How 'bout them apples!

It's not easy to admit when an apple gets the better of you. There I am, standing at the top of my ladder frustrated, exhausted, and trying to reach the last, highest apple I'll pick that day. I swear loudly, tug at it roughly and as it falls into my hand the branch which no longer has the weight of the apple holding it down rears back and slaps me fully across the face. Never again will I speak harshly to a piece of fruit, because I think it heard me.

This has been a week filled with first-time experiences for me. First time to do a full day of manual work. First time to talk to an apple. First time to get my arse kicked by a tree. Not that I have problems with manual labor, or conversations with fruit for that matter, I've just chosen occupations where daily injuries are usually at a minimum level. My body is not used to such treatment: I am battered and bruised, my back and shoulders are constantly sore, my hands look like they're about to fall off, my feet are falling off, and I'm having a surprisingly good time.

Every day this past week I've been up by six in the morning, which is easy to do when you're in bed by eight every night. As the sun rises, I drive to the orchard and soak up the beauty of the morning. I'm currently living in Marahau, a small community of about two hundred hippies living on the edge of the Abel Tasman National Park. Marahau consists of two streets, a kayak tour company, a bar, and the most stunning scenery that always manages to take my breath away. From there Carl and I drive over the hill to Riwaka, an even smaller "town" where the apples are waiting to be picked. Our crew consists of Neil, our Scottish foreman and a motley crew from Sweden, Germany, Brazil, Argentina, Chile, America and New Zealand. After general morning pleasantries I pop in my earphones, put my apple basket over my head and shoulders and head off to my row for the day.

Once I got over the pure exhaustion of the first few days, I realize how much I like apple picking. I show up and leave when I want, I get to be outside all day, I can listen to my music or chat to the other pickers, and I decide how much I'll make that day based on how hard I work. Sure picking apples can be menial and tedious, but I find that every day is different and full of challenges. Plus the sheer volume keeps it interesting. We get paid per bin, which is a giant wooden crate that must be filled to the brim. I can fit about one hundred apples in my bag, and each bin takes about twenty five bags. If I finish four bins that means I picked roughy ten thousand apples that day, which might explain why I've gone a bit loopy and entered into polite conversation with an inanimate object.

What amazes me even more is that I've never put much thought into where apples come from. As if they magically appear in the large bin in the supermarket, perfectly round and red, I have never really wondered who picked the fruit and vegetables I buy at the store. Who worked six days a week for minimum wage in rain or shine to bring me this crisp, delightful apple? And for that matter who milked the cow and harvested the coffee beans for my coffee? Who slaved in the paddies to bring me rice to accompany my vegetables bought at the market? Next time you go grocery shopping have a look where everything was from, and maybe offer up a small prayer of appreciation to the Gods that you were born on the receiving end of things, that you were born in a country of priviledge, and that you have the luxury to take these seemingly small things for granted. And if there are New Zealand apples there, I humbly ask that you offer up a smile for me and buy the Fugi, not the Braeburns, because I'll get paid more.

Zen and the Art of Van Maintenance

About a week ago I was having a little lie down and thinking about life. About how knowledge comes and goes, how some of it comes naturally and logically, while some comes through study or instruction. This may not seem like an odd moment, in fact it would have been quite normal had I not been lying under my van covered in grease with a mechanics jumper on.

Carl was sick and I couldn't help him. My basic car maintenance knowledge didn't help much because he has gas, oil and water and didn't need a tire change. I was in way over my head. Even more scary was the prospect of having to go to a mechanic where I would undoubtedly be overcharged for a minor problem and join the mass of suckers helping to pay off his holiday home. Stress found its way and snuggled up under my shoulder blade. Helplessness washed over me.

For travelers there is an ever-present awareness of being overcharged. I accept my fate in the face of poverty, or if I just can't be bothered, but usually a small amount of effort wields great results and is nicer to my wallet. In Viet Nam, for example, they are much more willing to negotiate extortionate prices if you can haggle in their numbers, so all I had to do was learn a few words to better my situation, my purse and make a Vietnamese person crack up laughing all at once! So I set about the task of speaking the language of mechanics, hoping it would help me out. After all, communication is all we have to bring this whole crazy world together.

