[Redacted] Bar Ends Badly?

I am completely blown away. As a matter of personal standards, I’ve refrained thus far from writing about the appalling management at the [Redacted] Bar where I have worked since December. However, after tonight, I can’t help but share the Golden Moment.

For background — the [Redacted] Bar is owned  by two men who — in my experience and opinion — are nice, fun, easygoing guys. It makes it hard to believe  the murmurings that claim they are impulsive and abusive to their “duty managers1*A “duty manager” is a term from New Zealand liquor laws. Any establishment that serves alcohol must have a “duty manager” present at all times. To be a duty manager you need six months of experience working around alcohol in New Zealand and then you have to take a class and pass a test about liquor laws. At a fundamental level, duty managers are only responsible for what’s happening with alcohol. However, from a business’ perspective, in lieu of the duty manager requirement, it makes sense to have this person also be the shift manager. Because all duty managers have purchased their credentials, it’s not altogether uncommon for them to lack critical components of a management skill set — most noticeably in the personnel department..” Next there are two general managers — one who is spot on and rather hilarious and doesn’t really deal much with staff. The other is a young woman for whom, thanks to a growing series of unprofessional behaviors and responsibility failures, I have lost a lot of respect. Below them, there are three “duty managers.” The first is a brilliant ray of sunshine, the next is a sweet, often exasperated young woman, and the last is generally aggressive and abusive. I’m sure it’s obvious that the characters involved in the Golden Moment are Unprofessional General Manager (we’ll call her Helga) and Abusive Duty Manager (let’s say she’s Bertha).

The unstable and abusive [Redacted] Bar’s “Bertha.”

The night before the Golden Moment was St. Patrick’s Day. “Bertha” was on as Duty Manager. Working with her is unnerving in the same way being a repairman in a psychiatric ward could be. Everything seems to be  going fine, until she suddenly explodes over tiny things. In a brush of true irony, she’ll do a 180 the following shift and have another explosion over the same issue, but with the opposite demand. Couple this with the negatively administrated [establishment’s] standard to “always be doing the right thing at the right time,” and we have a recipe for unavoidable drama.

As per usual, we had our normal after-work rush sprinkled with periods of calm. There were too many of us working (four people behind the bar tripping over one another, plus “Bertha”) – a common occurrence that frustrates everyone. “Bertha” had already seized many opportunities to give the younger staff aggressively delivered directives about busywork they should have thought to do the minute no customers were clamoring for attention. “Go wash the already-clean TAB tables! Empty the super hot glasswasher! Restock the two missing chiller glasses!”

I made the unforgivable mistake of preempting Bertha’s powers of observation. Four of us were standing behind the bar with no customers in sight. I told the most senior girl that I was going to go do a chore in the bottle store and to call for me if it got busy again. Not two minutes had gone by before Bertha stormed into the bottle store and demanded to know “what the hell” I was doing.

I tried to reply, but Bertha seized the opportunity for one of her rants. She pummeled me with a diatribe that went something like, “No! You can’t be  out here doing NOTHING when we’re BUSY! Get back in the bar RIGHT NOW! Behind the bar is where I need you!” Amongst her explosion, I managed to squeeze in an explanation that we weren’t busy when I started doing what I’m supposed to do when we’re not busy.

When we walked through to the bar, all three other staff were standing there doing nothing, just as I’d left them.

I said to Bertha, “This is *exactly* what it was like when I left.”

Bertha yelled over her shoulder, “COME HERE!” as she stormed into the back room.

I poked my head through the doorway, she locked her eyes on mine, and just about spit as she demanded “GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW!” and pointed vehemently at her feet.

Now, I’ve been in plenty of similar situations with Bertha. I am always the “bigger person,” taking her verbal abuse on the chin while staying calm and collected in spite of the fact that almost everything she throws a fit about is illogical. This time, I was more flabbergasted than ever before. I was about to get yelled at for a completely reasonable choice. Not to mention I firmly disagree that yelling at anyone is acceptable management behavior.

So I calmly and evenly said, “No. I’m not going to come in here so you can tell me off. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Bertha totally lost it and yelled, “FINE. THEN GO HOME!”

You may find it mildly surprising that this was not the Golden Moment.

I happily left, having just lucked into having St. Patrick’s night off with my sweetie and satisfied that I’d sent a fair, clear, calm message to Bertha that the way she treats people is unacceptable.

Free Holiday Evening Off!!

Throughout the evening, as I told my story to people, I discovered that what she had done is supposedly illegal 2once someone starts a shift in New Zealand, they can’t be sent home until they’ve worked a certain amount of time.  Or at the very least, they still have to be paid for their time, even if they are sent home, and that no one who knows her was even a tiny bit  surprised at her behavior.

The Golden Moment took place the following evening.

