A blue patch in the sky and we must move out of the Hostel. Into the car. Out of the town. And on and on to the glacier. But the blue patch shrinking. But we are down the road and out of the car. We are on the gravel track crunching through the rain forest. Waterfalls hanging silent in the palm forest hills high above us and we walk over the clear running water that has taken the tumble from the top to the bottom.
Over the water down the wet gravel track to the blue blue glacier. The glacier itself a low angle waterfall hung out to dry, this Franz Josef ice block filling the valley.
The tourists stand in clusters in the oval opening at the end of the track. Pointing, talking, taking picture after picture after picture. Repeats in the photo-log and we, too, participate. The great blue block across the river and sliding ever so slowly. So slowly that our eyes cannot see it, sliding ever so slowly down to the flatness. Ice stalagmites crinkling the top of the glacier, and all of it sliding down. Sliding down to the flatness.
We exit left, headed south into the on again off again rain. South toward the next ice river sliding. The Fox Glacier on the tic list, but on the way it turns torrential. Once again cats and dogs. And once again our future is thrown into limbo.
Over priced internet in the town of Fox Glacier and the girls buy ferry tickets for December 31st. From Picton to Wellington, back to the North Island for the New Year. Print the confirmation as the web timer ticks to a stop and we creep back into the rain.
One decision final. The ferry booked. The trip finite. But what to do now? We creep back into the rain.
Car-sitting at Lake Matheson, this the famous mirror lake and reflecting only the cloud ceiling of the covered sky. Car-sitting in the drizzle, and we bust open the cracker box to do something—anything—to take our minds off of the drizzle.
Decide finally—as we finish off the Ritz look-a-likes that we should once again seek shelter indoors in a hostel.
Back in town we book the “fairy room” in an out of town hostel-owned house. I though this was the “ferry room,” and assumed it would be painted blue with pictures of boats on the walls. But it was, of course, to the horror of we three upon entrance, the “fairy room.” Painted pink with a glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling, portraits and puzzles of pixies hanging framed on the walls. Tiaras and figurines perched on shelves around the room. Fairies everywhere staring out of glass eyes above plastic cheeks, out of poster board poses, lashes long, wings aflutter. Fairies everywhere (and not a boat in sight) and how can we possibly stay? A crib in the corner with a pink sheet spread on the miniature mattress. How can we possibly stay here in the ghost of a little girl’s room?
Plus there is the fact that the weather seems to be clearing. Plus the fact that I told the Hostel staff at the check in that there were only two of us despite the fact that there are obviously three. No biggie at any traditional hostel. No biggie. But. Seeing as the entire staff seems to live at this outlying hostel annex (a fact made apparent when—in my confused delirium brought on by the fairy room—I stumbled into the private upstairs staff living quarters and consequently upon a member of the staff half-undressed and squatting over a toilet—staring at me through the open door of the water closet and screaming “these are private staff quarters” before slamming shut the door) yes, seeing as the entire staff seems to live at this outlying hostel annex (and the fact that the previous parenthetical aside actually happened) how can we stay here?
I zip back to the in-town Hostel and, through my persuasive powers and the long yarn of an untrue tale unraveled, I get our money back and cruise back to the annex to snag the girls.
The sun now beating back the gray as we head toward Gillespie Beach. Down the dirt road and we pop beer tabs in the gravel parking lot to welcome back the sun. Gone since we left Christchurch.
“The devil must be beating his wife,” the sun shining through the occasional drizzle. But the clouds dissipating as we sit and drink. And after a while a friendly Frenchman who has been eying the girls since our arrival approaches, knocks on the door of the Mazda and invites us all to join him and his friend for drinks.
Knock ‘em back until the beer is gone and it’s bed time and the wasted Frenchies wander off somewhere while we crawl into the tent to make PB&J sammies and play rummy across the wrinkled synthetic table-top of sleeping bags spread. The Frenchies yelling for us, yelling for the Americans late in the night. Roll over and sleep.
No comments:
Post a Comment