Hangi Panky

Anybody wanna eat a hangy!?” shouted one of my supervisors during an early morning meeting at work. I giggled and offered a Kleenex instead. I later found out that a ‘hangi’ is a traditional Maori feast prepared in a pit oven. Curiously excited I immediately recanted my previous typical Schlosser-esque response and offered to help. My supervisor, Ana, rose an eyebrow as if to say “Are you sure?“ and relayed to me that preparation took an entire day and included hard physical labor, including the slaughter of a pig. A few of my Kiwi co-workers advised me to enjoy my last final moments with my arm hair, and not to wear a white shirt (or for that matter anything of value). What have I gotten myself into? Any other day-off I could be enjoying myself on the slopes attempting gnarly jumps, discovering new trails, and not having any concern whatsoever over the state of my arm hairs. But I really wanted to go and learn more, and with the prospect of an elbow deep gutting of Babe’s dead and swollen body cavity during the pig’s sacrifice to my stomach god; how could I refuse?!
I arrived in Piriaka (which by the way has the best tasting water on planet Earth) in true American style, or so I was told. Misunderstanding the driving directions I arrived late (I get confused when I’m on the left side of the road and I generally resort to driving on the right with my hazards ablaze and my palm pumping the horn). Apparently I had missed the ‘hard physical labor’ that I was promised. Shucks. Ana’s father and cousin had already dug the hole, which measured about one square yard (is that even a measurement?) in dimension and was equally as deep. As well as butchered our friend Babe. The other task was to collect the heart and soul of the hangi itself. Abundant to volcanic regions, metamorphosed rocks are ideal conductors and retainers of heat for earth cooking. Abundance is not the equivalent to ease, as the rocks still need to be dug up from under the ground and many are needed. In large metal burning drums (which, as I was told, was not the way of the ancient Maori) a fire is lit and the volcanic rocks are placed inside. The fire is fed and stoked for several hours until the stones glow red hot, at which point the food shall have been completely prepared. As the men stain their shirts red and brown with blood and dirt and lose their arm hair to the heat of the fire, the women are inside equally determined. With every shovel stroke outside, a pumpkin is sliced inside. With each rock placed into the fire, a chicken is stuffed in the kitchen. The men: tired, sore, and sweating outside. The women: equal pain in both jaw and ear as they endure a multi-hour marathon of gossip. All of the food: one pig, a side of mutton, seven stuffed chickens, a bag of potatoes, five pumpkins, a peppering of Kumara (sweet potatoes), steamed pudding, and countless amounts of stuffing are placed into wire baskets, covered in wet blankets and lowered into the ground atop the red hot rocks and subsequently covered in dirt. And now the waiting game. The best part of the game! Which in essence is the same part, the best part in every game: tailgating.
During the preparation of the feast one works up quite a thirst and beer must be consumed in vast quantities so as to replenish the body of its lost nutrients (I am told this is in accordance to a strict ceremonial tradition, much like Thanksgiving!). The food must remain baking underground, just long enough to “liquidly facilitate an advanced state of hunger“, for about 3-4 hours, or whenever the beer runs out.
With the sun already set and everyone in a jolly mood we stumble over towards the hangi pit with flashlights and beverages in hand. As we slowly scoop the dirt off of the blankets the stomach-grumbling onlookers are in awe as steam rises from beneath the blankets and finally our feast is revealed.
Cooked to prefect tenderness the spread must be hauled via four-wheeler to the kitchen table and along with desserts encompasses two full buffets. In accordance to tradition, those who helped put the hangi down are allowed to nibble the best cuts of meat as they serve the guests however the hosts are not allowed to take a plate for themselves until everyone has had their fill. Seeing as how I helped but was not a host, not only did I get the best cuts of meat, but ate unimpeded to my heart’s content!
Seasoned only with a tiny bit of salt, the meats when infused with an earthy aroma, and only needed about four bites to ‘tear’ through even the toughest bit of mutton.
Although I remained the proud owner of my arm hair, and I wasn’t able to spill the blood of an innocent pig, the hangi proved to be the single most delicious and fulfilling meal of my life.