Unprofessional General Manager Helga was filling in as duty manager. I assumed the prior evening’s bizarre yet all-too-common events were water under the bridge, like always. When Bertha arrived an hour later, I said hello to her and received a glare in response. I poured drinks while Bertha disappeared into the back room.  I looked around and realized Helga was gone, too.  About 20 minutes passed and Bertha came striding out of the back room, and snootily announced, “Helga wants to see you in her office.”

The door to the the tiny closet used to conduct business was open, so I wandered in and grabbed the second chair .  Helga took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and said sternly — in her no-nonsense British clip – “I’ve just spoken to [Bertha] about what happened last night and you NEED to go apologize to her RIGHT now. When a duty manager tells you to do something you NEED to do it.”

The unprofessional GM “Helga.”

I replied, “Helga, I’m more than happy to apologize to her, but you should know I didn’t do anything wro-.”

As per her appalling, recent standard, Helga cut me off, saying, “Jema, I don’t care, and I DON’T want ANY attitude about this. YOU NEED to apologize to her and if you don’t like it, you can finish  3“Finish” is how New Zealanders (and maybe Aussies, Brits, etc?) refer to getting off work. You friend might phone you and say, “You finish at six, right? Want to grab a drink afterward?” RIGHT NOW.”

A short back-and-forth ensued with me asking Helga if it was okay for managers to behave unprofessionally  and Helga telling me to stop giving her attitude and that if I didn’t like it I shouldn’t work there anymore. I left the office shining Helga on with my lack of “attitude” and mulled my options of either apologizing to Bertha or ending my Wanaka stint at the [Redacted] Bar.

When I walked out front, Bertha was talking to customers. I resisted the urge to go up to her and make a small display of my apology. Instead, I turned on my heel and went into the back room to evaluate  my position. I had five shifts remaining, having already given my  planned notice  awhile ago. So, I went back out front, picked up my bag, filled in my time card, found Helga, and apologetically said, “Look, I’m sorry, but this is really inappropriate, and I just can’t.   So, I guess I’m going to go.”

And that  was the Golden Moment.

I feel like things went about as well as they could. I didn’t come apart and yell back, I kept my cool, and I stuck up for my principles. I didn’t agree to continue being abused in exchange for money. Now I have an unexpected thirteen days to plan our onward  journey, catch up my archives, and enjoy life in Wanaka!

References

References
↑1 *A “duty manager” is a term from New Zealand liquor laws. Any establishment that serves alcohol must have a “duty manager” present at all times. To be a duty manager you need six months of experience working around alcohol in New Zealand and then you have to take a class and pass a test about liquor laws. At a fundamental level, duty managers are only responsible for what’s happening with alcohol. However, from a business’ perspective, in lieu of the duty manager requirement, it makes sense to have this person also be the shift manager. Because all duty managers have purchased their credentials, it’s not altogether uncommon for them to lack critical components of a management skill set — most noticeably in the personnel department.
↑2 once someone starts a shift in New Zealand, they can’t be sent home until they’ve worked a certain amount of time.  Or at the very least, they still have to be paid for their time, even if they are sent home
↑3 “Finish” is how New Zealanders (and maybe Aussies, Brits, etc?) refer to getting off work. You friend might phone you and say, “You finish at six, right? Want to grab a drink afterward?”

Hippie Logistics: How to Live in a Van

living in a van - a Mazda Bongo hippie van! Hippie van living wasn't easy, but we definitely picked up tips on how to live in a van

Living in a van wan’t easy, or always warm. By the end of our Mazda Bongo hippie van experience, we’definitely become experts on how to live the van life. Organization, less-is-more, and don’t sweat the small stuff!

We are back to living in a van again. When we first figured out how to live in a van back in December, it seemed like a pretty big deal. What started as a test of our ability to endure hardship, has actually become a pleasant existence! Thanks to my pastoral proclivities, hippie van living will probably not feature on any large scale in the next 40 years. For now, though, it’s great!

(Related: How Much It Costs to Live in a Van)

Rather listen than read?

FAQ’s about How to Live in a Van:

Where do you shower?

Thanks to my commitment to fitness, this is not a problem. A look in my laundry bag reveals the mediocrity of my present life: work uniforms and workout clothes are all I need to do all I do. The first of my living in a van tips: join a gym, work out everyday, and shower thereafter. We did have one mishap when our gym wasn’t open!

Where do you go to the bathroom?

Well, see #1. The gym is usually my first stop in my daily van life. If not, that means I went straight to work, where there are also toilets. In a pinch, touristy Wanaka luckily has lots of public restrooms scattered around the town. Grocery stores and gas stations are a last resort. This part of living in a van is not a problem in tourist towns.

gym bathroom in Wanaka that I used while I was living in a hippie van

Living in a van means having many bathrooms”

Where do you get your food?” 1This how-to-live-in-a-van question posed to me by a lawyer from New York.

