airport, with each bird cleverly finding its right spot, here on the most north eastern point of the Otago Peninsula. Also nestled on the steep ledges of the cliffs are spotted cormorants and in a tree that bravely hangs on to the rock for dear life are three spoonbill storks.

Another special privilege is getting up close to the world’s smallest penguin, the blue penguin (or fairy penguin). These shy little cuties that weigh a mere one kilogram and stand about 30 cm high, are nocturnal, so it takes a good deal of patience (and warm clothing) to experience them. I get into position on Pilot’s Beach, right behind the albatross colony, hours before dark and hang around in the company of a few seals and a few other tourists.

It gets darker and darker and chillier and chillier. Finally, I am rewarded. At about 10 pm several groups (called rafts) of penguins speed-swim and dive like porpoises in the water until they land on the rocky coast. They have spent their whole day out on the Pacific Ocean fishing and now it is time to come home. With their tummies full they check to see if the coast is clear before they waddle uphill to their nests containing their waiting partners and hungry chicks.

The little silhouettes pass so closely by me as I sit stock still in the dark that I can hear the shuffle of their tiny feet on the loose stones. Once the families are reunited, the nesting area echoes with the sound of penguins – a sound that is hard to describe but familiar to anyone who has seen National Geographic films from the Antarctic or other penguin hotspots.

The third treat of the day was seeing the world’s rarest penguin, the yellow-eyed penguin. These birds weigh about five kilograms and are much easier to see in the daytime. The only place they can be found is New Zealand and there are a mere 4000 of them. Watching them come up from the water, stomach surfing their way in to the sandy beach, and then clambering up the slope to get to their nests, is quite entertaining.

Even more entertaining is the show the sea lions put on the next day at a lovely sandy beach at Sandfly Bay on the south coast of Otago Peninsula. These huge rolls of fat are much bigger than New Zealand’s fur seals. They loll on the beach, half-buried in the sand. Occasionally a flurry of sand flies through the air as a sea lion flips wet sand over itself in an attempt to cool off. The big animals roll and twitch and scratch, trying to find a comfy position free of flies.

Further on down the beach a huge and masculine sea lion (bull?) comes dashing out of the water making a beeline for a group of smaller sea lions. It seems like there are a couple of cinnamon-coloured females and a couple of black sea lions that may be young males. They play-fight (or is it for real?), biting at each other’s throats, gracefully twining necks with each other and showing muscle. The big male, obviously boss of the lively group, has his work cut out for him as he tries in vain to keep things on an even keel.

Many years ago the demigod Tu Te Raki Whanoa of Maori legend went to work on forming the west coast of New Zealand’s South Island. Working his way up from south to north, he used a magical adze but it took him some time to get the hang of it. However, by the time he had reached Fiordland, where Doubtful Sound and Milford Sound are, he had become quite an expert. He carved out perfectly shaped fiords with mountainsides rising straight and true from the water.

Today we enjoy the shadowy beauty of the fine sculpture that the ancient demigod created, a place where Mother Nature often keeps her secrets shrouded in mists and clouds and shadows. We sail into the wind, losing our own breath to the gale force gusts, our words tumbled and lost in the air. The grey skies lend a feeling of mystery and moodiness to the dramatic landscape. Waterfalls that are not there when the weather is sunny and dry now streak the face of the rock like tears.

The road to Milford Sound is steep, stunning and, at times, stark. Rivers engorged with icy snow melt and rainwater are bordered by swathes of colour: pink and purple lupines that grow wild and unfettered. At lower altitudes we walk through incredibly green rainforests where every tree and rock and slope is blanketed with a carpet of verdant moss.

We meet the cheeky keas, the only alpine parrots in the world. They hop about with an awkward gait that makes them look like they are lame. They land on the cars, munch on the rubber sealing and window wipers and make an entertaining nuisance of themselves in all their green finery. When they fly off it is with a flush of orange on the underside of their wings.

It feels strange to be standing in a leafy green rainforest looking up at snow-capped mountains. I don’t know if there are many other places in the world where glaciers and rainforests are so closely connected to each other.

We have arrived in another amazing place, this time the Westland Tai Poutini National Park, part of a huge Unesco World Heritage area encompassing several national parks. The most famous sights here are Franz Josef Glacier and Fox Glacier that both slide down lofty peaks in the park. The area also offers fantastic views of Mount Cook, Australasia’s highest mountain at 3755 metres.

This is an area with dramatic natural forces, a place of upheaval, growth, erosion and change. The land sits uneasily on top of continental plates that often shift and groan, and bash against or grate over each other. Hence the frequency of earthquakes and volcanoes. The shifting also causes Mount Cook to sprout an extra couple of centimetres a year on average – fast for a mountain. The glaciers are pretty speedy, too, sometimes trundling along at up to four kilometres an hour. That’s regular walking speed for us mere humans, but we don’t have to shift tons and tons of ice, snow, rocks and debris like the glaciers do.

The rain here is quite something, too. We have so far been amazingly lucky with the weather, having only experienced one single day of drizzle on the trip so far and that is despite the fact that we are now in the rainiest area of all. Last week here it rained 480 mm in 48 hours. The result was that many road sections were washed away, including 500 metres of the road up to view Fox Glacier close up. Roads disappear, rocks tumble down, pieces of ice fall and rivers engorged with freezing water tumble down the mountains, carving new landscapes. We humans are nothing in comparison, just little specks on the face of the earth.

Another humbling experience was our visit to the Pancake Rocks, an area just north of the glaciers. It is a geological wonderland (as is so much of New Zealand!), the secrets of which geologists still have to unlock. What is keeping them guessing is how the multitude of thin layers of rock were formed. The layers of “pancakes” have since their creation been eroded by the sea, creating pancake pillars and blowholes where the surf crashes and echoes dramatically.

