January 23 2011: On The Shelf

So I’ve been back in Paris for two weeks and four sets of visitors. Wuh? It’s January, people, haven’t you heard it’s freezing here? Well, actually, it was incredibly mild the week I got back, which only added to the trippyness of jetlag. All of this to explain why I’m a bit behind on the blogging lately.

Anyway, before I catch up on the Heaphy or any other adventures, I simply must tell you what I’ve been reading lately. My book addiction has flourished over winter, with all the extra time available for loitering in bookshops to keep warm. Plus I went to the Xmas fair at the American Church in Paris and made the mistake of starting in the book section. Oh dear god. So now I’m multi-streaming books more than ever in a desperate attempt to free up shelf space, by returning various books to their owners or foisting ones I own on unsuspecting friends. “Here, you must read this, you’ll really like it!”

Recent reading:

• Theatre *** - Eric Emmanuel Schmitt. Three plays, one set in a 19th century theatre, one set in a waiting room, and one set in an apartment – all about love and relationships, essentially. EES is most well-known here for writing “Oscar et La Dame Rose”. Brilliant writing, excellent characters and some very nice observations about men and women.

• Reading Lolita in Tehran – Azar Nafisi. I started reading this with a certain amount of foreboding. The flowery style was over the top and not to my taste, but I persevered because I thought it was an “important” book to read. And now I’m hooked. Nafisi relates her experience of living in Iran – the repression, the totalitarianism, the sheer paralysis – through her books, illuminating both the books and us in the process.

• Room – Emma Donoghue. I found this a bit disturbing, certainly, but above all so beautifully written, and the voice of five-year-old Jack is completely credible.

• The Shadow of the Wind – Carlos Ruiz Zafon. Always beware any book sold with book club notes in the back. I found the magic realism less well executed than Gabriel Garcia Marquez or Louis de Bernieres, but it was still absorbing enough, and made me nostalgic for Barcelona.

• The Olive Sisters – Amanda Hampson. Escapist froth set on an olive farm in rural Australia. Lazy chick-lit.

• She Was Nice to Mice – Alexandra Elizabeth Sheedy, aka Ally Sheedy. Yes that’s right, before acting, she dabbled in writing – this was published when she was 12! It’s a portrait of Elizabeth 1 seen through the eyes of a palace mouse. The target audience is children, unsurprisingly, but it’s charmingly written and illustrated.

• Juliet, Naked – Nick Hornby

Different books deserve different times of day. There are the books which are possibly a little bit difficult to start. If you try reading them at home, something else always catches your attention – the dishes, email, or maybe another book. These ones you take with you in the metro, so that they become the more attractive option compared with the gray morning faces of your fellow Parisians.

There are the books which are peaceful, soothing, and don’t need much concentration, so you can dip in and out of them at bedtime without losing too much sleep. And then there are the books which you know automatically will be so satisfying, so engrossing, that they either deserve a long plane ride, a day at the beach, or a whole Sunday afternoon set aside to read them without interruption. In this category I would put Neal Stephenson, Terry Pratchett, Christopher Brookmyre, and Nick Hornby.

I love Nick Hornby, possibly to the point of irrationality. But I don’t want to marry him and have his babies. No, I want to marry the music-addicted Rob, or possibly the football addicted Paul from Fever Pitch. I consider High Fidelity the definitive insight into the male psyche, although considering that I am nearly 36 and still single, this could be a rather naïve misconception.

I loved How To Be Good because it contained sublime, heartbreaking lines of beauty, perfect observations of the best and worst parts of the life of a couple. I now love Juliet, Naked. I fell in love with the opening line, which has to be one of the best opening lines of all time: “They had flown all the way from England to Minneapolis to look at a toilet”. I started the book this afternoon and I am forcing myself to blog about it so I don’t eat it all at once.

Reading the jacket blurb, I thought “ho-hum, what a coincidence that the woman gets involved with the reclusive musician with whom her boyfriend is obsessed.” But as the story unfolds, it is really surprisingly credible. I won’t spoil it for you, but for heaven’s sake go out and buy a copy. Or I’ll lend you mine, depending on which hemisphere you’re in. But first of all I have to finish it. So if you’ll excuse me…

Heaphy Track Day Two: How Green Was My Heaphy

[The stars have finally aligned - i.e. I am home, alone, and not completely dead from jetlag. My blog site is up and running. And I have fresh content!]

