bellbirds and tui, the raucous cries of the kakas and red-crowned parakeets. It is easy to imagine spirits in the forest watching my every move. A plump New Zealand pigeon balances heavily above on a tree branch. The bird is disproportionately fat; like a bumblebee, it hardly seems capable of flying.
At the tops of ridges, where the higher ground collects more rainfall, everything is smothered in a fuzzy thick carpet of ground ferns: drooping spleenworts, filmy, chain and hound’s tongue ferns. It is impossible to see the forest floor, or the branches or trunks of trees. From the perspective of the aircraft, the forest below had looked impenetrably thick, uniform and intimidating. But from within the forest it is surprisingly open, yet with a sense of intimacy and femininity. My heart heaves, with a passion far more profound than I could have imagined. Alone in the midst of this vibrant rainforest, I feel a sensuality of being that borders on erotic.
I lower my pack to the ground and sit beside a stream stained rusty by tannin. Removing my boots and socks, I dangle my feet in the cool current. There is nothing to fear. Lying in the prolific vegetation, my face to the side, nose close to the ground, I breathe deeply. If I could, I would bottle the moist fragrance of the New Zealand rainforest so that I might open it later and recall the
essence of these feelings. Eerie sounds of unseen bellbirds ring magically from somewhere deep in the forest, echoing my enchantment.
I wait by the wharf for the catamaran ferry service back to the South Island. A hefty woman in a lumberjack’s jacket stomps around the office.
She barks at me in a strong Kiwi accent: ‘Throwyourpeckinthetuboutthebeckthire.’
I cannot comprehend what she is saying. I ask her to repeat it, but still cannot understand. ‘Sorry, could you say that just one more time?’
The woman looks skyward and swaggers out in a huff. She crashes the forklift truck around the dock for a bit, as if dispelling her frustrations with the foreign punter.
A woman in the waiting room says, in a more understandable accent: ‘Don’t worry about Kathy, she gets like that sometimes.’
As we cross the straits between Stewart Island and Bluff, the port serving Invercargill, huge swells thrust the boat forward like a surfboard on the crest of an infinite series of waves. The catamaran skitters about as the force of the surge lifts us from behind. At the open back of the boat, diesel fumes eddy around us, making me nauseous. Kathy the lumberjack-turned-sailor busily stomps around the deck throwing coils into ropes.
I timidly ask: ‘Do you have any anti-seasick pills on board?’
‘In the cabin on the right-hand side, there’s a first-aid box with a plastic bottle. Take a couple of those. They work fast.’
Funny how I can understand her now. ‘I hope so,’ I reply, with the deliberate threat of puking over her clean boat. She actually smiles for the first time. I stumble into the cabin, which immediately makes me feel sicker, locate the first-aid box and grab the plastic bottle. Instead of two pills, I take three for good measure, replace the bottle, and emerge onto the deck. Maybe if I keep my
eyes focused on the horizon … I wait for the pills to take effect, but I feel worse rather than better.
‘How’re you going?’ Kathy asks, still smiling. Her thick legs balance against the pitch and roll of the boat like a tree trunk, while I am thrown about the deck like a loose cannon.
‘I feel like I’m going to puke,’ I reply. This is not an idle threat.
That changes her demeanour. ‘Take another pill. That should definitely do it. Works for everyone else,’ she adds.
If she really cared, she would get me the pills herself. I lurch below deck again, swallow another two pills, and quickly resurface. I wait for the medicine to take effect but there don’t seem to be any curative effects from these particular seasick pills. Maybe it’s too late. The boat is
At the tops of ridges, where the higher ground collects more rainfall, everything is smothered in a fuzzy thick carpet of ground ferns: drooping spleenworts, filmy, chain and hound’s tongue ferns. It is impossible to see the forest floor, or the branches or trunks of trees. From the perspective of the aircraft, the forest below had looked impenetrably thick, uniform and intimidating. But from within the forest it is surprisingly open, yet with a sense of intimacy and femininity. My heart heaves, with a passion far more profound than I could have imagined. Alone in the midst of this vibrant rainforest, I feel a sensuality of being that borders on erotic.
I lower my pack to the ground and sit beside a stream stained rusty by tannin. Removing my boots and socks, I dangle my feet in the cool current. There is nothing to fear. Lying in the prolific vegetation, my face to the side, nose close to the ground, I breathe deeply. If I could, I would bottle the moist fragrance of the New Zealand rainforest so that I might open it later and recall the
essence of these feelings. Eerie sounds of unseen bellbirds ring magically from somewhere deep in the forest, echoing my enchantment.
I wait by the wharf for the catamaran ferry service back to the South Island. A hefty woman in a lumberjack’s jacket stomps around the office.
She barks at me in a strong Kiwi accent: ‘Throwyourpeckinthetuboutthebeckthire.’
I cannot comprehend what she is saying. I ask her to repeat it, but still cannot understand. ‘Sorry, could you say that just one more time?’
The woman looks skyward and swaggers out in a huff. She crashes the forklift truck around the dock for a bit, as if dispelling her frustrations with the foreign punter.
A woman in the waiting room says, in a more understandable accent: ‘Don’t worry about Kathy, she gets like that sometimes.’
As we cross the straits between Stewart Island and Bluff, the port serving Invercargill, huge swells thrust the boat forward like a surfboard on the crest of an infinite series of waves. The catamaran skitters about as the force of the surge lifts us from behind. At the open back of the boat, diesel fumes eddy around us, making me nauseous. Kathy the lumberjack-turned-sailor busily stomps around the deck throwing coils into ropes.
I timidly ask: ‘Do you have any anti-seasick pills on board?’
‘In the cabin on the right-hand side, there’s a first-aid box with a plastic bottle. Take a couple of those. They work fast.’
Funny how I can understand her now. ‘I hope so,’ I reply, with the deliberate threat of puking over her clean boat. She actually smiles for the first time. I stumble into the cabin, which immediately makes me feel sicker, locate the first-aid box and grab the plastic bottle. Instead of two pills, I take three for good measure, replace the bottle, and emerge onto the deck. Maybe if I keep my
eyes focused on the horizon … I wait for the pills to take effect, but I feel worse rather than better.
‘How’re you going?’ Kathy asks, still smiling. Her thick legs balance against the pitch and roll of the boat like a tree trunk, while I am thrown about the deck like a loose cannon.
‘I feel like I’m going to puke,’ I reply. This is not an idle threat.
That changes her demeanour. ‘Take another pill. That should definitely do it. Works for everyone else,’ she adds.
If she really cared, she would get me the pills herself. I lurch below deck again, swallow another two pills, and quickly resurface. I wait for the medicine to take effect but there don’t seem to be any curative effects from these particular seasick pills. Maybe it’s too late. The boat is
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