The grocery store. Ha ha! No, really. They have fruits and vegetables and whole grains and meat and everything. Okay”¦ the back of our hippie van has a wooden shelving unit that is our pantry. We have a “chilly bin” (cooler) for dairy, meat, etc., and we have two cookstoves on which the tall man makes delicious meals like stir fry, tacos, lentil stew, chicken and rice, etc.

Tall man cooking food in the back of a hippie van - creating a good cooking set up is a big part of figuring out how to live in a van

Perks of hippie van living – your own personal bearded chef! Creating a good cooking set up is a big part of figuring out how to live in a van.

How do you wash your clothes?

Laundry is tricky when living in a hippie van. It’s similar to RV living. We could hand wash in tubs, but laundromats are cool. I will own one some day.

Where do you sleep?

In the hippie van! Okay, this can actually be a tough one.

We do our best to sleep for free. This is the point of living in a van, isn’t it? When we can’t we sometimes stay in campgrounds. For Americans who have to pay to camp, this friend referral link for HipCamp – like AirBnb for camping – will cut your cost by $20. In New Zealand, DOC has some really cheap ($5) or free campgrounds. In Canada, Crown Land can be camped on for free. Japan and Australia both have lots of free camping. In the US, you can camp free in National Forests.

man sleeping in a van - how to live in a van - build a sleeping platform with storage underneath

Our hippie van “sleeping quarters.” Living in a van requires some logistical hurdles not unlike RV living, but it’s worth it!

But when you’re in a city like us, you have to be careful when sleeping for free. No one likes weird hippie van people parked in front of their house (at least I didn’t at my former residence). To make matters more difficult, there is actually an anti-van culture in New Zealand. As is common, the few have ruined living in a van for the many. 2Human waste has been found in places frequented by campervans, causing local communities frustration aimed at anyone living in a van. I suspect New Zealanders might look to their own citizens a little more often in the blame game — a recent police report elaborated on actually catching a local in the act. Nonetheless, the stereotype is stuck in the popular mind. To complicate matters further, many campervans are rentals with outspoken paint jobs. The worst are “Wicked” campervans complete with offensive quips painted across the rear of the van. One of the best living-in-a-van tips I can give is to be ready to deal with lots of stereotypes.

wickedcampers hippie van offer something more like RV living with all the amenties

Living in a van can be difficult with awful hippie vans like this everywhere. How to live in a van 101: avoid wild paint jobs!

The local city council has hired a man with a passion for ousting campervans from public places. His name is Roy and he goes around at 4 a.m. pounding on the windows of any vehicle that looks like it could be slept in and announces that the police are “following him around” and will “be here in a few minutes to give you a $500 fine and take your van off you for up to two weeks if you’re still here.” A Kiwi friend of mine says he and his friends just tell Roy “where he can stick it” and Roy leaves nasty notes on their windshields, but that’s all. However, in May, a law goes into effect that allows campervans to be fined up to $20,000 for “freedom camping.”

So, how do we deal with this sensitive issue? Don’t laugh. I keep a chart of all the different places we’ve found to park while living in a van. I make sure that we don’t stay in the same place more than once in seven days. These spots include parking lots, quiet neighborhoods, industrial areas, and dead-end roads. We also vacate these places right around sunrise 3which in the height of summer’s longest days was a bit miserable. We’ve had offers from friends to park at their houses, but that’s a bit awkward since there is no social script for that sort of thing. Do you announce your arrival? Have a chat? Do you say goodbye? Do you just leave them be? If we got asked to leave someplace, we’d take a friend up on their offer. Let’s hope it never comes to that!

Where do you “live?”

This is the best part of living in a van! The lakefront has a long, narrow parking lot with a dazzling view to accommodate all the tourists. The best wireless internet deal in town 4Internet is NEVER free in New Zealand. Even at the library!!! is from the information center on the waterfront. When I’m not at work or running errands, I park at the waterfront, write, email, organize myself, cook, do paperwork, make U.S. phone calls, clean “house,” etc.

Couple on shore of mountain lake while living in a hippie van and figuring out best practices for how to live in a van

Another perk when you live in a van, places like this are your front/backyard!

So why is living in a van great?

First of all, when not at work, I’m always “outside,” which I love. Also, the simplicity of living in a van is a beautiful thing. My mental health is directly related to how “organized” or “sorted” I feel. If I have lots of unaccomplished adult tasks in my life — laundry piled up, dirty dishes in the sink, floors need vacuumed, clothes need folded, clutter on the kitchen table needs put away — a sense of failure keeps me stressed out until those things are accomplished. At “home,” it’s common to deal with that stress by snuggling up with a book or vegging out on the internet or T.V. for hours. Living in a hippie van, you have to face the music. Everything takes place on the same surface, which, in its final hours, serves as a bed. Therefore everything has to be done by bedtime!

working area inside the hippie van - an indoor clothesline is part of the system for how to live in a van or RV living

This is the essence of living in a van.