You know, there’s a reason the West Coast is so nice and green. It rains there. A lot. Now, rain on the roof is a nice comforting sound when you are home snug in bed, be it in Wellington or Paris. However, when you have to get out of your sleeping bag, roll it up and walk for six or seven hours in the rain before you get to the next hut… the drumming on the roof takes on a more ominous tinge.

From Dec 2010-Jan 2011 Xmas holiday

It was raining when we woke up, rained while we had breakfast, and was still raining when we set off from the hut. You get the idea. But in the middle of the Heaphy Track, there’s no bus to catch, no-one to give you a lift, so you just zip up your raincoat and get on with it. There’s something very zen about walking in the rain – the world reduces to the track and the dripping trees on either side, the sound and feel of the rain, the weight of the pack on your back, one foot in front of the other – and the faint possibility that you might get hypothermia.

Totem to the god of tramping - a tramper lives or dies by their feet.

The path goes over tussocky downs for three or four hours. We plodded on, and got to the Gouland Downs hut in time for morning tea. Finally, some respite. As we walked up to the hut, a ranger approached me. Did you come from Perry Saddle hut? Are you the last people off the track? He was standing between me and shelter from the rain, so I sidestepped him and headed for the awning. Oh to dump my pack and get warm. Dad came up a few seconds later and the ranger interrogated him too.

Turns out there was a severe rain warning in place for the area, and there was a danger zone further down the track. If we got to a particular bridge, and the track on the other side was waist-deep in water, we were to turn back. But if it was only knee-deep, it was probably ok to cross. Riiiiiiight. This area was after the next hut, so I figured we could deal with that on a full stomach.

We had a cup of tea and caught our breath, and I pulled on polypro tights under my sopping wet trousers before we headed back out into the rain. I was still wet, but now I was warm. The creeks were now rivers and the rivers were foaming and pounding. I almost expected Liv Tyler to step out from behind a tree and calm the water horses down.

Gouland Downs. It was a bit wet.

To cross anything wider than a footpath, DOC had helpfully put up a swing bridge. Now these seemed pretty robust, and you have to assume after Cave Creek they are on top of the maintenance. However, it is still an act of faith setting one foot in front of the other on a narrow metal platform which sways and wobbles, while below several thousand litres of water roil and churn. Halfway across the first one I just decided to put myself in the hands of fate, and be at peace with the universe. This may not make any difference to the outcome, but it did keep the panic at bay.

Two more hours of plodding brought us to Saxon Hut. We walked into a wall of heat – the wood stove was already going. Tramping makes you very unselfconscious - I stripped off my wet layers and hung them up over the drying rack above the stove. Took off my boots, propped them up outside the hut, and watched the water run out of them.

Helpful weather forecast left by the ranger.

We took our time over lunch, with the 1000 mile stare of soldiers after battle. I fell asleep on the hard wooden bench next to the fire – and when I woke up, the sun had come out!

From Dec 2010-Jan 2011 Xmas holiday

We pulled on the warm and slightly steaming clothes and set off again. After half an hour, we got to Blue Duck Creek, where a tui was methodically going through all the flax bushes, pillaging the flowers, completely oblivious to our presence. After several fruitless attempts we got a few good photos.

From Dec 2010-Jan 2011 Xmas holiday

On the other side of the bridge we had our eyes peeled for a swollen torrent, but in fact all we saw was a big puddle. Waist-deep? Knee-deep? I raised one foot – sploosh! The water covered my boot and tickled my ankle… and that was it. Sploosh splosh sploosh. And the most danger we encountered was wet boots. Of course after three hours this translated into some quite impressive blisters.

From Dec 2010-Jan 2011 Xmas holiday

The James Mackay hut is off to the side of the main track. After the day’s walking, the extra 50 metres seemed like the last straw. We were greeted by the ranger – a very chirpy woman who proceeded to give us chapter and verse on the weather forecast and the state of the track before we’d even put our packs down. What is it with these rangers? It’s great that they’re so enthusiastic, but couldn’t DOC include a page in the manual on how to mix a gin and tonic?

