14. Pukerua to Plimmerton Hike--Ignorance is Bliss; Prior Knowledge is Idiocy

Click on http://nzphotoblogue.blogspot.com for all Pukerua to Plimmerton pictures and http://nzvideoblogue.blogspot.com for video.

The Antarctic blasts recently flogging the Kapiti Coast backed off just enough to entice me to take an afternoon walk down to the Wairaka Reserve. I was only planning on heading down for an hour or so, blow off some steam, get some fresh air, and take in the always spectacular scenery. I’ve done the hike numerous times but had never gone around the headland towards Plimmerton. I’ve been curious, but figured it was too far for what one might consider an afternoon stroll…..until today.

PERSPECTIVE: AERIAL VIEW FROM 30,113 FEET
I decided I’d passed the point of no return after two hours of scrambling and rock-dancing my way across the rugged, stony beach. There’s something about the Wairaka Reserve where distances that seem deceptively close are actually a full kilometer away. With every headland I turned, I expected to see the Plimmerton infrastructure come into view. Instead I was met with yet another bare headland.

ANOTHER KICK IN THE BALLS
I should have known better, but the elements still managed to slip one under the radar and give me a spinning back kick square in the balls—a meteorological “rope-a-dope" if you please. When I started at 3pm it was somewhat warm, so I just wore a pair of shorts, sweatshirt, and running shoes. The Pukerua Bay side of the reserve was pleasant, but soon turned into a frigid gale-force lashing as I approached the south-facing Plimmerton Quarry. I had no idea there was even a quarry out on the point. Fortunately, it’s a holiday so I didn’t have to dodge any heavy earth-moving equipment.

RABID SEAGULLS
My motor acuity began to falter. I could feel both hunger and thirst setting in after the three hour mark. I figured I’d buy something to eat when I arrived in Plimmerton, but soon realized I’d left my wallet at home, not to mention it was after 6pm on a public holiday. Instead of vultures hovering overhead excitedly licking their chops and praying for my early demise, I was met with a few seagulls rabidly cooing overhead. They swooped down a couple times narrowly missing my head. I’m not sure if they were trying to protect a nest or maybe they thought I was a thief trying to jump their claim on a stash of clams.

JUST WARMIN' UP, MATE!
I eventually made it to Plimmerton—beaten and tired, but not broken. I passed a number of families on the beach, bundled in their best winter gear, enjoying the last hours of sunlight on this first day of 2007. I stopped off to say hello to some people sitting in their front yard. I asked if there was a direct foot trail back to Pukerua Bay. “Ya best bet is to take Airlie Road, but that’s another 7km from here.” I smugly joked that I’d already done that much for a warm-up, to which they quipped, “aw yeah? well good onya mate.”

It felt good to be back on level terra firma compared to balancing and hobbling across soccer ball sized rocks. I could feel a noticeable increase in my speed and efficiency, even breaking into a mild jog just to generate a little body heat. I hoofed it on Moana Road for a short while, hooking left at the Plimmerton Boating Club and onto a steeply ascending Airlie Road. Considering the exhausted state of my legs at that moment, I groaned when I saw the sign indicating 3km of winding road—uphill. My fingers were so cold that I started to lose my small muscle coordination and my ability to work the small buttons on my digital camera. I’m just impressed the photos turned out at all due to how bad I was shivering.

ENDLESS WINTER - COLD CLIMATE TROPICAL PARADISE
The region bisected by Airlie Road is like its own little biosphere. It’s well-protected from the wind, but the temperatures remain cool due to thick foliage that envelopes it. As I continued my climb, the olfactory amalgam of rock and salt air gave way to a very earthy, almost “mulchy” fragrance, much like the inside of a greenhouse. Even though I’ve been in New Zealand for a month and a half already, I still felt the need to take photos of the native flora—and time to smell the ferns! The longer I’m in New Zealand, the more I consider it something of a cold climate tropical paradise, equally as verdant but without the heat and humidity. Endless summer? Bah! More like endless winter!