There you have it: how to live in a van!

We try to tread lightly in our hippie van. We recognize that if everyone was living in a van, even if they were all New Zealand taxpayers like us, the resources that aren’t currently at capacity (parking, bathrooms, etc.) would be maxed out. I am thankful to get to try out this hippie van living and learn its lessons! ♣

Read about jobless, traveling van life in Hippie Logistics: Part II.

If you’re new to the lifestyle, you’ll relate to:  Why a Hard-Working Perfectionist”¦ Doesn’t Want a Job
Flying to your van-travel destination? Get there with free flights!
When you want to take breaks from living in your van, Become a Housesitter.
If you need to cash up, consider these 24 Jobs for Travelers.
When you start craving being a part of something, Work Exchange!

References

References
↑1 This how-to-live-in-a-van question posed to me by a lawyer from New York.
↑2 Human waste has been found in places frequented by campervans, causing local communities frustration aimed at anyone living in a van. I suspect New Zealanders might look to their own citizens a little more often in the blame game — a recent police report elaborated on actually catching a local in the act. Nonetheless, the stereotype is stuck in the popular mind.
↑3 which in the height of summer’s longest days was a bit miserable
↑4 Internet is NEVER free in New Zealand. Even at the library!!!

The Mailman Drives a Moped: quirks in Kiwi-land

Only two more weeks of work left in Wanaka!! Before we depart, I thought I’d record, for posterity’s sake, what it’s like here.

The Luggate Hotel (synonymous with "Pub") where I work a few times a week. (It's owned by the owners of the Bullock Bar where I also work).

My favorite thing about the town, of course, is the scenery. It’s a bustling, picturesque tourist hub. I couldn’t pull 70-hour work weeks for months on end in a city and stay reasonably sane. I need greenery, water, snow capped peaks, etc. I love waking up and spending my days under the watchful eyes of the “Wanaka Woman” – the town’s dominant ridgeline.

The "Wanaka Woman" watching over the town - I think she looks sort of like a regal mummy with her arms folded over her chest. But you can imagine what the popular opinion is.

The summer weather, by central Otago* standards, has been terribly “cold” and “rainy.” These terms attempt to express that it’s been more like 70’s and often overcast, than high 80’s and blazing sun. Because I gave up my summer to work when work is plentiful and placed my bet on a fantastic fall, I am a bit relieved. So far, it’s the right choice. Now fingers crossed for a warm autumn!

*Otago is the area in which we presently live. It’s sort of like a “state,” but NZ doesn’t have states.

Typical Wanaka architecture - so weird!

The architecture, specifically in the neighborhoods, can be quite strange. Apparently the avant garde style of the day is in futuristic materials with classic lines from the 1970’s. The look is very “Jetson’s,” and I can’t say I like it very much! However, wood and stone are also popular and have contributed to many beautiful structures.

One of my favorite Wanaka homes - I think the stones and wood take the edge off the 70's style.

Wanaka, by Kiwi* standards, is a very, very expensive town – one of the most expensive places in the country. Things are astronomically priced, in general. We can’t wait to see our monthly grocery bill plummet when we leave here. It will be interesting to start comparing Wanaka with the rest of New Zealand. To my shock, kiwi fruit — practically the national fruit — is $4 a kilo! A pint of cheap beer here is $6. It’s come to seem quite normal, but I guess it’s similar to the U.S. when considering the difference in minimum wage.
*I’ve said before that New Zealanders call themselves Kiwis, right? After a rare bird found here?

Random Wanaka adorations:

1) The mailman drives a moped. This is so funny to me. There are big vans for packages and the like, but all other mail arrives by moped!

2) No traffic lights! This is a common feature in all of New Zealand. Traffic circles are a cheaper alternative to lights and are used everywhere. It’s also far more common to have yield signs at major intersections. It feels a bit dangerous sometimes, but usually it’s just nice.

3) Pembroke Park — a giant expanse of nothing more than grass just off the six main blocks of town.

4) Bullock Creek — a quaint little stream that regularly cross in my comings and goings.

5) Stubbies! – this isn’t just Wanaka, but all of Southland, I’m told (Southland is equivalent to the Midwest in the states). Stubbies are what they call shorts that are higher than mid-thigh when worn by men. I find it hilarious that all these blue collar men are running around building things, doing construction, managing sewage treatment plants, farming and ranching, acting as plumbers and electricians and engineers while wearing insanely short shorts. I’ve taken to running down the street after them snapping covert photos.

Stubbies!

These are the same men who turn up for a “Deer Stalkers Demo” at the bar where I work.   Imagine my mild surprise when I walk into the keg room to find two dead deer on the floor.   By 8 p.m. that night, a stage was set up, a pulley was hung, and the bloody platform was surrounded by a transfixed audience of mostly beer drinking males.   Wanaka!