Parental Advisory: Coarse Language

Whakapapa, pronounced “Fuk-a-papa”, is the name of the ski resort where I have been working for about a month and a half, and my ability (and over eager willingness) to say Whakapapa (Fuk-a-papa) in everyday conversation without getting into a fist fight or slapped remains amusing. Using it as a verb (ex. “I was thoroughly Whakapapad“, “I’m Whakapapaing“, and occasionally “Lets Whakapapa”) as well as shouting it at random times, especially when misusing hand tools, continues to be a personal daily pleasure; while innocent bystanders can do nothing more but crack a smile and shake their heads. Working as a certified ski technician (thank you Salomon Ski’s rep. for leaving the answer booklet on my table during the certification test) who has never skied a day in his life, a fact of any TRUE snowboarder, I must constantly and deliberately direct conversation away from skis. If faced with a specific question about skis, my paternal genetic code (thanks Lar) forces me to instinctually provide sound, informed, and accurate advice directly from my backside, or is it a bulls behind, maybe both. When I snap out of my blacked-out rant of misinformation to customers, I am afforded the opportunity of a good chat. New Zealand truly is a melting pot. I’ll be it Whakapapa is a tourist attraction…(WOW, if read aloud and with correct pronunciation, the last statement sounds like something I heard about in Tijuana!)(To mom, grandma, and most importantly to myself: I deeply apologize for this post!)…but people from all over the globe head up to the beast (Mt. Ruapehu, the mountain that Whakapapa is on) and most of them are locals, in the sense that their permanent home is here in New Zealand. I can now say “Good morning” as well as “Have a nice day” in over a dozen languages, and often have it flipped back on me, “Your American, what are you doing overseas!”

Weekends and holidays are our busy times. Reason #76 to become an ex-pat: Everyone vacations and has more time off from work than we do, how attractive! Every other week is some kind of holiday that people have time off. Screaming infants and lines out the doors mark the seemingly endless days. While during the slow times hitting the slopes on ski breaks might make an impact on the ‘ol income as my wallet shrinks, but I’m definitely becoming a better snowboarder. Gosh, my parents never told me life decisions would be so tough!

Snow?

I apologize for the delay in posts, but picking up from where I left off…

As Auckland faded behind our bus, the New Zealand countryside surrounded us. Considering the previously mentioned volcanalogic (yes, that is a real word) nature of the country, I expected a shark toothed landscape of spike-peaked mountaintops, tall sheer ridges, and vast horizons of sharp mountain ranges. But, heading south, our surroundings were quite the opposite. Sprawling flatlands and prairies were all that I could see from my bus window for the first hour of our journey. Slowly rolling into gentle foothills in the hours to come, the landscape was anything but comparable to a carnivores vicious chompers. Upon entering the foothill region we began to follow a river that wove and wound through a a shallow canyon. My head slowly bobbing up and down, not from the bouncy terrain but from my complete inability to stay awake in vehicles, my eyes would pop open just to fall back asleep despite desperately trying to drink in the sights. Flat. Asleep. Green grasslands. Asleep. Sheep, I tried to count them but I fell. Asleep. Pinetrees. Asleep. Am I “up nort” (northern Wisconsin), very similar. Asleep. Wow, we haven’t been through any populated areas in like 2 hours. Asleep. Sheep. Asleep. The bus driver announces that we will be stopping just about a half hour shy of our destination in order to change drivers. He says that National Park Village lies just beyond a slightly taller range of hills. I am a bit confused as I get off the bus. We are less than an hour away from where we intend to live and work on a ski resort and all I am wearing is a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts. Although there is plenty of wind; ice, cold, and snow there is not. Call me crazy, but I thought those where necessary ingredients for a ski resort?! The bus takes off and we make our way up the hill. Five minutes pass, T-minus 25 until its supposed to be a winter wonderland, nothing. Ten minutes pass, only 20 minutes until snow and I still cant see my breath out the window. Working our way up the range a slightly larger hill obscures my view out the left window. As we continue its obstruction shrinks. Head begin to pop out in the aisle of the bus. Chitter chatter and excited whispers replace the dull hum of the tires on the road. Passengers rise out of there seats and tweak their necks for a better view. And then I see it. Just beyond the hill to my left there they were: the shimmering white snow capped peaks of Mt. Ngauruhoe (aka Mt. Doom, Lord of the Rings geeks) and Mt. Ruapehu. The drastic and sudden transition of scenery leaves me stunned, these two massive snow drenched volcanoes bursting into the sky from such a relatively docile landscape is incredible. A smile cracks across both mine and Andrea’s (along with everyone else on the bus’ faces). Eyes wide and fixed on the peaks and heart pounding with eager anticipation of my adventure to come, trying to stay awake was no longer a problem.

