Travel StoriesApr 02 Sweet As:"Sweet As" Wellington, New Zealand April 25th, 2002 I check into Trekkers' Backpacker/Hotel, where currently major renovations are underway, in the ultra hip Cuba district in Wellington, NZ, in the CBD. Hard to call anything CBD in New Zealand, that wonderful little country with only 3 million Homo-sapiens and 10 times that many sheep. (Sorry my kiwi friends, I'm sure your all sick of that joke) Some of you all ready know my Sheepshearer story. But that one needs to be told in person. I've relocated across town from the dodgy downtown backpackers to be closer to my mate Allan Freeman, Allan who I should add is having his grand 40th black tie Birthday bash the following week and I have been invited to be his guest. Which trekking boots will match my hired Dior Gown, I ponder? Cuba street is lined with cafe's, coffee houses, hip bars, fruit stands (operated by mostly foreigners) Art galleries and artist everywhere. I have a strong yearning for my chic leather jacket back home in a friend's closet, but I will have to get by with my funky Katmandu Polertec jumper (jacket) and zip off Katmandu trekking pants. To Allan and his mates relief I quickly ditch the silly zip-on/off pants and spring for some "flair" blue jeans at everybody's favorite store "the Wherehouse", which a mature man I met on the plane enroute from Fiji assured me is "where everybody gets a bargain", which I proceed to wear every night that we go out. Did I say we go out? I tell you, those Kiwis's love to have fun. I feel like I'm 21 again but with better taste buds, more money, yet sadly not the stamina I once had. A typical night has been, meet for drinks at 5pm. Thankfully Allan, Bex, Matt and the Gang have jobs so we usually don't start till 5pm (aside from a few days playing hooky to go wine tasting in Maryborough and those 2 hour lunches of white bait omelets). Anyway, after drinks it's a show, dinner, after dinner drinks, dessert and dessert drinks and to the disco for some "Murder on the dance floor" (I LOVE THAT SONG!). (Did I mention why I really bought those new pants?) This usually wraps up about 3:30am, (you should know that my life has drastically changed, while traveling. I am usually in bed by 9pm as I am all tuckered out from hiking, swimming, sightseeing the whole lot) This goes on for more than a few nights as my flat mate Karen can attest to my feeble attempts to quietly get undressed and get into my little bunk bed. Mornings at this stage are not my favorite time of day. Karen, bless her heart, quietly leaves each day off to school, just as the work crew arrives. The crew is a group of cheerful Kiwi men, smiling, listening to pleasant music, politely talking to one another. (Not at all like those cat-calling Mexican demolition crews I remember from home in California.) Usually after about an hour I can't stand it anymore and drag myself out of my bed, out of my cell (our room is about 3x 4 meters) downstairs to the Purple onion for a flat white and to burn a hole into the daily news. (What's going on in the "Beehive" - The Captitol building is always worth a look with a Rastafarian and a transgender currently in N. Zed's Parliament.) One particular day, after an hour, I notice the workmen have taken a break, so I race up to my room for a few winks. My cell is so warm, I open the window for some fresh air facing the courtyard. Sitting close to the window, fumbling in my backpack searching for an adapter, I look up and see a pleasant looking workman of Maori decent, a meter away hanging on some scaffolding. "Giddy", he says. "Hello", I reply trying to disguise my obvious American accent. "Excuse me", he asks, "are we bothering you? I mean, I'm really sorry about all the noise we've been making." I blush thinking he can SEE my eyes look like cherry tomatoes. "Well," I reply, trying to be witty, "I've made some fast friends here in Wellington and we've been going out really late every night, and those darn hammers of yours sound like they are going to crack open my head." "Oh, I'm really sorry.", he says. 'Oh bugger', I think to myself. 'He doesn't get it that I'm trying to be facetious; he thinks I'm upset'. I give a little smile and try to assure him I am only pulling his leg and it's really, really all right. After some niceties...where are you from etc. etc....and a bit of uncomfortable silence, he slips away into the courtyard. The next day after a relatively early night, I get up pull open the blinds and let the sun burst through the window. There I see a little plastic bag placed neatly by my window. I quickly open the window and find two perfect little ear plugs in a tiny Ziploc bag. The logo bares a large burley man on the front with a big 'stash grinning, and it reads "Backed by Barossa". I burst out laughing! But no one is around to thank. I remove the plugs find a tour brochure. There are always thousands lying about on my floor, and I scribble a note. "Cheers Mate- Susanna", it reads. I place it back out on my sill and grin. The next day I awake early to check my window, and there in the same tiny ziploc bag is a response. It reads: "Sweet As" |