Clockwise from top left - the deer in the chiller as seen from the bar; the demo; the deer in the chiller as I first encountered them; the aftermath and our new chef who "cooked off" "heaps" of the venison (it was amazing).

Overall, I like Wanaka lots. It would be an amazing place to come as a tourist. It’s a little sleepy from a resident’s perspective. I’m looking forward to being done with work in a few weeks and finally partaking in all the play Wanka has to offer — kayaking, amazing bike trails, wine tasting, glacier hikes, Puzzling World, in-town day hikes, etc. So excited!!

Deer/Elk farms are popular here. This one is by the airport. I drive past each time I work at the Luggate country pub.

toMAYto, toMAHto: Kiwi-isms and two-month highlights

Well, I am officially tired of working! Staffing shortages at both my jobs have led to 70+ hour work weeks, which was not how I intended to spend my time in Wanaka. The goal was to work in a South Island playground to maxamize fun on our days off. Well, turns out I don’t have any! I know I’m not getting much sympathy from those who know me well. Somehow I always do this to myself. I guess I’m an addict? I consider quitting one of the jobs everyday in favor of more time to relax, plan our onward journey, write, and maybe lay the groundwork to do more freelance work on the road. I quickly lose myself in circular reasoning involving the fact that I don’t love either of the jobs, and the pros and cons are strangely polarized.

On a lighter note, Kiwi-isms are seeping into my speech, and my vigilance is waning. Ketchup here is “toMAHto sauce.” In an evening shift, I reference this particular substance anywhere from 6 — 20 times. To avoid repeating myself, I’ve given this one over to the dark side. Otherwise it’s, “Would you like ketchup? [quizzical look] I mean toMAYto sauce. [continue look] You know, toMAHto sauce?.” At my other job we have lots of tomatoes — slow roasted, cherry, and sliced — so “toMAHto” is rubbing off there as well. Kiwi’s also say “reckon” instead of “think.” As in, “How many do you reckon we’ll have in tonight?” Or “I reckon it should only take twenty minutes or so.” I reckon the word has taken up permanent residence in my vocabulary!

Activites of note during the last two months included:

  1. Birthday celebrations! Pat planned a fantastic day for our birthdays (we’re a year and three days apart). Sleeping in, breakfast at Tango’s cafe, hiking up Roy’s Peak, picnicing, and a fancy dinner at The Landing — he’s hired!

    My favorite view from our birthday hike up Roy's Peak

  2. Challenge Wanaka — a huge iron distance triathlon (165 miles!) held in and around Wanaka. It’s a big deal. Elite athletes and common folk come from around the world and pay thousands (yes, thousands) to enter. A few of my coworkers did it, and I volunteered at a running aid station. It was intense to be finding out what an athlete wants only seconds before grabbing it in time to jog alongside as they sprint past.

    An athelete coming down the Challenge Wanaka trail

  3. Dog sitting! Barker and Scruffy were our companions for six weeks. Barker is a cranky old man who loves you but doesn’t know how to be anything but protective and gruff. Scruffy is a silly, sweet, bum wagging dog who is completely loyal. They were fun, and we miss them!

  4. Anniversary No. Five — P at and I just keep on keeping on! We’re still laughing most days and still very much in love. We spent a few days at a lodge in the New Zealand wilderness to celebrate. It was so good to get away and spend time together doing nothing!

    My favorite view on our anniversary escape

  5. Black Market Penicillin — because I am not a citizen of New Zealand, medical care is expensive. I knew from experience that I had tonsilitis, wasn’t getting better, and could get a whole lot worse. I was miserable enough to start asking farmers what kind of antibiotics they kept around for their stock. Miraculously, upon sharing my tale of woe with a friend, he exclaimed, “I have a course of penicillin!” (And yes, Mom, it was the right kind. It was prescribed, but he never took it. Don’t worry!).

  6. Care Packages! – Our families and friends have been giving us the royal treatment — first Christmas, then our birthdays, then Valentines Day, then a special supplies shipment and lots of little surprises… In the wake of 70 hour work weeks, coming home at night to a care package makes it all better!

More pictures, if you’d like, at:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=274349&id=500324216&l=3791b7adf6

My Boyfriend has a Fu Manchu

The short version catch-up: I’m still in New Zealand, still in the tourist-capital of Wanaka, and still bartending/waitressing at the Bullock Bar. New is – I’ve been house/dog sitting for a month, and I took a second job (!) in the kitchen of a cafe.