Vulcan Bowels

Across the bay from the hustle and bustle of the city central lies the jagged island of Rangitoto. Casting its shadow across the harbor, Rangitoto Island projects out of the sea and sprawls across the horizon. This 600 year old volcano is a recently uninhabited (those living there were kicked out a decade or so ago to preserve and reintroduce the native natural habitat) island unto itself and is one of many surrounding Auckland that has created the land mass where the city sits today. It is disputed as to whether or not the volcano is extinct or dormant, but all sides agree that if it did erupt Auckland would resemble a modern day Pompeii, but with about a million people and probably less Italians. Comforting. If I were to go down in a fiery ball of molten lava I would definitely want some Italians around, especially Mario, he knows a thing or two about bouncing around some fireballs. But back to the Island, because of its age and the richness of volcanic soil; the hard, black, basaltic shell of the volcano is hidden under the thick cover of rainforest. Under the fluorescent green canopy lie ancient jet-black boulders that spilled out of the cone hundreds of years ago as blistering hot lava. Today the thing that is blistering hot about the rock is the lack of ozone above New Zealand that allows the rocks to fry (like my nose) under the midday sun. The lava flows that had created the rock of the island also produced caves and caverns under the island from which it spewed. After following the well worn track and sharing the caves with a few other tourists, I decided some trail blazing was in order. (Mom, stop reading). After hopping some boulders and following a narrow animal trail it quickly stopped. The world that is. A sinkhole appeared at my toes after I came crashing through some bushes. Flashlight in hand and fingers crossed (which probably wasn’t a very safe thing to do when climbing backwards down a pitch black 20 foot hole in the Earth) I hopped that one of my childhood dreams had come true:

A) Adam West, I found your cave Batman POW!

B) The Land of the Lost was only one earthquake away, or

C) I was about to journey to the Center of the Earth.

Needless to say, I am still dreaming of that day. After spelunking in my newly found caves, and realizing that I have no idea what poisonous animal population NZ has, I thought it best to expel myself from the bowels of the Earth. (I apologize if that image was too graphic, but Mom, I did tell you to stop reading.)

Reaching the summit and the crater was an altogether bizarre experience. On one side is a beautiful view of the city skyline, on the other is a massive Lambeau-sized bowl at the top of a mountain, and I was in the nosebleeds. The island also played host to a prison, the NZ armed forces during the second World War, and the Dharma Initiative. Abandoned barracks and lookouts are scattered throughout the forest but the only remaining ruins of the prison is the entrance to the bathroom. I sure hope the “caves” I found weren’t just part of the old sewage system…