My friend Rowan used to study auto electrician stuff so I dragged Carl over to his place for help. He said he would help and teach me if I actually paid attention, which is fair. We started by cleaning all of my spark plugs, thinking it was an electrical problem. I learned that Carl has four cylinders and eight spark plugs, which are all hard to get out, clean, and get back in. I learned that the distributor distributes electric spark from the coil to each spark plug in correct firing order. I learned that the carburetor blends an even air-fuel ratio for the engine. I learned that brake fluid is very important and that I should fill mine soon. I learned how to put my bumper back on.

After this exciting adventure in auto maintenance Carl drove for two whole days. Then the problems started again and Rowan calls back to say he is out of town but maybe it's the fuel pump. Stress ball back. Sensations of being overwhelmed flooding back. There is a mechanic a few streets away so Carl and I crawl down there and miraculously make it, and I drop every word I have just learned from Rowan so as to be only minimally taken advantage of. Tony the mechanic thinks it might be the disgusting fuel filter. I learn about fuel filters, go and buy a new one myself and we put it in together. Tony only charges me twenty bucks on account that I am an apt pupil.

Carl runs smoothly for a week, then dies again. I rip all of my hair out. My German hitchhiker Stephan and I push him to the nearest mechanic and I explain my woes. The three of us take the whole front of the van apart to check out the fuel pump. I am getting very greasy so I go put on a mechanics jumper I happen to have in the van, a lasting relic of the Wild Foods Festival. Graham the mechanic cracks up laughing and finally we are speaking the same language. I learned that there are manual and electric fuel pumps. I learned that there are external pumps and internal pumps. Mine is located internally within my fuel tank, and that I how I came to be lying down covered in grease thinking about all of my new-found knowledge while taking out my fuel tank, which is massive and very, very heavy. .

Now we get down to the real questions like why am I only learning this now after twenty-four years of life? Maybe it's the first time I've wanted to learn, but most likely it's because every other time I've had car problems I just call my Dad and he uses his magic Dad Powers to fix it! Good car care doesn't seem like the most popular information to pass from father to daughter, but hell, it's important.

Fathers of the World: Please teach your daughters about cars. Someday you might not be there to save the day and they will have to do it themselves.

To be honest, this has been one of the best adventures yet. I spent a month driving all over the South Island of New Zealand. (**Click on the link below to follow on the map) From Nelson I went up into Golden Bay to visit friends in Takaka. Then I picked up my friend Pernilla and we drove down the west coast, through Westport, to Barrytown, population 37, with one street, one beach, and one bar. If sand flies were angels, the west coast would be heaven....stunning and itchy. Heading south we drove through Greymouth to Hokitika for the Wild Foods Festival which should be listed as one of the 100 Things To Do Before You Die type thing. Everyone goes in a costume (enter Pernilla's mechanic jumpsuit) and eats weird food and drinks weird local beer and drinks. Don't try the Mountain Oysters (ie goat testicles). From there Pernilla went back to Nelson and I headed further south with Paul from Germany and Chris from Oregon. Interesting story about Chris, we met two years in a hostel in Panama. He recognized me from across a parking lot! This is a small, small world. So we went down to Franz Josef and Fox Glaciers for some hiking, then down to Wanaka and over to Queenstown. There we seperated and I went to stay with Zeb, one of the "family" from Nelson. He's a white water raft guide, and he took me along for a day of amazing rafting, which I found out I'm really bad at. I stayed in Q-town a lot longer than expected, but finally escaped to Dunedin, only to be reunited with Paul and another guy from the festival named Ben. There three of us went all the way to the southernmost tip of the south island in an area called the Catlins. Imagine waking up on a perfect, deserted beach next to a group of sea lions, seals, penguins, dolphins or albatross and you might have an inkling of what we saw. Three days down there in paradise, then I dropped the boys off in Dunedin and rocketed up the east coast through Oamaru, Timaru, a night in Christchurch where I finally found a Vietnamese food restaurant where I could order my food in Vietnamese to a very stunned waiter. One day in Akaroa to see Hector dolphins, the smallest, rarest dolphins in the world, then up through Kaikoura where you can see seals sunning on the side of the coastal highway, and back to Nelson for the goodbye party of my darling Mishaela that I promised I'd be at. And here I am.

Quite an adventure for Carl and I, plus a couple thousand kilometers. I'm hardly surprised he needed a new fuel pump after all that! Currently I'm working at an orchard picking apples, but that is a different story entirely. To be continued...