Pat in the kitchen where we house-sat

I’ve been working tons of hours or engaged in daily life or desperately needing sleep at all blogging opportunities for the last month! My work week is generally about 60 hours, and around that I squeeze in adult tasks like laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, showering, fitness maintenance, and sometimes sleep. It’s been really nice, after living in the van for a month, to spend these six weeks at a house. However, I am realizing the more opportunities I have, the busier I am. Van life doesn’t allow for as many opportunities (I’m going to bake my own cereal! I’m going to try making kale chips!), and ironically it is less stressful.

Things have slowed down considerably at my first job. Now that we aren’t slammed every night, I’m mostly just working in “the grill.” It’s just the chef and I. When it’s busy, it’s “mental.” Never before have I seen a restaurant (that seats up to 55 people!) where a single person is the hostess, waitress, bartender, food runner, cashier, bus boy, AND the dishwasher! It works only because New Zealanders and most travelers are understanding and don’t expect to be waited on hand and foot. When people are rude to me or treat me like a scum-sucking servant, I’m embarrassed to say that they are *always* Americans.

My view from behind the bar in the Bullock Grill

My second job is a nice change of pace. It’s at the same cafe where I “trialed” and then the person whose shoes I’d have filled ended up staying. It’s probably the busiest cafe in town, in a great location and the owners are amazing, sweet people. It’s generally known as “Kai” or “Cafe Kai.” The whole name is Kai Whaka Pai, which means “food made better” in Maori. To my initial astonishment, it is pronounced “Kai Fuck-a Pie.” Whaka is a common Maori word. It feels strange to say it so casually all the time.   There are two or three of us in the kitchen who prep, plate food, cook, and wash dishes.

Laurie and James in the tiny Kai kitchen

Ironically both my jobs involve a component of dishwashing, and at first I was horrified. I feel, in American culture, jobs like housekeeping and dishwashing are heavily stigmatized. Here, having a certain background — be it engineering, admin, technology, teaching, etc — doesn’t make you anyone special. And very few people feel they are “too good” to do a certain task. I never would have expected being tricked into doing commercial dishes would have catalyzed personal growth, but here I am actually appreciating the experience!

Bullock Head Chef Reece backlit by the "washing up" area

As for the blog title, Pat is, for the first time in his life getting to experiment with the masculine miracle of facial hair. His post-pubescent life thus far has been spent in the military and behind an accounting desk. Suddenly he has a choice about his appearance and has gone wild! He hadn’t shaved or gotten a haircut since the day after Chris and Julie’s wedding at the beginning of September. A week or two ago, he finally got a trim and started his “manscaping.” It will probably be another month before he makes it back to the clean-shaven man I used to know. I just pray none of the stages in between involve a highway-patrolman’s mustache.

Pat's "chops and goatee" - one of the many stages of manscaping I have endured.

New Zealand Men Wear the Most Ridiculous Shorts

It’s the tail-end of a raging storm and I have been completely flattened by New Zealand New Year’s. I’ve spent nearly every night for the past two weeks behind a bar until the wee hours of the morning. I haven’t had the chance to see how busy other evening joints are, but we are absolutely slammed. After waitressing in the grill for five hours, I bartend for five more. The night before New Year’s, I sold over $3,000 in drinks, easily. I’m one of seven bartenders.

Christmas was fine. We both worked the days on either side of the holiday. Pat and I sort of opted out to avoid getting too homesick. We didn’t get each other gifts, but we did share a bottle of wine and some nice cheese on the shore of the lake!

Johnny the deer-hunting helicopter pilot, whom I adore, in the classic kiwi male get up - rugby shirt, rugby shorts (stubbies), and "jandals" (when worn by men, flip flops are ONLY called jandals).

It’s late spring here, and the local cherries can be had for $3 a pound in certain secret places. I’ve been gorging myself sick, but I love it and can’t stop. It rained so hard and so long here that the lake — over 30 miles long — rose ten feet. TEN FEET. We watched as the floating docks reached their limits and then slowly disappeared. Today the top six inches of the posts are finally peeking out of the water. I’m ashamed to say I haven’t been for a swim yet. After our first two weeks of unseasonably insanely warm weather up in Makarora, the next two weeks were chilly with constant gale force winds and rain. The forecast says a happy medium should be returning. Maybe that’s my New Year’s resolution. Swim in the lake at least once a week.

I’m busting out twelve hours tonight for New Year’s, so I’m off for a nap. Since New Zealand is one of the first countries to ring in midnight, let me preemptively welcome you to 2011!

Where Did You Get Your Accent?

So tonight, a couple from Minnesota wandered into the liquor store (“bottleshop” they say here) that I have to keep an eye on as part of my bartending duties. I conversed with them while they made their selection. While ringing up their purchases, they asked me, “Where did you get your accent?” Shockingly, they insisted that already I have somehow absorbed enough of New Zealand such that my speech and pronunciation are a bizarre cross of Kiwi and American English. Great.