Drying the boots at James Mackay hut.

James Mackay hut is on the ridge that marks the edge of the downs, and on the other side the hill drops away to the sea. From the kitchen you can see the next day’s route, all the way to the mouth of the Heaphy river, six hours walk away. The forecast was for rain, but right now it was dry and still. The sea was silver in the evening light.

From Dec 2010-Jan 2011 Xmas holiday

A few words about dinner. Dad bought these nifty bag meals – you boil the billy and pour hot water in, fold the top of the bag over, and leave for ten minutes. At the end of a day’s walking, most of it with rain sluicing down our legs, it seemed almost miraculous that hot, tasty food could be produced with so little effort. The first night was sweet and sour lamb. Tonight was honey soy chicken. And the best part was that I didn’t even have to lift a finger! I got it all served up for me. Thanks Dad.

Six hours walking doesn’t sound like a lot, but actually it’s plenty with a pack on your back. Add the rain factor and there was a severe risk I would faceplant in the honey soy chicken. So going out into the bush to listen for kiwi was out of the question – I think then we hit the sack before it even got dark, and I got a solid 11 hours sleep, the most I’d had in a long time.

Things I was glad we had brought:

• Raro (masks the taste of the hut water supply)
• Swiss army knife (to get into the meal bags)
• Whittakers Dark Chocolate with Orange Bits (self-explanatory really)

Things I wish we’d had brought:

• More dried fruit
• Milo (I never drink Milo, but for some reason it was exactly what I wanted at the end of a long day)

Heaphy Track Day One: Unemployed, of Paekakariki

From Dec 2010-Jan 2011 Xmas holiday

I am guessing most of my readers may not know where the Heaphy Track is. Well, you know the week before Christmas, how there was that heavy rain and galeforce winds warning for the north-west corner of the South Island? Yeah, right there. The track starts near Takaka and crosses over a remote National Park, where there is no road for miles, and comes down the edge of the West Coast until you reach civilization. This is the story of our adventure…

The first leg of the track (going east-west) is five hours straight up from the Brown Hut. To make sure we were on the track by 11, we got up at 6am for the 9am flight to Takaka. Of course, this didn’t require me to wake up at 3.30, but I did anyway.

We who are about to tramp, salute you.

Dropped off the bags, parked the car, and still had time for a (much-needed) coffee at Mojo and read the paper. Then look for Gate 21 – not part of the main Air New Zealand gates. Not part of the Jetstar gates either. Finally found it down a flight of stairs, behind a vending machine. No sign of the plane though. No staff either. Called the airline, and the plane was stuck in Nelson, but would be leaving shortly.

[Two hours pass. Much coffee is drunk.]

Our taxi^H^H^H^Hplane

The plane turns up, and it’s even smaller than I thought! The pilot climbs out onto the wing and comes into the terminal to get our bags. Checkin formalities are non-existent – I think they would have taken anyone who was still waiting at the gate after two hours. Security procedures are equally absent – just as well, because everything is hand luggage, and my liquids and swiss army knife are kind of essential where we’re going.

View of the Marlborough Sounds.

The flight was short and fairly uneventful, with lovely views of the Marlborough Sounds, inflight copies of Woman’s Day and free Minties. But we landed at 1.30, and the shuttle dropped us off at Brown Hut at 2.30. Only five hours of track ahead of us. Right.

From Dec 2010-Jan 2011 Xmas holiday

The track description says that it climbs gradually on the first day. And I was glad to find this was actually the case. After a few hundred metres in the blazing sun, the path ducks under the trees, and it winds its way up the hill with occasional views back down the valley.

Some progress.

For the first hour we are oohing and aahing at the bush, the sunshine and the general loveliness of it all. Then I spend a couple of hours trying to get the straps on the pack balanced so it isn’t digging into my shoulders and the weight is balanced. This is really, really important. Then the last couple of hours are spent wondering how much further it is to the hut.

Aorere Shelter. Are we there yet? ARe we there yet?

