Resurfacing.

While the most important reader of my blog (my grandfather) is already aware of this because I had lunch with him yesterday, I thought the rest of you—whomever you may be—might like to know that I am currently in Washington State. Just in case you were wondering.

Visiting Rob Roy with a Scotswoman. How apropos.

A while ago I suggested that the Tongariro Alpine Crossing was the best day hike in all of New Zealand. I now think I may have to qualify that statement—it’s still the best day hike in the North Island. But the South Island? I think the Rob Roy track outside of Wanaka could give it a serious run for its money.

The Rob Roy track cuts through valleys and fields, winds its way through a forest, and ends beneath its namesake: the hanging Rob Roy Glacier. I’m told it got its name from the first European to see it. Apparently, he thought it looked like a Scotsman in a kilt, and Rob Roy was the only Scotsman he could think of off the top of his head. I, personally, think he must have been on the old poppy seed, because I couldn’t make out a Scotsman with or without a kilt.

Anyway, hiking the Rob Roy track made for one of my all-time favorite days in New Zealand. And it was made more so by the company of a lovely Scottish girl who I met at the Queenstown airport. That’s the thing I love about travelling alone—you never really are. In fact, most of the time you’re surrounded by truly wonderful people. But it’s not ‘til you’re alone that you’re fully receptive to meeting them.

Concerning Christchurch.

I recently went on a trip to visit my friend Jane in Christchurch. And while I had heard that the city was pretty damaged from last year’s earthquakes, I was not at all prepared for the reality of it. For some reason I just thought there’d be a lot of cracked walls and messed up roads. Maybe an empty lot or two. But my mental image didn’t even come close to the true picture of a devastated city.

However, despite all the physical damage wrought on Christchurch, its spirit of community seems to be thriving. Every place we visited was teeming with people. Jane told me that it wasn’t always like this. But I got the sense that any excuse to celebrate is now a welcome distraction from the ever-present visual sadness. In fact, nobody there seemed very sad at all, which gives me every confidence in the city’s resilience. I hope to return again one day to see Christchurch as it should be. Whole.

The mullet skirt.

Is this just a New Zealand thing, or has it spread to the rest of the world like a fashion pandemic? It's quite possibly the ugliest garment I've ever seen, and I hope someone develops a cure immediately. I think a pair of scissors would do the trick.

Governing from inside Marge Simpson’s hair.

Last weekend, Ashley and I took a tour of Parliament and New Zealand’s version of the White House. It’s called The Beehive for obvious reasons, and Prime Minister John Key has his offices in the top two floors. It was all pretty standard governmenty-type stuff—statues, fancy displays of china, portraits of old men with creative facial hair, etc.—except for the bronze replica of hobbits hiding under a tree from the Nazgul. That was weird.

Things I learned:
—New Zealand was the first country to grant women the vote.
—The handshake originated as a way to show others that you came in peace and weren’t going to reach for your sword.
—No matter what they say on Flight of the Conchords, the Prime Minister is not some dude named Brian.

All for the love of the game? I don’t think so.

If there’s one thing all Kiwi’s love, it’s their rugby. But I discovered firsthand that the popularity of Wellington’s Rugby Sevens tournament actually has very little to do with sport—unless dressing up in a 6-foot inflatable penis costume has finally been recognized by the Olympic committee.

So here’s the deal with the Sevens: it’s a two-day tournament featuring qualifying teams from around the world. I have no idea what they have to do to qualify. Compete in the Rugby Three-And-A-Halves? It’s a mystery. What’s not a mystery is why they call it the Sevens. Basically, rather than 15-a-side like normal rugby, in this tournament each team fields seven. And a match is comprised to two seven-minute halves. It makes for pretty fast-paced play. I found it quite exciting.

Somewhere along the line, though, people decided that the Sevens needed a little something extra. Some spicing up. An element of audience participation. So they started dressing in drag or as legos or as sexy (insert any occupation known to man here). It’s pretty much New Zealand’s equivalent of an American Halloween, except the drinking starts at about 1 p.m. on a Thursday and doesn’t end until after brunch on Sunday morning.

My friend Max managed to wrangle us some tickets for Saturday afternoon. It was completely last-minute, so the best I could come up with costume-wise was a bottle of Steinlager beer (fascinator beer cap coupled with a bottle green shirt). It was kinda lame, but I tried—that’s what counts. Max went as the farmer from Footrot Flats—a Kiwi comic book that I’d never heard of.

Anyway, aside from being forced to spend the day as an anthropomorphized hangover waiting to happen, my initial clue that rugby was just a convenient excuse for debauchery was when I was pelted with ice cubes by assholes sitting on a bar balcony in a rude attempt to get me to flash my boobs. (I didn’t.) My next clue was at the stadium itself, where a grand total of about 17 people actually showed up to watch the tourney. Of course, this number increased throughout the day up until the final match between New Zealand and England, but I couldn’t help but feel bad for all the teams that had travelled from far off places only to play to 30,000 empty seats. I do have to admit, though, that I was actually glad there weren’t many spectators when we—meaning the US— got our asses handed to us by Scotland. Rugby is most definitely not our national forte.

