I Took the Pictures When I Got Picked Up

I cannot believe I forgot my camera in Napier.

Or rather, I forgot my camera before Napier. I left it in the car when Mike dropped me off. He was spending the weekend with friends working a nearby white river rafting joint. Faced with a choice between spending the next few days with a bunch of unknown Canucks and getting to see arguably the best city-wide example of Art Deco architecture in the world, I chose Art Decoville.

And I forgot my camera.

Napier's architecture is the silver lining of a disaster that just celebrated its 77th anniversary. On February 3rd, 1931 (ah, Wikipedia), Hawke's Bay was hit with a 7.9 earthquake. The ruination was thorough, and at least 256 people died. But with the slate thus wiped clean, Napier set about a tremendous rebuilding.



Now, as far as tragedies go, this one had much more upside than the average. First off, it drained a nearby lagoon, enlarging the city's footprint by a good 40 km^2. It also had damn fine timing. Art Deco was a hot new style and there were heaps of talented architects with greatly depressed careers willing to travel halfway across the world for a pretty little devastated port town. A decade or two ago, people took notice of those buildings under the faded paint. Napier held a few bake sales, tidied itself up, and became New Zealand's first World Heritage Site.



And my, how people took notice. I stayed at a place called the Criterion Art Deco Backpackers, which was just down the street from Deco Retail, Art Deco Salon, and, of course, the Art Deco Center. It was the top floor (the city held itself to an unofficial two-story limit; sensible, but given that my biggest touchstone for Art Deco architecture is the Chrysler Building, a damn shame) of a charming Spanish Mission building, had a spacious common room and always felt as though it only held half as many guests as were actually booked. I was still feeling fairly sore and wilted from the previous day's epic, so I spent most of my time relaxing here. I wandered around looking at buildings, of course, and visited the aquarium, where I walked through a glass tunnel under the oceanarium ogling sharks and saw the corpse of a Giant Squid (and I forgot my camera!).

But Napier was still somehow underwhelming. It's hard to pin down exactly why-- it was a gorgeous, sunny city by the ocean, it was incredibly aesthetically consistent and interesting, it was cleverly planned and charming almost to a fault. Part of it was the over-use of pastels, however period-correct. Mostly, though, it just felt too self-conscious as a city. Coming in, I flirted with the notion of staying here if Wellington didn't work out. Coming out, it felt like living here would be a bit like marrying Tammy Faye Bakker*. Napier was awfully pretty; if only it took off its makeup and relaxed a bit, it would be ideal.



*Yes, I realize how flawed this analogy is, but I couldn't think of a more iconic wearer of makeup, so it's the analogy you're getting.

Turangi Vice

From Taupo we drove an hour south to Turangi. Not the town itself, a quiet collection of lawns and fishing shops that close early, but to Tongariro Holiday Park. It cost about the same as a hostel per night, but was much more akin to the campgrounds of family roadtrips past. There were RVs, which are rather more modest creatures than their American counterparts, and places to pitch a tent if one is so equipped and inclined. We set up in a rather unassuming little room featuring a single bed bunked atop a double. When Mike asked which I would prefer, I magnanimously took the bigger one. The local grocery store had closed, so our only option for food was the in-house restaurant run by a gruff, tattooed piece of gristle named Greg. Despite his deep underlying friendliness, Mike was quite intimidated by him. He would be perfect as a tangential presence at Work Gang. Thinking of the free ranging cows dotting the landscape, I ordered a burger-- it came with cheese, onions, a tomato, and some beets. Beets on burgers is apparently a Kiwi staple. One of the more inspired ones, I think.

The next morning (far too early the next morning-- we were breakfasted and gone by 7:30) we set out for the famous Tongariro Crossing, reputed to be one of the best one-day hikes the country has to offer. I had wool socks and Mike had boots, so between us we were properly equipped. One of the campsite's employees rode with us-- he wasn't insured to drive any passengers on the job, but he was insured to drive the car to us at the end of the trail and get a ride home. Quite a clever system, really.

At the trailhead, we slathered our exposed bits with sunscreen and went to the tap to top off our water bottles, at which point I discovered I had forgotten mine. This was, in fact, a huge deal. We were facing a day-long trek, the majority of which was sandy, exposed desert with only a liter of water between us. Luckily, a nearby trash can overflowed with the empties of crossers previous, and I got to learn how much sooner I get over my compunctions about germs than my companion (about 4 minutes sooner).

