Accents, Scared People and Weird Tastes

Hours before I loaded the sardine can with wings, I stood in line waiting for the Apple store to open, to buy new battery for my phone. A grey handle bar mustache behind me, attempted to engage in an exilerating conversation about phones. I played along, I had nothing else to do. I told him I was purchasing a new battery for my trip to New Zealand. 

“You need a bigger pocket if you’re carrying your phone.” The man stated intelligently, as if I would be wearing the cotton sweats I was currently wrapped in on the trail, with no backpack. 

“…I’ll be carrying a backpack.” I stated, folding my cards of the conversation, and mentally walking away from the man. 

He scoffed, “Well, I hope it goes well for YOU, there was another plane crash the other day.” His voice trailed off, as his eyes watched an invisible plane crash over the Apple store. 

I wanted to tell him to lick mold, but I was stuck in line with him, and didn’t want to be forced to watch him do it. I’m one of those weirdos that can’t look away from gross shit, and starring is rude. 

“You worried about the Coronavirus? I heard 3,000 people on a cruise ship got it the other day.” 


Although looking back it would have been great if I started coughing on him. 

“You know, I used to work over seas…Until my brother was shot and died back home and I had to return…The man got out of jail too”.

I turned away. Clearly some people just need to talk, but for that level of negative fuckery, you gotta pay a stranger to listen. 

What a barnacle. 

People get defensive when they see other people doing things that scare them. They’ll try and talk you out if it. “Don’t better yourself, it makes me feel bad about myself.”

Don’t let people pop your fun balloon. You fill that shit with helium, and float to the nearest sky bar and order yourself a shot of tequila with no chaser. 

Don’t let others yuck your yum. 

Fill your life with challenging incredible tasks and if that intimidates other people, tell them to make themselves useful and grab some toilet paper to support your awesome shit. 

Alright I’ll get off my soap box.

I’m on my way to the trailhead right now, listening to the bus driver talk in his amazing accent. He just informed us we can’t eat “hot pies” on the bus but we can eat “lollies and biscuits.” 

New Zealand has already lit up a room in the house of my soul. 

My first plane ride yesterday, commenced with me farting when I first sat down and hoping the lady next to me wouldn’t smell it. Then I couldn’t hold back my cough from my cold anymore, and I proceeded to hack like a cat pushing hair balls which probably lead her to believe I have the Coronavirus. 

I excel at making friends on planes.

When we landed in Fiji for a short lay over, I was handed a flower by a very large native man who was playing in a ukelele band.

I was feeling fabulously feminine. 

When I arrived in Auckland I loaded my final plane to Christchurch. I felt tied but belligerent with joy. 

“Hello” I stated confidently to the sanitary hair bun checking my plane ticket. Although I didn’t just say hello. I accidentally said hello in a New Zealand accent. 

I had only been around people with accents for an hour.

Why am I allowed to leave the country. 

Reminds me of an American guy I went to a Mexican restaurant with in my early twenties, who wanted to impress me by proudly answering “Dos” when they asked how many people for the table. 

It didn’t work out. 

When I landed in New Zealand, I hailed a taxi to a post office, so I could send myself a resupply box of food to a town I would pass through on the 4th day of my expedition. When I opened the passenger door to throw my backpack in the taxi, the driver inquired, 

“Do you want to put that in the boot?” 

I had no idea what a “boot” was and it occurred to me, that perhaps he meant “butt”. 

Was was my taxi driver offering to put my backpack in his butt while we drove?

Must be a New Zealand thing. 

Well, like they say, “When in Rome.”

Turns out “boot” means trunk in these parts.

Good thing I wasn’t aggressive about it. 

I’m now on a 7 hour bus drive from Christchurch to Nelson, where I will start the trail and I’m overflowing with gratitude, and luckily for the lady next to me, not gas. 

Excuse me Sir, are we supposed to be on this side of the road?

Christchurch looks suspiciously like Eastern Washington, and I was beginning to get concerned that I had flown 21 hours to land in Pullman. However, we just passed the first of many sheep fields, so I am feeling more confident that I didn’t pay lots of money to be taking a bus tour of WSU, where I went to college for 1.5 years. Although if there were a degree in drinking, I would have surely graduated.

Sheep. The cows of New Zealand.

I usually start a backpacking trip with a base of deodorant on, then don’t carry any with me. I find I’m gonna smell no matter what working out 10 hours a day. This trip however, I didn’t pack any with me to begin with, so I’m already starting off smelly and I haven’t lifted a boot yet. 

Or a butt. 

I like to think of myself as a fine cast iron pan. I can’t use deodorant on backpacking trips, I’m too porous. 

Cast irons remind me of a hot springs trip recently. I was cooking sweet potatoes on a cast iron pan. I took a bite, and they tasted like sweet tropical coconut. This was disturbing seeing as the only ingredients were oil and potatoes. 

Under much investigation I found I had accidentally used my ziplock baggy of hair conditioner to fry the potatoes, instead of my ziplock baggie of solidified oil. 

Probably because I didn’t finish my degree at WSU.

Next post I will have been tramping in the bush for a few days. Stay tuned for the misadventures I get myself into. 

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