I soon figured out for myself that Airlie Road is no place for walkers. The absence of any significant shoulder along with tight hairpin turns makes for a use-at-your-own-risk proposition. I walked against traffic so I could see oncoming cars. On one occasion in particular, it saved me from getting mowed down by two boy-racers on their motorbikes. As I approached a blind turn, I could hear a distant buzz approaching. I physically climbed up onto the embankment anticipating their arrival. Good thing I did, too, because they came ripping around the turn hugging the edge with, no joke, not more than a foot of room to spare. Had I remained on the bitumen, I think I would have either been run over or caused them to swerve and crash.

SKID MARK ON THE UNDERPANTS OF SOCIETY
I noticed numerous skid marks around all the sharp turns. I tried to determine which car was coming from which direction and where the stopping point was. Memorial crosses are placed at various sites all over New Zealand, but amazingly, I didn’t see a single cross on Airlie Road. This comes as a particular shock to me after seeing numerous cars doing their best Michael Schumacher impression around the turns.

WHENUA TAPU CREMATORIUM: YOU KILL 'EM, WE GRILL 'EM
With respect to the above, I found it morbidly ironic that the Whenua Tapu Cemetery and Crematorium is located—yes, you guessed it—on Airlie Road. I noticed that my cell phone had very little signal in this area, so any chance of getting an ambulance there in an expeditious manner would be slim to none. You might not survive the crash, but at least they won’t have to cart you too far to burn or bury you.

ARE WE THERE YET?
The solitude of my earthy Eden-like sanctuary soon gave way to the penetrating cacophonic drone of the motorway. I felt a sense of relief because it was getting progressively darker and colder, and I was still dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt. But I wasn’t out of the woods yet. I came across a sign for the Ara Harakeke trail. Still another 2.2 km to go. Damn! At that point, though, I just put my head down and charged. It was about 7:45pm, a full 4¾ hours since I started. While I enjoyed the journey, I was admittedly tired and hungry. I’d only eaten a bowl of yogurt with a banana before I left, and I’m pretty sure my body combusted that after the first half-hour.

If ignorance is bliss, then I'm pretty sure prior knowledge constitutes pure idiocy. I knew how far it was to drive from Pukerua Bay to Plimmerton via the main motorway, but in a car it all goes so quick. I figured it couldn’t be that bad to do the whole thing as a loop. On my previous hikes in the Wairaka Reserve, I’d often wondered what was around the corner and over the hill. Well, today my adventurous spirit and curiosity overcame my ignorance and added to my vast knowledge base of the Kapiti Coast. After searching online a bit, I estimate the total circular distance to be approximately 16 kilometers—just about 10 miles. I think the next time I go for an hour-long hike, maybe I’ll pack a couple liters of water and some snack bars just in case.

8: Musical Houses: Paekakariki to Pukerua Bay

25 November to 1 December 2006

Paekakariki to Pukerua Bay

Note: if photos fail to load properly, resize your browser to make it either wider or narrower until they fit flush within the text.

MUSICAL HOUSES
For all intents and purposes, I’ve been homeless since August 15th. The new Nazi property owners that took over our palatial ocean front estate on the boardwalk in San Diego booted us out under the guise of “renovating” and reselling each of the four units as condos. But karma has a way of avenging even the savviest of real estate moguls. The Southern California housing market took a dip and essentially left the company with an overstock of overpriced property nobody wanted, not even on ocean front. So they did a little work on the wiring, slapped some paint on the walls, and sold them off as is. Jerks.

SPECIAL THANKS TO MY HOSTS
My trusted friend Pablo Romo graciously opened his home and took me in for a few months. I stayed with him until I left for New Zealand on November 14th, at which time I joined the ranks of the homeless once again.