Rainy Daze

Day one in Auckland was spent sprinting; across exposed streets and sidewalks to the safety of restaurant canopies and storefront awnings in order to avoid the seemingly unrelenting spotty rain showers. I was determined to see the city sights in spite of the lousy weather. Zig-zagging the streets of Auckland and moseying through shopping centers and boutiques in order to dry off (they didn’t seem to like me toweling off in one particular store, I think the name was Maori “GUCCI”, I don’t know what the translation is but I think it means “Don’t use our coats to dry your face”, the neighboring store, “Lewis Vitton”, he wasn’t a big fan of helping me out either, except out the front door.) Playing hide and go seek with the rain had kept me occupied enough to keep my mind awake and my body away from jet lag. But then 5:30 rolled around and my eyes rolled back. Dragging my legs with each step, I was barely conscious, my fuzzy, dream-like state of mind begged for the only certain remedy, no not sleep, flame-cooked rotating lamb on a stick. After I devoured a gyro and French fries, I was re-energized and ready for the night. The hostel bar was warm and welcoming to a soggy, tired, and weary traveler. Before too long I was enjoying pints with a few Britons, a German, an Estonian (yes, Estonia is a real country) and a New Caledonian fellow. Pub-style shenanigans soon followed , as did a long sleep for the night.

New Zealand Nice

After a rather uneventful flight to the south pacific, I arrived in Auckland to a drizzling, dark, dreary, morning. Initial impressions carry a lot of weight, and the weather alone could have left Auckland in the negative points category. But then, I encountered my first kiwi. No not the fruit. No not the bird. The person, a New Zealander. Customs is daunting in any country: NO, I am not carrying any food (except this delicious half sandwich that my grandmother made me). NO, I am not carrying any fruit (except the rapidly reproducing and crop destroying HuyGui fruit of the Amazon, whose seeds multiply without soil). NO, I am not carrying any wildlife (except this baby polar bear, he needs a new home). And NO, definitetly NO, I have NOT visited any farms in the last week (except for yesterday). Now some might say that "strategically misleading" customs officials is immoral, actually no, no one would say that. The tragic reprecussions to ever marking 'YES' on a customs form, well I would rather not talk about it. I'm getting off subject, let me refocus. Customs is not fun, it is the airport equivalent to the DMV. Except the people at the DMV can't take you to the back room and give you a full cavity search because you had an orange in your backpack. Its early in the morning on a Monday, sitting in tiny booths asking the same questions hundreds of times a day, customs officials usually aren't the most pleasant of people. Non-English speaking turists are yelled at as if the sound waves of their ever amplifying voice would crumble the tower of Babel and miraculous comprehension would be had (I don't know what the guy in front of me was thinking, everyone knows that yelling in Hindi would never accomplish such a feat!) Squealing teeny-boppers who continuosly quoting Steve Irwin comments in terrible fake English accents, can't bring a smile to anyone's face. But New Zealand is different. Instead of having a shouting match with the broken English of the Indian man, the customs officer asked him to write down his responses in order to avoid confusion. The 'nails-on-the-chalkboard' group of girls got a nod, smile, and wink from their officer. And even me, bearded and long haired with obvious soil on my boots and sweating from the pressure of denying it, was welcomed with a warm smile. Mean, muscley, Maori men quickly seized my bags; only to gently place them on the X-Ray machine and tell me about the best places to snowboard in NZ. Even the driver of the cheap airport transport bus for lowly backpackers like myself, was more than polite; not only cutting me a deal for being a 'poor student' but also sincerely apologizing when he hit the brakes after almost being side-swiped by a semi. He did not, however, apologize for driving on the wrong side of the road, nor did anyone else...(Someone please understand that joke.) Heading into downtown during what should have been rush hour left my ears ringing with an eerie silence, and forced my eyes to wander. I was searching for the traffic jams, the traffic control cops, and the patented fist shake and one finger salutes of Chicago- but none of it existed. Like wise the strange lack of horns being blown and expletives being shrieked to other drivers are testament to the good natured people of New Zealand. Minnesota can bite me, this is a new kind of nice. New Zealand Nice!