When I brought my eyeline back down from its skyward gaze, however, I began to realise why this campsite wasn’t one that the department of conservation demands money for. For a start the only local point of interest was an old miner’s cemetery (there having been a sizable gold rush down most of the coast at some point in the dusty past), which was over an hour’s walk from the campsite. This held limited interest for me as I had summarily exhausted myself taking the hardest possible path up to the Franz Josef glacier, so I gave it a mental pass and set about preparing my dinner. As I did this, however, the real problem with the campsite started to become apparent.
Sandflies are a part of life in New Zealand. In almost every area of the country you can count on experiencing them at one time or another – as they are sort of weather dependent – and once they have found you there is very little you can do. Unlike their more savvy blood-sucking kin the mosquito the sandfly possesses no sophisticated extracting straw, but rather gnashes and saws their way into your yielding flesh rather like a vulture approaches roadkill. Don’t take my word for it, however; here is Captain James Cook’s journal entry from the first of May, 1773:
“The most mischievous animal here is the small black sandfly which are exceeding numerous … wherever they light they cause a swelling and such intolerable itching that it is not possible to refrain from scratching and at last ends in ulcers like the small Pox.”
So it was that the sandflies descended upon us at Gillespie in droves as the afternoon luxuriated into evening. There was no escape, and no amount of insect repellant could save us; in the end we congregated on the sandy beach itself, where – mercifully – the sandflies were only bad, not incredibly/mind-bendingly bad. It was at this point that Jonathan christened them ‘all terrain flies’, as truly it doesn’t matter where you are… we retired to our tents in something approaching poor spirits, much to the dismay of my earlier happiness over saving twenty dollars by staying there.
The morning brought no relief, as sandflies are actually most active – in my opinion – in the morning. If you didn’t notice them biting you, however, it wouldn’t be a huge problem, but the opposite is astoundingly true: a sandfly bite feels rather exactly like someone is holding a lit match up against your skin. While they are pretty easy to kill once they alight, they have the devilish ingenuity to assault your ankles and calves as much as they can (the better to stay away from your murderous hands), which leaves you doing a very awkward dance as you hastily pack up your tent in the morning. I found myself retreating from time to time to the camp’s outhouse which, while not being the greatest smelling place in the world, would give me an opportunity to de-fray my nerves for a minute or two before rushing pack to complete my packing. I returned to my increasingly frantic work, leaving my de-poled and nicely laid out tent to dry out, and to roll up last. When I started to do this, however, I probably came the closest to killing myself as I have so far in life: as I rolled the tent the flies would come shooting up off of it (where I guess they were drinking some condensation…or just waiting for me to come back) directly into my face. They flew into my ears, up my nose, and between my eyes and my glasses in hellish numbers as I rolled my tent up – I do believe that one of my biggest accomplishments in life was to not scream in frustration and panic, as I didn’t want to wake the surrounding still-sleeping campers. I simply let out a stifled whimper or two as I entered a bizarre twilight zone of discomfort and self-pity. We left the campsite after holding a darkly-manic sandfly genocide in the car for those that either followed us or rode us in. It was an experience.
West side of Southern Alps
Leaving the ‘free’ camp behind us in a string of curses, both English and Hebrew, we returned to the road south. While we waited for our bites to start the inevitable “intolerable itching” (thank you, Captain Cook), however, we were treated to easily the most picturesque highway I have ever been on. The road through Mt. Aspiring National Park is an absolute crushing wonder; it brings you up to and over the mountainous divide that characterises the south island, all the while treating you to vistas of impossibly blue glacial rivers and a complete colour palette change, from luxurious green to dun yellows and brown, as you enter the rain shadow of the southern alps. All I could think at the time was that this would be absolutely world-famous if it were in North America, and all I could do was watch. We camped on the shore of lake Hawea after driving down a road cluttered by antisocial sheep and cattle, and spent our evening in quiet contemplative activity: Jonathan practicing on his acoustic guitar, and I continuing my streak of failure when it comes to catching trout.
The next day we descended from the mountains to Queenstown, a veritable jewel on the shores of lake Wakatipu and my stated goal for my West Coast hitch hiking trip. It is a remarkable town very reminiscent of the Whistler/Blackcomb complex, and blessed by great weather during our visit. Jonathan and I did laundry, ate, drank, and ineffectively tried to pick up girls at the beach together as we lived out the last couple of days of our travel supergroup. When it came time to part ways it was with a certain flavour of manly regard, a strong handshake, and a declaration on my part of “until next time”. If my trip continues in this manner, I will have friends that I need to revisit all over the world. That is, after all, one of the best reasons I can think of for leaving the house.
With a twinge of regret I left glorious Queenstown, as my goal in coming south wasn’t to bleed money in a tourist trap – beautiful though it may be. No, I was bound Eastward to the central Otago region, a hub of agriculture in general and stonefruit production in particular. The school season was over and I needed to economically exist until the next one began: it was time for me to put on some sunscreen, my beach-found hat, a dash of humility, and to go to the farm. Hefting my bag once more I walked out of town, and breathed a sigh of rustic enjoyment.
heh, good writing! My sympathy with sand flies, my experience is that if you light a decent fire, they jump towards that, and them cook themselves into a shrimp ring around the fire by morning. In bocca al lupo!
ReplyDeleteGord