In the midst of all this magnificence on a grand scale are the tiny or silent wonders: the delicate flowers, the sun-dappled ferns with unfurled heads that look like the top ends of violins, the bellbirds with their wind chime sounds, and the mirror-still lakes reflecting the mountains and sky.

I think I have died and gone to heaven. To be more specific, I am now in Abel Tasman National Park on the northern part of South Island – and what a place!

I have spent the past two days on, in and near pristine, clear, turquoise-green water the likes of which I have only previously seen in tourist brochures touting expensive hideaways for the select few. The park has lots of little Robinson Crusoe beaches where the waves are perfect, the surf soothing, and the land is covered with lush green forests. Superlatives come to mind much too easily but without them it is hard to describe this place fully. Let’s just say I have spent one of the best couple of days so far on this trip.

Yesterday I paddled in a sea kayak for a few hours, passing islands, bays and beaches. It was lovely to sit out on the water bobbing on the waves and feeling the rhythm of the sea. After lunch on the beach I walked for a couple of hours along the coastline on a path which led me through the forest and opened onto spectacular views of the ocean and the forested bays.

I swam in the crystal clear water, let the waves buffet me and continued my walk. It led me over low tide areas where tiny crabs scampered away as I approached and where the different colours of sand were swirled in beautiful patterns by the water. The tide was not completely out, so I doffed my sandals and waded through the cooling waters barefoot. After another swim at the last cove on my route I took a water taxi back to the starting point. The speedboat-like boat literally flew over the waves and landed with huge splashes during the half hour trip.

Today was more of the same: lolling on the beach, listening to the surf, collecting seashells and watching birds.

First white man

Abel Tasman was a Dutchman who was actually the first European person to arrive down here in 1642 (Cook was the first to set foot on New Zealand – Tasman never made it that far). Apparently, the local Maoris greeted Abel Tasman with their traditional eye-bulging, tongue-protruding, conch-playing performance. Tasman answered in kind by playing a tune on the bugle, not knowing that by responding with music he had declared war.

The Maoris paddled out to him in their huge and impressive war canoes. Abel Tasman shot at them with his cannons, killing one Maori. That was the white man’s debut in New Zealand. Typical. Despite that, many things in the area are named after him, including the Abel Tasman National Park in New Zealand, the Australian island of Tasmania, the Tasmanian Sea, the Tasmanian Devil and so on. The park was officially opened exactly three hundred years to the date after his arrival by the Dutch queen.

The particular Bed & Breakfast we are staying at deserves a mention, too. It is like a mini Scottish castle nestled high up in the hills. The view from the bedroom window over the forests and the sea is astounding, as is the night sky with its many constellations – none of which are familiar to me. I can see Jupiter shining brightly in the total silence of the night and in the morning I wake to the sounds of birds twittering in a spring chorus. What a place! What a life!

Large rolls of lard with big brown eyes are basking in the sun amid the black rocks and the noisy surf. Seals. Lots of them. They are lolling on the beach, one eye open to keep an eye on me and one eye closed ready to continue napping. These New Zealand fur seals are apparently not afraid of humans and I am able to get quite close and take pictures.

Unwittingly, while sneaking up on one particular seal to get a close-up shot, I almost step on another one that growls at me. I have never been growled at by a seal before. Later, another seal emerges from the water. I stop to change camera lenses but the seal disappears back in the water before I am ready. Suddenly, the seal is once again out of the water but this time much closer to me. On purpose, I think. It barks and growls and starts flopping towards me in a rather aggressive manner, so I back off. I wouldn’t want to get caught between a grouchy seal and a rock – seals do have rather sharp teeth, even though they look cute and docile.

This area is also well known for its Lord of the Rings film locations. In fact, our road map has them marked and you can get brochures describing Lord of the Rings routes. Today, we visit one of the sites – the Putangirua Pinnacles. These strange rock formations that jut up like huge, pointy arrowheads are 12-14 million years old. They are made of gravel and rock and crumble like poor quality cement. The river and rain erode the gravely parts and leave the larger stones but with time these, too, are eroded away. It is an otherworldly walk along the more or less dried out riverbed with the pinnacles on each side.

At times I feel like I am back in my beloved homeland Canada, with its burbling brooks, splashing waterfalls and snowy mountains. At other times I am reminded of walking through the rain forest in Borneo, with its abundance of botanical wonders. And sometimes I think of England – or New England, for that matter, because of the quaint gardens, pots of tea and names like Wellington, Nelson and New Plymouth. New Zealand has an amazing variety of landscapes and flora. It is as though the whole world is packed into a tiny area.

The landscapes remind me of so many places that I have been to before, but somehow I keep feeling that something is off with regard to what I am actually seeing and what I am used to seeing. My perceptions are perplexed. When I see snowy mountains I think of the Rocky Mountains in Banff or the Alps in Switzerland. I think of skiing and hot chocolate. I expect pine trees or edelweiss.

Instead, here in New Zealand, I stand amid fern trees, eucalyptus and palm trees while viewing the snowy mountains. I see ski lifts on slopes where the virginal snow risks a sudden melt from a volcanic burst of lava. I see handsome Maoris and expect them to speak with some kind of Polynesian accent. Instead, I hear the charming dialect of New Zealand.

In the lush, jungle-like forests I expect to hear the screech of monkeys and the strumming of cicadas. I expect to be drenched in muggy sweat and attacked by swarms of mosquitoes. There is nothing big, dangerous or annoying! All we have seen and heard so far is a wide variety of birds, some of them unrecognizable to my ear.