Sunday, May 27, 2012

Mark the Crazy Goldminer

Note to readers: So much has happened in the last 10 months I haven't had much time to process it all. So whenever I have spare time to write, I'll be documenting some of my favorite New Zealand memories and posting them here.  Enjoy!

Mark the Crazy Goldminer
March 1, 2012

James and I were dripping with sweat on a brutally sunny day. We had just finished a week-long trek in the New Zealand backcountry, where we camped by rivers and enjoyed spectacular views of the Southern Alps. Now, our backpacks strewn aside, we stood with our thumbs up by the roadside, desperate for an air-conditioned car. After spending a night in Queenstown to recuperate from our trip, we were off to get a taste of dairy farming down south, when a man approached us. He looked to be in his 60's, standing slouched with his hands on his hips, his grey hair and bushy beard frazzled in the heat.

“I've lost my nugget,” he said, looking puzzled. “I must have dropped it across the road somewhere. My auntie lives here," he says, guesturing at the house who's driveway we have been occupying for the last half-hour. "Have you seen my nugget?”

We walked around the pavement and street with him, scanning the ground, but we didn't see it. After one last hopeful search in the bushes around the street, he smiles at us and says, "Oh well, It'll pop up later." He was holding a little terrier he introduced to us as Tom, and then told us his name is Mark.

“I can never resist hitchhikers," he tells us with glee. "I'll go get my car.”

James and I looked at each other apprehensively, but Mark had struck us both as a genuine guy, if a bit eccentric. It turned out he was going out of his way to take us to our next destination. When he brought his muddy jeep around James sat up front and I cuddled in the back with Tom.

Mark loves to talk, a common condition of most people who pick up hitchhikers. He told us about his livelihood, panel beating (making the metal panels for cars) and his hobbies, goldmining and collecting ambergris, whalebones, and strange rocks along the beach by his house. Our first stop was a gas station where we bought popsicles. James and I couldn't decide between the ginger beer or the kiwifruit flavor so we got both to share. Back on the road again, Mark offered to show us a few places on our way where he went camping as a kid.

He pulled off the main highway onto a rocky unsealed road, and took us to a lovely, calm river with a wide space perfect for a swim. Mark asked us if we mind if he hopped in – of course not, we want to get in too, it's bloody hot!

Mark stripped down naked and waded into the freezing glacier water. Tom got his feet wet and then waited in the car. James and I follow (I wore my bathing suit, don't worry!) The frigid shock of the cold water was soothing on such a hot day but after a few minutes I was ready to get out and dry in the sun.

Back in the car, we drove for another hour but it was starting to get dark.

“Hey I think my friend Norman lives around here. I bet we can stay with him.” At this point, why not?

Mark didn't know where exactly his friend lived but he seemed unconcerned. He went into the only bar in Balfour, a middle-of-nowhere kind of town, and asked them where Norman lives. They knew Norman and told Mark that he lived in the next town over.

So after a few more kilometers Mark went into the bar at Riversdale, where he got directions from someone that said Norman lived in "the house with the longest grass."

James spotted Norman's place as we drive down the only residential street in town. It was a single-story, slightly dilapidated house with an untidy lawn stretching a bit further than the rest of the street. We pulled in and parked.

Norman came out to greet us as if he had been expecting us. “I was going to go to Gore with some friends today, but I had this feeling that I needed to be here. Good to see you, Mark.” Norman's skin was pink and shiny from too much sun and had an unusually hairy neck. He was bald, pot-bellied but strong-looking, and wore a stained red shirt with holes in the armpits. We later found out he shears sheep for a living.

“Norman, this is Amber and James, some hitchhikers I picked up a few hours ago.” Mark introduced us proudly.

We exchanged pleasantries and Norman lead us into his home, and told us he's decided to give us a full Maori greeting. It turned out even though Norman is as white as can be, he is a 'paheka'- a white guy obsessed with all things Maori. He knew their language fluently, could make a traditional hangi meal (roasting a pig underground with hot rocks in a pit oven), and was absolutely obsessed with basket weaving.  His house was one of the dirtiest I've ever seen - his living room strewn with stray flax strands and half-finished projects, newspapers and trash stacked in every corner. The kitchen looked as though it hasn't been cleaned in at least a year.

Norman started the welcome ceremony by singing us a song in Maori, and then asked us to sing a song or say something to introduce ourselves to the group. Then he gave a long speech in Maori and translated it for us - you are all welcome here, thanks for coming, etc etc - and then we finished with the hungi, each touching foreheads and noses. I held my breath when I touched my forehead to Normans, and when it was over he said, "Well you're meant to breathe in a little bit of each other's air, or life force, but that's alright."

He offered us the living room to sleep in and even started to move some of the piles of trash so we could lay out our sleeping bags, but I politely declined. He left the bathtub running a few days ago and the carpet is soaking wet. We decided instead to set up our tent on his front lawn. Mark slept in his car.

The next day all four of us headed to Piano Flat, a lovely camping spot where Mark used to go as a kid, and we spent the day lounging by the river. Mark did some gold mining and we all went swimming. 

At the end of the day, Mark finally dropped us off in Edendale, another small town where we soon started working on the dairy farm. We were sad to see him go. He invited us to stay with him at his home in Cozy Nook. He claimed you can cast a fishing pole into the ocean from his front porch. I didn't quite believe him then, but we found out that he wasn't lying the next weekend when we went to visit him!

Here are pictures from our visit to Cozy Nook.

1 comment:

  1. am·ber·gris   /ˈæmbərˌgris, -grɪs/
    an opaque, ash-colored secretion of the sperm whale intestine, usually found floating on the ocean or cast ashore: used in perfumery. DDA.