Friday, November 17, 2006
Wet, Woolly Ride
After a short breakfast, I bid my roommate David adieu and caught a shuttle to the train station. On today's agenda was the TranzAlpine, a half-day train ride to New Zealand's west coast. This journey is touted highly for its breathtaking scenery.
Not yet thirty minutes into the trip I was already enjoying the view. Right outside the city were enclosures of livestock: sheep, cows, even deer! (Sustainable farmers in the States: eat your heart out.)
The train ascended a mountain range, the Southern Alps, which divides the west of the South Island from the east. As we climbed higher, the land got greener. Finally, after two hours, we reached Arthur's Pass. Even if you didn't have a map, you could tell that you had reached a major point. The weather turned from overcast to a hard rain. The inclement weather made spectacular waterfalls on the sheer cliffs lining the valley. The scenery became quite wild. Every now and then the river that the train tracks followed broke into rapids. Thin-trunked trees formed a dense canopy that covered the mountains.
Sitting across the aisle from me were two Canadian sisters and two guys, a young Swede and an Austrian wearing an army-style cap. The Canadians were very friendly and chatted with their companions non-stop. Midway through their conversation they began to talk about Americans. Their tone was, not surprisingly, unflattering. They recalled a recent encounter. "The Americans in my hostel talked to the Asians, like, 'You don't speak English?'" I didn't think I would be bothered by this Yankee bashing but I was. I thought their comments about the "ugly American" were smug and trite. To make matters worse, I couldn't ignore them; my iPod flaked out at the worst possible time. (This episode reminded me of the Australian hostel manager in Naples in 2004.)
Half past noon the train pulled into the port city of Greymouth. I stayed at a hostel a short walk away from the station called Neptune International Backpackers. This was one of the best accommodations I had for the entire trip. The premises, which used to be a hotel, had a charming maritime character. (Seashells in the bathrooms were a nice flair.) The showers were clean, the beds (no bunks) had reading lights, the rooms were heated and the patio even had a hot tub. At 20 NZD per day, this place screamed bargain. Sadly, hardly a soul could be found here tonight, or for that matter, in town, as I discovered later.
Only an hour after I arrived, Greymouth was walloped by a doozy of a storm. Despite the horrendous weather, I wanted to see the Tasman Sea, which was just a half mile away from the hostel. I put on my rain jacket, laced up my Merrells and braved the elements for a run. I ran a short distance up and down a small river that cuts through the town and then turned toward the sea. I reached the pier but I was blown backwards by a howling wind. Even worse, a dense mist stopped me from seeing anything at all toward the water. As I retreated to the hostel, I felt a squish under my feet; my supposedly waterproof Gore-Tex shoes were hopelessly soaked. Even though I didn't see the ocean, I enjoyed the run. I got to see interesting fauna: black swans and a ground bird that runs like a chicken when it scurries into bushes. (I found out later that this is a species of kiwi.)
Greymouth is a gritty town. It's the major coal processor on the west coast, which makes the port smell like asphalt. On this rainy day, the streets were deserted. The townies I encountered spoke with a vaguely Scottish accent. (The original settlers were indeed Scottish.) But despite the town's wet climate and its industrial ethos, its residents seemeed rather cheerful.
This night there was nothing to do. The local movie theater had its regular programming interrupted for a concert, featuring a singer named Yulia. I was intrigued by a visit from a Russian to the middle of nowhere, but I balked at the ticket price. In the end I just turned in early; the run made me sleepy.