And so we set out. On paper, the crossing took seven hours-- being slim young men, we figured we could fit in one of the three volcanoes along the trail and still be done in time to buy groceries. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I lobbied for Mt. Ngauruhoe because its steep, symmetrical slopes were the most picturesque and its loose, scree-covered surface seemed like an interesting challenge. It was so picturesque, in fact, that it played Mt. Doom in the Lord of the Rings movies. If it were any easier to climb, it would have been hopelessly tourist-ridden.

By the time we arrived at the base of Ngauruhoe, it had become clear Mike's blithe assumption that walking around a flat city completely prepared one for walking around mountainous terrain hadn't been borne out. Not a problem, but a bit of a letdown: I had been looking forward to a more demanding clip on my first camper-free hike in years. The amount of latitude we had to pick our own trail was surprising at first, but given the desolation of the rocky, volcanic terrain it made sense. A bit of wisdom gleaned from an old man I met on the slope: stay tight to the people ahead of you when there's a lot of loose rock, so that there isn't room for the inevitable dislodgings to gather speed.

During our climb we also met a man wearing a ring on a necklace. Mike posited he was a recent divorcée on a quest to throw his wedding ring into Mt. Doom, which more than made up for the bad driving.



The view wasn't bad either:



The descent was fantastic. Between the zigzag route and the many stops we (Mike, the old man, his son and I) took, going up took rather longer than the two hours the car guy had said. Going down, however, took a little less than the predicted twenty minutes. Descending in scree is wonderful fun-- where each step slid down four inches going up, they slid at least a foot going down. You hop from foot to foot, riding a tiny rockslide of your own creation. I decided I had earned some fun and stretched my legs out a little on the way down, outpacing my shorter, more timid companion. It seemed like a good idea at the time. The trail down ended a few hundred meters back from the Mt. Ngauruhoe trailhead. After shaking out the kilo of rocks collected in my shoes, I sat in the shade of a large rock and waited for Mike. And waited. And waited. I walked up the trail to where we had started. And waited. For an hour and a half, frustration mounting, I walked back and forth between spots, looking for the man. I could feel the backs of my knees starting to burn from facing up towards the slope so long, but the sunscreen was in Mike's bag. My water supply dwindled. I finally asked some Irish folks coming down if they'd seen anyone matching his description, and they had seen no one at all on the way down. I was the one with the cellphone to call our ride, and if we were to have any chance of a reasonably-priced dinner, I had to get a move on and hope Mike was ahead of me and not on the slope with a broken leg.

There were some really tremendous sights over the following few kilometers-- the Red Crater especially. The sun was behind a cloud when I took its photo-- it really doesn't do justice to the deep, rich red, the contrast of the grey hollow, or the sheer impact of the crater's steep plunge down from your feet as you perch on its highest lip. But I really didn't have any time to wait for better lighting.



The Emerald Lakes, in contrast, were lit beautifully and smelled like rotten eggs.



For the rest of the hike, things grew ever more verdant and stressful. On one hand, I got to set as fast a pace as I wanted (faster, even); on the other, I had caught neither sight nor smell of Mike, and dehydration was catching up to me. I got awfully cranky and even said some bad words. Gradually, though, the kilometers on the signposts counted down; trees grew to shade my sunburns (last time I leave the sunscreen with someone else); I found a spigot to refill my water. Rounding a corner, I saw within a hundred meters posts marking the trail's end and beyond them, cars. Scurrying forward, I entered the shelter at the carpark. Mike was nowhere to be found. I took off my shoes; I said more bad words. Five minutes later, a beautiful, dingy red sedan pulled up.

Given that I descended rather faster than Mike, I can't spot him the full hour and a half. Furthermore, he waited at the base of the trail up Mt. Ngauruhoe for 15-20 minutes I spent at the base of the trail down. I figure he had an hour head start. The whole time he was convinced I was ahead of him, so he hiked all extra fast. Bragging isn't polite, but I think I did a heck of a job getting to the trailhead within ten minutes of him. We even had time to get groceries.