New Zealand Day 2

June 11

Today the adventure has really begun. I am writing from the TranzAlpine train-- we're waiting for the last of the passengers to board here at Christchurch station, and then off across the island we'll go. And already I've uttered Edwin's word, "maldita", numerous times. Maldita is Peruvian slang for "shucks", or "fiddlesticks." I find it rolls off the tongue easily enough in situations it adequately describes....

I got up early to meet my shuttle bus to the train station at 7.45. I went out front of the hostel at exactly that time (I know! Right on time! Very unlike me)...however the driver was already there waiting for me. He said he had almost left without me--even though I thought I'd arrived on time! I am much confused... In the shuttle bus, 5 other people about my age were all waiting for me. They stare at me in the early morning quiet as I climb in the van, bumping my head on the doorway and whipping some innocent girl with a backpack strap as I crawl to the very back seat. I am finally seated. I nibble on a bit of muesli bar in the complete silence and think, Maldita.

After a fifteen minute drive or so, the 6 of us were deposited in front of the railway station. My excitement was growing-- I could see the foothills of the Southern Alps from the platform, away down the track. It's a glorious sunny day. The snow on the mountains blinks at me from far, far away. I can't wait to meet them--these new mountains.

But first I needed to check in. The man helping at the desk was a tall, slender man with kind eyes and the genuine sort of patience you rarely see behind desks. I handed him my ticket, which the girl at the hostel had booked and printed for me last night. He looks up from the paperwork to ask, "You do know they're doing work on the track a bit today-- happens once in a blue moon. They're fixing a tunnel beyond Arthur's Pass, so all the passengers will be put on bus there to finish the trip to Greymouth. Were you aware of this?"

Hm. Well, no. The website hadn't warned you? Well....I wasn't looking at the website myself-- the girl the hostel who booked my ticket was-- but no. She didn't mention anything. But that's all right. I don't mind.

The man continues shuffling papers around, making a few beeps here and again on some technical gadget behind the counter. He pauses; his brow wrinkles. A long, slow "Hmmm" is his only comment.

And then I get it: that sudden sinking feeling. That feeling you get when you arrive at some posh event but your name isn't on the list or when your card gets declined because you're in a foreign country and you have to use the card your parents gave you for emergencies (p.s. Dad, I have to tell you something later). It's the sort of sinking feeling I usually get when I'm about to experience my Obligatory Misadventure with Public Transport in a Foreign Country.

Maldita.

He looks the list of passengers over a second time. Still none with my surname. I am not there. I explain to the kind man that I'd only just booked the ticket last night, about 12 hours earlier... and that it wasn't in fact myself that had done the booking-- it was the hostel girl! It's all her fault!

More furrowed brows. Now the man turns to the computer and tries looking at an updated passenger list. No luck. He returns his gaze to my ticket, scrutinizing it like a criminal under inspection. It just lies there helplessly on the desk between us, knowing what it knows... and somewhat crumpled from being in my back pocket during the shuttle bus trip.

After an eternity, he emits a slow and understanding "Ah."
"What is it?"
"She's booked you for tomorrow."
"WHAT???"
"She's booked your trip for 12th June. That's tomorrow. Your ticket is not valid today. I am sorry."
I begin to panic, thinking my thoughts out loud. The poor, kind man just stood there and blinked while I spout, in one anxious stream, "But oh no Ack I only have four days in New Zealand just four and I've planned them all just right When is the next train But it's not until tomorrow And I can't do my planned route backwards can I When does the northbound train leave oh it left an hour ago didn't it and it's only once a day isn't it What am I going to dooooo???"


The kind man looks pained. He goes to speak with the higher ups in an office I can't see. I hear murmuring from the doorway. I wait, tapping my fingers on the desk as though I'm playing the Minute Waltz in 42 seconds.

At last he returns. He looks at me sweetly and tells me that he's sorry but the news isn't good. Because of this once-in-a-blue-moon track work and the necessary bus ride, the space for passengers is much more limited. And the trip is booked full up. I will have to take the train tomorrow.

Maldita.
Maldita.
Maldita.


"Ah, eh, ur, meh, but could I just take the train half-way at least? To Arthur's Pass? Would I be able to book some other transport out of the mountains then?" I'm desperate. My desperation has spread and this poor man seems to feel it.

