10/22/18: christchurch to twizle/and so it begins

Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do, New Zealand.

A warmer welcome came from Officer Goodboy, who gets a lot of gear but no pants. 

Officer Goodboy’s repeated admonishments about bio hazards are why I ended up having to declare the dead bugs adorning my motorcycle gear; after some discussion I was allowed to bring them through to New Zealand. That was no small relief, as I find I have become attached to some of them in particular.

I’m fixated on taking public transport from airports when available, which is generally damned inconvenient and often requires a lot of schlepping and rarely gives me the sort of satisfaction I assume most martyrs enjoy. [Aside: I’d been horrified at JFK to see the big heavy suitcase I’d hauled up and down subway stairs, sweating and cursing, came in just under 20 pounds on the luggage scale. There must be a mistake, I told myself over and over—and yes, when I watched that same suitcase be weighed in Sydney, I discovered the mistake and it was mine: kilograms. My inability to convert units of measure could be a defining theme of this trip; let us instead never speak of it again but know it is a constant.]

The bus from the airport into Christchurch was piloted by a delightful woman of a…mature age, all 4'10" of her. The ticket price was $8.50 NZD, and after a brief hesitation Lynda agreed to take $10 AUD from me, only because, she told me, she was going to Australia to visit her auntie next week. That sly devil made a $0.74 profit off the transaction and it was some of the best money I’ve spent. We had 12 minutes to kill before the bus was scheduled to depart, during which Lynda tried to explain to me that the relationship between New Zealand and Australia was similar to that of Canada and the US; we eventually settled on Mets/Yankees as the better comparison. Lynda has lived “all over,” she told me, which I came to understand meant “in several locations on the south island of New Zealand.” I would have stayed on that bus the length of the route just to enjoy the way she interacted with everyone who came aboard.

As more passengers began to arrive, Lynda asked them all the same questions: “How are you today!” (not actually a question) and “Where’re you going, then?” A couple who had been away on “holiday” boarded the bus separately, as one had been returning the luggage cart, but they answered her cheery questions exactly the same way: “Terrible,” and then, seriously, “Divorce court.” The next fellow aboard answered “House-trained!” and “Home!!” so enthusiastically the divorce court couple flew into a brief but heated exchange with an admirable number of f-bombs squeezed in. They rode the rest of the way in silence, and as I got off at their stop I got to watch them stomp away down the sidewalk, each resolutely pulling a suitcase, one 20 specific paces behind the other.  

New Zealand is closed on Sundays, FYI, but I walked around Christchurch a bit and took some pictures: here is a man in the river, here is a remembrance garden, and here is a crosswalk sign so unbelievably outrageous I stood before it in shock with my mouth hanging open—what lunatic wrote these directions and thought anyone—ANYONE—would actually obey???

In unrelated news, in my one day of riding around so far, most people…go the speed limit. I took Route 1 south from Christchurch and every so often a second lane would open up, with the direction “stay to the left unless passing,” and we’d all move left and no one would pass and then we’d all put our blinkers on and move back right when the two lanes rejoined. The speed limit was generally 100 (cf the conversion issue), and it was a real shock to the system to realize everybody seemed…good with that. Now, I’m sure this isn’t a universal, but yikes it was strange enough for me to goggle over it for most of the day.

A few other highlights from the past two days:

• I took a taxi from my hotel to the bike pick-up place. We weren’t even 3 blocks in before the driver asked where I was from and then, politely, said, “So everyone in America likes Mr. Trump?” He also had a lot of questions about why we have so many homeless people, and tbh I didn’t have great answers. :( 
• Today was my first day on the bike and I spent much of the day marveling at how many women were in the driver’s seat of their cars—all those men, being chauffeured around!
• In unrelated news, driving on the left side of the road is easy as long as you are constantly chanting “LEFT LEFT LEFT.” Roundabouts are a trip, and right-hand turns are weird, but otherwise—just keep chanting LEFT LEFT LEFT in your helmet and you’re fine.
• I met some nice people at the motorcycle rental center, and now have phone numbers for Mick and Vanessa who have encouraged me to look them up should I find myself in Brisbane (aka “Brizzy” and “Briz-Vegas,” apparently); Mick has more time off and would show me some good roads while Vanessa has a spare room and would be glad to have me stay. (She also has a son she refers to as “Fat-Headed Adam” and takes her grandchildren dirt-bike riding on her property.) I am not yet prepared to discuss how friendly people are here.
• RIDING THE ON THE LEFT MEANS THROTTLE HANDS ARE ON THE RIGHT! I immediately started raising my left hand to motorcycles as we passed each other; enough people have not reciprocated or did so hastily that I am very concerned that the left-side-driving countries of the world are missing out on one of the real pleasures of riding.
• The scenery here is ridiculous. I don’t have the words, or the photography skills, to describe/capture it, so here are some weak efforts, just from one day’s ride, but most most most importantly? There are sheep EVERYWHERE.

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• Every outlet seems to have its own on/off switch. I counted 23 individual switches in my hotel room last night, and the faces the outlets are making seem to suggest even THEY find this extreme. (For all those who have wondered aloud how I could possibly travel alone for so long…fear not. I have PLENTY to talk to myself about.)

And finally, for the MC crowd: the F700GS has hard bags which are wonderful, plus a top rack for a dry bag. Roads are in good shape, and while there’s much ado about how narrow they are, I’m nonplussed on that front—routes 79/8 were kind of like riding parts of route 30—not the Pepacton part, alas, but the Schoharie Valley part, in a way. I made it to 5^th gear a couple of times but mostly it was motoring along in 3^rd or 4^th and enjoying the heck out of the scenery. Gas is sold in liters and is stupidly expensive (I think—I may need to triple-check my math). I brought my phone mount, but the handlebars on the BMW are a different dimension from the S3. Fortunately, luggage tags are exactly the right consistency to serve as shims. The bugs here are VERY BIG and plentiful.

I’m spending the night in Twizle, largely because Lynda once lived here and told me it was lovely. It is, and the lakes an unspeakable blue. The only—only!—disappointment I can report is that while I continue to say “TWIZZ-el,” I’m afraid the correct pronunciation is in fact “TWI-zelle.” Que sera, sera. 

This area is home to the only known wild population of Himalayan Tahr outside of India/Nepal (the statue below has had a statue-filter applied--I am given to understand the real tahr aren't quite so handsome). Perhaps tomorrow I find some? It's either that or I'll give in to my baser impulses and pull over and just start hugging sheep. ALL the sheep.) 

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