NZ traffic jam.

Auntie Shannon three times over.

Trygve Shane Burke, welcome to the family. Word on the street is that you’re the cutest thing since cute things were invented. I can’t wait to meet you.

LL and ShanShan get into hot water.

If the earthquakes in Christchurch taught the world anything about New Zealand, it’s that the entire country lies pretty much smack-dab on top of two colliding tectonic plates. Total bummer, right? Well, if you’re talking about shakers, then yes. But if you’re talking about crazy awesome natural phenomena, then no. Take, for instance, the very creatively named Hot Water Beach. It’s a beach that seeps hot water. Perfectly positioned geothermic springs allow intrepid holidaymakers to dig their own little spa pools in the sand during low tide. You shovel out a hole, it fills with hot water, and good times ensue. The only problem with what I consider to be pretty much the most incredible thing in the entire world is that other people seem to like it as well. So Hot Water Beach is a hoppin’ spot on the Coromandel Peninsula.

Armed with a shovel and a couple of beers to reward our anticipated ten minutes of manual labor, LauraLe and I set out to dig a hole. But where to go? Shovels were shoveling everywhere. Other tourists were stealing our steam!

But never underestimate the generosity of strangers.

A delightful Frenchman and an Alaskan bear hunter offered to share their spa with us, and we, in turn, shared our Montleith’s Gold Lager with them. A win-win all around.

Anyway, Hot Water Beach can be a little temperamental. If you’re in a good spot, the seeping water can scald your ass. If you’re in a bad spot, you’ll get tepid temperatures at best. The trick is to get just the right combination of sea and spring. I think LauraLe and I did a pretty good job. With, of course, a little help from our new-found friends.

Awww, nuts! (And a Raglan resolution.)

Manuel had his first mini breakdown yesterday. LauraLe and I were on our way to a beach outside of Raglan to catch the second day of a surfing competition when the car started to make a horrific noise. A nut flew off one of my rear wheels, and the resulting wobbling was not only incredibly loud, it very nearly sent us careening off the side of a spectacularly beautiful emerald green cliff. It’s a good thing I’m such a timid driver because my snail’s pace probably saved us from catastrophe. So instead of perishing in a fiery ball, we were assisted by a lovely German surfer who found and returned the offending nut, and a lovely Kiwi from AA (that’s AAA to the Americans—not Alcoholics Anonymous) who came and fixed Manuel up like a champ.

So, Raglan. I guess it’s kind of cool, but incessant rain just puts a damper on everything. We did meet two hilarious ladies from Auckland who convinced us to go watch this Argentinean band play at a place called the Yot Club (Yot Club? Kiwis are terrible spellers). Anyway, I’m not sure if it’s a cultural thing or a surfer thing, but peeps in Raglan can dance. They were very intimidating. I can’t put my finger on exactly when or where I lost it, but at some point I—much like Stella—would like to get my groove back. I may need to return to Raglan to do it.

Blown away: The Tongariro Alpine Crossing.

Sometimes the Lonely Planet leaves a lot to be desired. In fact, my friend Mufaro, a tour guide in Africa, disdainfully refers to it as the Lonely Liars. However, in a pinch, it can be a lifesaver. And every now and again, it gets something totally spot on. Like the Tongariro Alpine Crossing.

The Lonely Planet calls the Tongariro Alpine Crossing the best day walk in all of New Zealand. I think I agree. And not just because it weaves through both Mordor and Mount Doom. Though honestly, how cool is that? I was geeking out over LOTR stuff nonstop for 14 miles. LauraLe, I apologize.

But hobbits, elves, and Viggo Mortensen aside, the Tongariro Alpine Crossing is just over-the-top spectacularly beautiful. You hike up and between three competing volcanoes to find the most perfect series of turquoise crater lakes surrounded by magical misty peaks. Even though it’s summer here, there’s still snow capping the highest points. At times, the crossing can be pee-your-pants scary. I was very nearly blown off a ridgeline into a volcano due to the gale force, freezing cold winds, but the view from the other side was well worth the danger. I heard that it’s really good in the winter, so I think I’m going to buy myself some crampons and go for broke once the snows come.

While my peers are busy being hung up on that one special person, I’m finding myself more and more hung up on special places. And this is one is tops. Tongariro, you complete me.

2012. Here’s hoping the Mayans were wrong.

Way back in 2009 (or was it 2008?) Ashley and I made a pact. The deal? 2011 was to be a year unlike any other, a year so utterly off the chain that entire decades on either side would weep with envy—The Year of ShanAsh. And it really was. Africa. China. Southeast Asia. New Zealand. We packed in a lot. But now that the curtains have closed on 2011 and 2012 has tentatively begun to stretch its legs, I can’t help but wonder, “What’s next?”

Well, for two weeks I’ll be roadtripping around the North Island in Manuel with my good friend Laurale. And after that…honestly, I have no idea. More tramping. More roadtrips. More New Zealand. And then the long journey home. But where, exactly, is home? I guess only the Year of the Dragon can answer that one.