When I arrived in New Zealand, my esteemed friend and colleague Bob Cheema and his fiancée Verena took pity on me and let me camp out in their spare bedroom. This was only a temporary situation, though, because Mom and Sister Cheema—as I like to call them—were on their way to New Zealand for a holiday visit. Space was going to be an issue and I needed to hustle and get a more permanent, stable living arrangement.

DUNGEONMATES
I scoured the newspaper and online flatmate ads, borrowing Bob’s truck to view the properties. Bob and Verena warned me that Wellington is notorious for grungy, dilapidated accommodations, but I had to see it with my own eyes. One after another, I found places were either cold, dark, and dirty or the existing tenants were too young and immature (as evidenced by the stacked “Dish-henge” in the kitchen). Somehow the thought of living in a place with mix and match furniture and a bong standing up in the corner didn’t sit well with me. I quickly grew more impatient and frustrated with each successive viewing. More often than not, the ads were deceptive and not accurately reflective of the image I’d envisioned.

A day or two before Mom Cheema arrived, I returned from the house hunt exhausted and exasperated, wondering how this was all going to pan out if I didn’t find something soon. Bob and Verena’s flatmate, Barbara, had an idea. She phoned Shar and Ric, some friendly neighbors down the street, knowing they often host international visitors from a variety of environmental charities. Barbara explained our impending packed perch predicament on the Paekakariki Parade and, for a fair and equitable price, they agreed to take me in for up to a month. Done. I left a few suitcases at the house, took what I needed, then walked 200 meters down to the next stop on my magical musical house tour.

SHAR AND RIC
I like to think I’ve developed a rather advanced bullshit detector from my extensive world travels. Within a minute, I could tell Shar and Ric were two of the kindest, friendliest Kiwis I could ever meet. They make a beautiful home on the ocean front in Paekakariki, shared with two gregarious labrador retrievers. It’s an idyllic life in this artsy little community. It’s safe enough that they don’t even feel compelled to lock their doors—on the house or car! In fact, Ric drives up, turns off the car, and leaves the keys in the ignition with the windows rolled down. Good luck trying that anywhere else on Earth in this day and age!

I told them up front that I had no intention of squatting on them for several months. We agreed to take it one week at a time until I found somewhere else to my liking. I expressed my gratitude but confessed that this bee’s been homeless and hovering for over three months and was ready to have a hive of his own.

WINE AND POLITICS: A NOT SO EXPLOSIVE MIX
I received a warm welcome the first night with a kind offer of food and drink. I’d arrived on a full stomach, so I opted for the fermented red grape juice instead. Shar and Ric were entertaining Vanessa, a former next door neighbor originally from Birmingham, England who’d since moved on to Brisbane, Australia with her family and was back in Wellington for a work conference. It didn’t take long for the Merlot to kick in and grease the wheels of political discussion. Vanessa took great pleasure in having a few digs at “resident” George Dubya, expecting that I, as an American, might make some feeble attempt at defending the half-baked, election-stealing mongrel. That part of her diatribe ended when I categorically agreed with every point she made. Ric finally decided to wind down the night by serving up a bottle of port. By the time it was all over, Vanessa and I were exchanging email addresses and phone numbers. “You’re not such a bad Yank after all,” she later quipped.

I soon realized leaving this little utopia would be more difficult than I thought. Maggie and Molly started tugging on my heart strings the minute I walked in the door. Their two retrievers reminded me so much of our family dog, Rusty, not so much in terms of looks, but in their behavior. I had to laugh when Shar and Ric told me not to leave anything fragile on the coffee table, lest wagging tails send it plummeting to a quick death. They were so excited to have an extra set of hands to pet them to their hearts’ content. But like all good retrievers, they have a reverse Pavlovian technique for conditioning humans to attend to their every whim.

KIWI DANCE PARTNER
Retrievers have a way of assuming human-like attributes. Put dried Purina in front of them and watch it sit there. They’ll look up at you as if to say in a posh British accent, “Hey, what’s this? You expect me to eat this dried crap? Where’s my filet mignon, steamed carrot medallions, and glass of chardonnay?” They expect to be let out at will, run on the beach whenever the mood strikes, and sleep in the same bed with their owners.