Anyway, yes! I have a job! After six weeks wending our way southward, much wwoofing, vehicle acquisition, sightseeing, and lots of investigating all the local systems (jobs, taxes, housing, post, etc.), my short-term goal is officially acheived. Yay! I’ve got a lot of lines in the water, so to speak, but my primary occupation at present is bartender extrordinaire.

The pub employing me has quite a reputation locally — seems like people either love it or hate it. I was enamored instantly. How can a Wyoming woman not be in love with a bar that has hunting trophies on the wall, cheap beer, old men, and country music? I’m only on day three, but so far it’s been fun! The hardest part is understanding orders. Late at night, after the good ol’ boys go home, we get slammed with 18-30’s.

The South Island beer – local blue-collar boys take much pride in this beer. Pictured here in a “stubby” – the slang for 12 oz. bottles.

The shorthand that people use for ordering drinks is all greek to me. A “lemonade gin” or “lemon-lime” gin is Gordon’s with 7up/Sprite. A “Mount Gay and Dry” is a brand of rum with ginger ale. A “CC Dry” is Canadian Club whiskey with ginger ale BUT generally they mean they want it already pre-mixed in a bottle. Ready-to-drink or RTD’s are quite popular here, and so I always have to clarify — am I supposed to make the drink, or do you want the RTD? The standard rum is Coruba. Bacardi is rare. The standard vodka is some Russian concoction, not Smirnoff. Pints are handles, pitchers are jugs. I’m supposed to understand that something like “I’ll ‘ave ‘un ‘uh Timmy’s” means to get a beer out of a crate in the back with Timmy’s name on it. Top it all off with the bewildering Kiwi accent, and I end up calling for a translator every twentith order!

And now for more on the Kiwi Quirks front:

My two favorite words to hear Kiwi’s say as of late are “keen” and “wee.” Wee means small or little and is almost exclusively used in place of those words. Because it seems like a very feminine word to me, it is hilarious to hear the many fellows who are “men’s men” use this term. i.e. (gruffly) – “When I was a wee boy, I remember these streets being full of people.” “We just take our wee grill when we go fishing.” “Sure, I’ll have a wee bit more.” Hilarious!

I hear “keen” at least once a day. It doesn’t directly translate across cultures, but can mean enthusiastic, would-like-to, want-to, interested, etc. Some examples:

“Did you hear the new restaurant opens for breakfast at 7:30?” (that’s EARLY for kiwi’s!)

“WOW! They’re keen, aren’t they?”

Or – “Are you keen to have a few beers tonight?” “If you’re keen, we’ll give you a call as soon as we know. “I’d been keen to have a look at your bike if you’re around.” Or “Are you keen to work up front?” (This can also be said, “Are you ‘quite happy’ to work up front?” But I’ve never heard something like “Is it okay with you if we have you work up front?”)

All in all, very entertaining.   All is well in New Zealand!

Putting the Whine into Wine

Commercial farm work is back breaking stuff. In the U.S., it’s generally done by people who are somehow unqualified for other jobs and usually pays $50 a day — slightly more if lucky. In NZ, thanks to fierce labor laws and lack of cheap migrant labor, it’s done by all sorts of folks and pays $13.77/hr.

Lunchtime on the vines – Kirra the Vegan from Santa Cruz who would become a fixture in our Wanaka lives

The day I arrived in Wanaka, the Job Agency turned up work for me. It’s shoot-thinning time at the local vineyards, and they need many hands! A bright-eyed Brit named Sarah picked up our group of bleary-eyed traveling youth at 6:45 a.m. sharp. An hour’s drive through gorgeous farm country and aquamarine waterways landed us at a huge commercial vineyard. Training took all of five minutes, but getting fast took the rest of the eight hours.

The shoots in question are nearer the ground than my eyes and hands. The work is mid-thigh for me, and just above the knee cap for poor Pat! We spent the day squatting, kneeling, bending over, or in the splits. Thanks to the descending waistlines of the past decade and the time I’ve spent in the above positions, NZ is giving me quite the plumber’s tan!

Pat could only do a day before he was on to other, more varied labor jobs. During my two days on the vineyard, I accomplished moulding hundreds of grapevines into productive, evenly spaced candelabras. I learned that the suspicious flavor of unwashed store grapes is thanks to regular, heavy doses of sulpher for pest control. (I’m told this is entirely safe…?) Except for the very traumatizing and shocking moment when a rock beneath my bum shattered the screen of my iPod (I nearly cried), it was two days of zen labor. Okay, so the ball of my right foot is still without feeling. And my back would be shot if I wasn’t religiously devoted to maintaining core strength. And I would probably never commit to doing it for more than a few days at a time. And I will more highly value every glass of wine I drink for the rest of my life. But, all in all, a fun New Zealand experience, and no lasting complaints!

$150 mistake 🙁 This iPod made it through four years of daily workouts, road trips, and music sharing only to be foiled by a tiny rock.

