Oh The People You'll Meet...

I think I last left you in Wellington. The city was a nice break from van living and we were able to meet up with Rose's friends Amy and Lucy - a couple of great girls that were more than accomodating. We enjoyed the use of the flat (house for us non-Kiwi's) Lucy is housesitting right now. All laundered up and clean we headed out for the South Island early Monday morning.
I could write a novel about the ferry ride alone but that's one of those stories you'll have to buy the book for. :) Our arrival to the South Island was rather gloomy due to weather so we partook in the local wineries to cheer ourselves up. I must say it worked.
Our destination Monday was Takaka. It's a small town close to the Abel Tasmen National Park - a place supposedly full of great scenery and far-flung beaches void of Waikiki's crowds. Back in Hawaii we had met a girl named Liz - a rock climbing, canoe paddling, ripped chick with a personality to match. She had been our rock climbing instructor and upon hearing we were headed to New Zealand made a couple of "must see" suggestions. The one that stuck out in my mind was the climbing at Payne's Ford right by Takaka. It would be a great place to try out my new rock climbing shoes. She said if we ended up there we had to stay at the Hang Dog camp ground.
Now I'm not sure what I expected from a place that came on high recommendations from a chick who I met while hanging from a rope on a cliff in Hawaii but you could say I was - well - surprised.
Unlike your run of the mill "Holiday Park" (fancy campgrounds here in New Zealand) with organized areas for tents and vans and large spick-n-span kitchens and toilets, the Hang Dog was casual, scattered and loose. A mix of hobo homestays and hippy comforts. There were no assigned parking spots - just a dozen or so rented vans scattered about. Tents popped up here and there, clothing was strung up on make-shift cloths lines with odd pieces hanging from the broken down fences scattered about the campground.
We inquired about fees, etc in a small office attached to a bunk house of sorts for those occupants willing to pay a whopping $12 as compared to the $5 per person required for a simple van-living vagabond like myself.
The office was untidy with a rack of used climbing shoes for rent running the length of one wall. A stranger who was sitting among a group on the porch drinking beer and strumming guitars came forward when we found the office empty.
"Zou jus sign ze book I zink," She said pointing to a sign in sheet that required our names, nationality and whether we preferred broccoli or cabbage. She disappeared around the desk as if she owned the place and reappeared with a girl about my age whose persona spoke of motherly care and rebel aggression all wrapped up in a loose yellow skirt, layered tank tops and dreadlocked hair. She smiled and said, "Let me show you around" in an easy British accent.
She took me and Lisa around to the toilets (two of them - no lights with walls made of dry-erase boards and covered in comments on how to gain "Hippy Points"as well as several well-written original poems), the shower (which cost an extra $1 - if you don't shower you don't have to pay!), the outdoor kitchen and sinks and finally the slack line (a rock climbing term) in the common area surrounded by tents.
Our host told us that they would be hanging out later that night in the back of the office and we should swing by. Our short conversation also led to her asking how long we were staying which we replied to with our canned responces of "Not sure. A couple of days maybe?" She laughed - "Couple of weeks more like it. I came here for one day. Been here a month and now I run the place." She walked off with the undisputed air of confidence found in freedom of expression.
We parked the van in a shady spot close to the bathrooms and got organized. People wandered to and fro always saying hello and stopping to talk to other campers. The place had a cozy feel you can't get in a sterilized kitchen or cinder block shower.
The occupants of the camp were a varied group as far as nationality and physical features went. There were mostly guys, shirtless and muscular from climbing dressed in board shorts or linen pants. Dreadlocks were more than abundant. The girls were athletic as well dressed for comfort in capris or skirts. Most everyone spoke English and most everyone's accent was different. I was in culture shock heaven.
We cruised up to the office and picked our way to the back. Zephy (our hostess) introduced us to a circle of people who were sitting around her living quarters. Her boyfriend, Thomas, by far the most dreadlocked and pierced person yet, was very friendly with and award winning smile. There was a Dutch girl dying her hair and outrageous - but somehow fitting - platinum blonde and an American with a short mohawk and sullen expression. As we sat chatting and listening to Katchafire and Bob Marley tunes, more people came in. There was a sweet British girl who reminded me of a younger Ann Crooks and her Scottish boyfriend - both avid climbers. There was an Irish chick smoking roll-your-owns and cracking everyone up with stories about medical mishaps that she had heard. A cocky young guy from Vermont full of himself and his good looks made me cringe with his cockiness and comments about Texans rarely leaving home. A constant stream of comers and goers flowed in and out. For Lisa and I it was like being invited to sit in on some odd social experiment where my generation was allowed to run free without social restraints, predjudices or adult supervision. I fit in like a punk rocker at a Mary Kay convention but no one seemed to notice or care.
We answered the obligatory questions of "where are you from? where are you headed" and "how long are you here?" a million times. The answers are like breathing by now - automatic and effortless.
The night drew to a close for Lisa and I but everyone else lingered on. Even though it had been a long day, I had no desire for a shower and just for laughs, I even wrote a poem I considered writing on the bathroom wall:
"Going with the flow isn't something that you do
It is something that society does unto you
This life ain't no mystery - it ain't no simple rhyme
It's just little bits of history we make a moment at a time..."

Maybe I'm a van living hippy at heart after all. Reguardless I did figure out that getting out of your comfort zone isn't as difficult or as painful as expected. Most everyone has a comfort zone that they are happy to let you into.

Don't worry Mom - no dreadlocks yet!

Peace and love from the road... :)