Molly was the more dominant of the two and was always jumping up on me trying to prove her mettle by walking on two legs. I decided to indulge her human-like propensities by teaching her a few salsa moves. As you can see in the picture, she’s actually quite a skilled dancer. Note the impeccable frame she maintains as I lead her around the kitchen. Her left paw is properly placed with meticulous care on my right shoulder and her right paw extended to just the right angle. I think I see a long and illustrious career for her on the dance circuit.

Though I was enjoying my time at Shar and Ric’s house, I continued to view more properties. I’d recently bought Forrest, my beloved Toyota Corolla (see post #7), so I had free reign to roam about in search of a new roost without having to borrow Bob’s truck. In short, finding a place continued to be a royal bitch and I was starting to wonder if a single respectable rental property existed in Wellington.

PUKERUA BAY
I answered an ad in the local Kapiti Observer newspaper for a proper house in Pukerua Bay. A lovely lass named Rachel had just purchased the house and was slated to move in the coming weekend. I took one look at it and pretty much agreed on the spot to move in. It’s a monster house with spectacular panoramic views of Pukerua Bay and Paekakariki. It’s got plenty of off-street parking up front and a massive backyard with a storage shed. It’s east facing so it gets plenty of morning sun, but unfortunately after 5pm the sun falls over the mountain and then it turns into an icebox. But all things considered, that’s a non-issue in comparison to everything else I’d previously viewed. (See the Google Earth images at http://nzphotoblogue.blogspot.com/)

I moved in on December 1st. I soon realized it was going to be a bit of a commute to the city, but on a positive note, at least the “traffic” keeps moving. Looking ahead, I’m likely going to be running the investigation at the university and working in a physiology lab down the road doing athlete testing. I told Rachel up front that I loved the house but I might grudgingly have to look for something either in the city or closer to it. The good news is that I’m mostly doing menial leg work and preparations at this time, so I can work from home for the moment.

CAVE FOR RENT
I now have a better sense of orientation in the city so I scoped out some sunny areas of Wellington that are also close to work. I decided to kick the proverbial tires just to see what was out there and get a better feel of the prices. I figure when the time comes, I’ll rent a place on my own and then seek out a renter for the other room. I phoned up a few real estate agents and had a look at some rental units in the Miramar district. It turns out they’re no better than the deceptive ads you find in the newspaper. I found one place that was advertised as “spacious, sunny, large deck, city views.” When I arrived, it was the polar opposite of the description. It had two microscopic bedrooms that, in my opinion, resembled nothing more than glorified walk-in closets, one shoddy bathroom in dire need of a cleaning, no back windows or doors for cross-ventilation, and about 5 to 10 millimeters of mold growing from the window sills. The “deck” was tiny and the so-called “city view” was obscured by overgrown trees. On top of all this, it smelled grungy and musty. I couldn’t contain myself. I came right out and told her, “I can’t even believe you’re trying to rent this place. It’s not even clean and, as far as I’m concerned, poses a likely health hazard for any potential occupants.” She told me it would be “cleaned before the lease was signed.” Yeah, sure it will. I lasted about three minutes before walking out in disgust, insulted that I’d even wasted my time on such a place. The real kicker was the price. They wanted $280 NZD per week (about $190 USD, $530 Euros, $247 AUD)!

In the meantime, I am going to stay put here in Pukerua Bay. I figure a little peace of mind is worth blowing a little time and petrol driving into the city. There’s a little goat trail down the street that leads right to the Pukerua beach and, from there, the Wairaka Reserve offers a nice nature trail to get out and get some sun and exercise. I’ve decided it’s best to work from home as much as possible and go into the city only when absolutely necessary. When push comes to shove and it becomes absolutely imperative to move closer, then I’ll cross that bridge when the time comes.