All I Want for Christmas is a Job!

Well, the long-awaited New Zealand job hunt has begun. True to form, we chose our spot on a whim — Wanaka (WAH-nuh-ka) is a resort-like small town (a few thousand) surrounded by Mt. Aspiring National Park. It fit our requirement of being located near the South Island’s outdoor playgrounds and was recommended by like-minded individuals.

The view out our “front door” – the Wanaka dock (jetty, they say…)

We looked for a wwoofing spot there, but instead landed an hour up-lake at a farm in Makarora. We spent two weeks with an amazing family — Emily the incredible super-mom-farmer, Chris the accent-laden-park-ranger-handyman, Hunter the six-year-old bundle of imagination and energy, and Evie the four-year-old Shirley Temple impersonator complete with red ringlets and an adorable accent. The whole family says “wee” instead of “little,” “as well” instead of “too,” and “tea” instead of “dinner.” Just imagine a little Miss Shirley Temple saying, “I’m going to have a wee bit of soup for tea as well.” It happens!

Our job-finding efforts so far consist of ideas and contacts of Emily’s, two New Zealand job websites, registering with the local job agency, and cold-calling businesses we think would be interesting to work for. The caveat is that in 15 days, we’ve only been to Wanaka on job-hunting business three times. I did have one lead at a cafe that gave me a one-day trial. I had a blast assisting the chef and got invited back for a second go. Before the second-interview day arrived, a former employee walked in looking to fill the spot, so I got bumped. Bummer!

Now the weekend is here and we’re going to play and forget about job hunting for two days. On Monday we head to another woofing spot in a location that will allow us to get serious about getting a job. That’s all I want for Christmas!

Black Belt Tramp

Posed on the precipice

“Tramp” in the mind of some Americans, is a dis-used word that deragatorily describes a certain “type” of woman. Alternatively, it is a grey mutt in a Disney film — as in “Lady and the…” To Kiwis “tramp” is something you can do, something you can go on… and for those who like that sort of thing, it’s a lot of fun! Pat and I confess that we’re among the latter crowd. In fact, it was what sold us on New Zealand — the endless, beautiful tramps the country has to offer.

I consider myself advanced or experienced when it comes to tramps. I’ve spent lots of time in the field, I have all the gear, and I have even taken classes on the subject. But nothing could have prepared me for New Zealand’s tramps. When Pat and I researched our first New Zealand tramp, the warnings of difficulty fell on unsympathetic ears. In the U.S., a “difficult” tramp rating usually means the participant will be uncomfortable if they can’t sprint the length of a football field. As we strapped on our backpacks loaded with synthetic clothing, water, backcountry food, a tent, and a cookstove, we hadn’t even begun to imagine what the Cameron Creek watershed had in store for us.

We didn’t want to park our possession-filled van on the roadside unattended for days, so we tried our hand at hitching up to Cameron Flat. It wasn’t long before Nicole, a raven-haired teenager from a small town an hour away, picked us up. Despite the missing back window and exhaust-filled car, we had a nice chat during our 20km ride with her.

The sign in the parking area warned us again about “experienced only” and “quality significantly diminished beyond lookout.” We forged ahead! We kept pace with a European mother/daughter duo who eyed our packs with curiosity. At the lookout they turned back and we quickly learned that “quality diminished” in kiwi-speak means “fallen into dis-use/overgrown/washed out/landslide filled.”

On our way to Cameron Hut we experienced hours of literal climbing and descending — a constant 5.5 -5.8 for those of you who know rockclimbing — all the while poised halfway up a steep canyon wall. The ground wore a slippery layer of tiny tree leaves akin to chainsaw leavings. Glints of freshly cracked slate slabs , towering rock faces, and a crystalline creek were amazing distractions. After two hours, we arrived at our first New-Zealand-style river crossing. Bridges are for wimps, apparently. We assumed the position (for a two-person swift water crossing) and made it across without being torn down by the icy, rushing stream. After three more hours of constant ravine and landslide crossings in waterlogged boots, our glorious grassy river flat complete with remote moutain hut appeared!

For the first time in my life, at the end of a backcountry slog, I entered a tiny building and lit a fire in a cast-iron stove. Seredipitously, we had the cascading waterfall, cozy bunks, and quiet night sky completely to ourselves. We spent the next day bushwacking straight up the mountain behind the hut, literally crawling through thickets for half the day. The view was its own reward, and I made friends with all the local flora! Our trip out was just as adventurous as the journey in, and the infamous “world heritage” highway was a welcome sight. To our delight, an Englishman named Patrick responded to the beckoning of our thumbs within minutes of arriving at the roadside. His kind assistance in getting us back to our temporary home was the perfect end to our first New Zealand Black-Belt backpacking trip!

More photos at: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=249516&id=500324216&l=7f4a7f4fb4