To see ourselves as others see us
CRESSIDA E. Crampbangle, renowned American travel writer, recently visited New Zealand and the article on her Otago visit is reproduced here by kind permission of the
San Francisco Bugle.
New Zealand is part of Australia, a short flight from that country’s capital, Sydney. We landed at Oakland, named by settlers from Oakland, San Francisco, who ventured south in the 19th century.
From there my husband and I travelled even further south in a whiteknuckle flight on the local airline to reach the capital of South Island, Dunedin, just a hop away from the great white continent of Antarctica and its polar bears and frozen mammoths.
Dunedin’s name is a mixture of Dundee and Edinburgh, the two Scots towns which sent emigrants after the Battle of Culloden decimated the whisky distilleries. Bagpipes can still be heard in Dunedin but we arrived too early to see the famous Indecent Exposure to the Pipers ceremony.
We paid a quick visit to the renowned Empty Cycleways and PassengerFree Bus Hub before heading inland. My purpose was to see one of New Zealand’s bestknown writers, who lives in Patearoa.
We had emailed him about our visit so an historic meeting was on the cards. Our car (from Rustbucket Rentals of South Dunedin) took us as far as Outram before bursting into flames. It was repaired by a blacksmith who had no English and called us ‘‘loopy loonies’’.
Local languages are so colourful, aren’t they? We explained that we were Americans and had won the war, so the blacksmith soon had us on our way with what sounded like violent cursing but, I suspect, was simply local dialect for ‘‘have a pleasant journey’’.
We had hoped to see the famous Orange Pub at Clarkes Junction but found it had just been repainted in a soft grey shade. Timing is so important when planning a trip. We soon came to the Great Salt Lake founded by Mormon missionaries from Salt Lake City, Utah, in the 1860s.
Time did not permit a close inspection but once you’ve seen one Mormon temple you’ve seen them all, so we hurried on. Our spirits lifted as we reached Middlemarch. All lovers of great literature know that this town was named by novelist George Eliot, who established a sheep ranch there in the 1840s.
On his return to England he set his great novel about colonial sheep ranching in the district he had known so well as a young man. Middlemarch is also the home of the remains of one of the first submarines in the world and we were told it had worked its way from the coast underwater in the great Tieree River before grounding near the local pub and those of the crew who were still alive refused to go any further.
What fascinating history is to be found in the oddest places if only you ask the locals. Again, our timing was astray, as we were just too early to see the Train of Shame, which transports fornicators and adulterers away from the town each year for their ritual stoning. We were fortunate to see the Tieree Pet, a cloud formation unique to the region. Formed by the smoke from the hundreds of pipes constantly smoked by local farm workers, the cloud is rapidly diminishing as New Zealand’s crushing tobacco tax takes its toll. We may be the last people from a civilised country to have seen this phenomenon.
At the old gold town of Naseby we saw a cute cottage for sale for the amazingly low price of one million dollars. Assured by a local that the ground in the town was awash with unmined gold, my husband bought the property at once. We had omitted to pack a shovel but next time we plan to stay several days and bring a dozen shovels.
We arrived at Ranfurly, tired but exhilarated.
Here was the original home of New Zealand’s famous Ranfurly Shield, awarded to the sports team which has the good luck to win a game just when the shield is up for grabs. Excitingly, the local Otago team are the holders but the shield itself was away having its escutcheons burnished, we were told. The sport, incidentally, is rugby, a winter version of cricket, the great English game which remains popular in New
Zealand.
You can imagine our disappointment when we reached Patearoa only to find that the great writer was not at home. The local publican told us he had left suddenly when he received my email. ‘‘He’s a shy bloke. Nervous about meeting such a famous travel writer,’’ the innkeeper explained. He did, though, point out the great writer’s dog, which gave me a lick on the face. So it was all worthwhile and I hope when you visit New Zealand your journey is equally rewarding.