By 7.30pm we have climbed 600 metres and made it to the Aorere shelter. I am fading fast, and have already eaten my rations of chocolate, muesli bars and dried fruit. Then I remember my impulse buy at Pak’n’Save – a tiny block of Mainland Tasty Cheddar. I pull it out of the pack, wondering how it has fared in the approximately 13 hours since it was last refrigerated. I can’t be bothered digging out my Swiss Army Knife, so I just break off a chunk. And did you know that the best way to ripen Mainland Tasty Cheddar is to stick it in a pack and take it for a walk?? It was so… what’s the word I’m looking for… tasty.

8pm and my feet are starting to hurt, not to mention my shoulders. Do I want to take a side path to see the view from the highest point in the track? I don’t think so - I just want to lie down and go to sleep, but there’s a slight absence of hut. My spirits are flagging. I turn to Dad. “You realize this calls for desperate measures, don’t you?” “You mean…” “Yes! I’m going to have to sing.” And I start belting out “Say a Little Prayer”.

We run through as many Beatles numbers (the cheerful ones) as we can remember the words to. Then it’s Elvis, Hound Dog. And DD Smash, Outlook For Thursday. There has to be Crowded House, “Weather With You”, and my own personal favourite, Walking After Midnight (either the Patsy Cline original, or the Fairground Attraction cover, take your pick).

Curiously, singing revives me. I discover that the louder I sing, the higher my boots lift off the ground. The hut, wherever it is, could have heard us from halfway down the valley, but I don’t care. I also discover that Dad knows all the words to Harry Chapin’s Taxi. And embarrassingly, he knows more words of the Marseillaise than I do – I get about three lines in and am reduced to going neh-neh-neh-NA, neh-neh-NA, neh-neh-NA…

Dusk starts to close in, and the white stones of the path shine in the fading light. The path has flattened out, and widens out onto a tussocky plateau. We have reached the hut. It is booked out, and everyone else has arrived and eaten dinner hours ago. They have left the last two mattresses for us.

I have a confession to make. I have this slight character flaw (ok, one of many, but), I don’t like talking to people when I get home from work. I specifically don’t like it when I walk in the door, and before I have even had time to put my bag down and take my shoes off, someone is all over me with “So how was your day?”. I mean, do you actually want me to grunt at you? That’s a big question – if you want a considered, civil answer, please give me the space to catch my breath, shed the stress of the day and incidentally any homicidal impulses I may have collected en route. At this point in my day I am incredibly vulnerable and should only be approached, in silence, if holding a cup of tea or a g’n’t. Not to mention that right now I feel sick from exhaustion.

The other trampers in the hut haven’t read the manual. One guy is almost offensively chirpy, quizzing us – “So where are you from?” I um and err. Honesty? Easier to maintain, but leads to complications and people asking 20 questions about life in Paris. Or blatant lying? This requires a consistent cover story, and could be undermined if Dad decides to get chatty with someone and I haven’t briefed him. “Wellington”, I offer. “Um, but I’ve been travelling.” And I leave it at that.

You may know that there is no electricity in New Zealand tramping huts. Dad gets out his headlamp and proceeds to assemble the freeze-dried dinner, while I slump at the table by the light of a flickering candle-stub. I gaze at the noticeboard. My eyes are tired and it is dark. All I can see is the word ‘PLEASE’ floating in big black letters on white paper.

The nausea is hunger and fatigue, and soon passes. Sweet and sour lamb has never tasted so good. We unroll our sleeping bags and fall into them. I forget to take out my earplugs and eyemask (essential when tramping). During the night, someone starts a chainsaw in the bunk room. I wake up and realize it’s Dad snoring. Loudly. Other trampers are shifting and twitching. I am torn between embarrassment and pride – it’s *my* Dad keeping the whole hut awake! But decide that discretion is the better part of not being tarred and feathered, and nudge him, which interrupts the melody. Briefly. Another tramper starts up a counterpoint, and I roll over, resigned.

In the morning Mr Cheerful attempts further conversation, and manages to establish that I am working for an international organization in Paris. But surprise surprise, I am not a morning person either, and so after some terse answers, he abandons further conversational attempts. I feel terribly rude, but I didn’t go tramping to make small talk, so I resolve that from now on, I’m going to tell everyone that I am unemployed and living in Paekakariki.