"Yes, yes, you could certainly do that. You would still have to pay the full price, just for the half-trip to Arthur's Pass. And we'd have to ... to leave you there. But yes. That is an option."

I'll take it. I don't know how on earth I'm going to get myself out of this one; let the adventure begin. I'll find my way out of Arthur's Pass if I have to cling to the undercarriage of the bus. Besides, I only had my winter coat and a small backpack. About 8 kilos total. Surely no one would notice the extra weight.

Since I didn't have a proper ticket for that day, the train manager-- who was short and round and had neon cherry lipstick and painted eyebrows-- assigned me to what I assumed was the "problem people" carriage: car H. The car who's back housed the cafe that all the passengers would be visiting at some point during the day. And the car for the manager to sit in, with her neon lipstick. Though, I must say I didn't mind. Other than her I had the entire car to myself, but for the cafe at the back. The other folks will just be passing through to get their coffee and then disappear again to the normal-people carriages. Just the solitude I'd craved yesterday. I've got to make the best of this. I am in New Zealand after all. And things like this make much more interesting stories, right? I've got nothing to do now but make friends with the train managers so they'll be inclined to help me out at Arthur's Pass. Good thing I actually put on mascara this morning...

The train lurches beyond the platform. I recognize the tall, slender man who was privy to my... situation...from the station. I am comforted to see he is on board with us. He approaches me and says, "I have made the staff aware of you, and we'll see what we can do for you."

He's made them "aware of me"? I don't think anyone's ever said that to me before. It is pretty funny. I laugh to myself and pull out another muesli bar. It's difficult to write now as the train is bobbling along, and the Southern Alps are growing larger in my window. I must catch every second of the scenery. Ta for now.
Oh, and note to self: NEVER LET HOSTEL PEOPLE BOOK THINGS FOR YOU. EVER. You're a big girl; book the darn things yourself.
*Maldita*.

There and Back Again: A Hobo's Tale by Elisebo Crullins

June 10th, 2008

I'm writing from Christchurch, New Zealand! It's more than unreal. I left the Baalbergen residence for Sydney international airport at 5.30 am this morning, and arrived in Christchurch at 3.00 pm local time. I checked into my hostel for the evening-- an old jailhouse! Very quirky.

I was feeling a bit restless, so I went for a stroll. I walked through a lush park (Heaphy Park) in the glow before sunset, and on my way to the city center. I had some Malaysian food at a small cafe and bought some granola bars for the train ride tomorrow (apricot and dark chocolate with rolled oats). I found the actual Christ Church church, and went in to listen to the boy's choir rehearse a soaring Laudate Dominum. Outside in the square, two men played an epic and life-sized game of chess (Harry Potter, anyone?) while another man looked on intently, offering advice now and again. It is a crisp, cool fall evening here. The sky was bluer than blue before going completely dark. Way to refract visible solar electromagnetic radiation, Atmosphere! Nicely done!

Flying across the south island was breath-taking. Our flight path took us diagonally over a large portion of the Southern Alps, and the coastlines (occurring in such rapid succession, west then east--what a sweet little thing this country is) were magnificent from so far above. White beaches gave way to azure shallows, which in turn were swallowed up by the magnificent deeps far from shore.

Tomorrow I board the TranzAlpine train at 7.45 am, bound for Greymouth through Arthur's Pass. The hostel-keeper-person (what do you call them, anyway?) booked the trip for me, no hassle, as soon as I'd paid for my night at the Jailhouse. This is my first time in a hostel. Maybe these people have all been here much longer than me, or maybe my introvert-tendencies are trumping all else right now... but I know that traveling and staying in hostels is supposed to be laid back, meeting lots of new and interesting people from all over the world. But... I don't really feel like talking to anyone. At all. Hmm. All I can think about is my eager anticipation for tomorrow; I can't wait to step on the platform and be whisked away into my own head, to ponder and soak up the beauty of this place in secrecy and quiet. I feel like I need--I crave-- this solitude in order to be totally refreshed. Washed clean of a school year that nearly killed me (again), but from which I hadn't really had a moment's pause since arriving in Sydney to work with Guido. I want to rest my soul in the bosom of this country... and I don't really want to talk to anyone while I do it. Is that so bad? Anyway, no one here has stopped to speak to me as of yet. Maybe this hostel is not typical in that sense... ah well. Me, myself and I have a lot of adventure to prepare for in the next few days. So at 8:32 pm, I'll say g'night.