First Impressions

The last morning of managed isolation I was a wreck, anticipating our freedom and worried over the potential for delay.  The cusp of release back into the world was too exciting for me.  The rest of the family maintained a bit more equipoise.  Strangest (for me, anyway) thing about managed isolation was the lack of control. We couldn’t even go out onto our deck (the door was locked), which was a constant reminder of just how circumscribed our lives were.

Lo and behold, the minibus was delivered on time and we were out the door pretty much on time, just past 9 AM.  They took us out the back, as there were new arrivals being processed in the lobby.  Our new friend Benny, who works security at the facility, brought the minibus around back.  It’s a Toyota Hiace (It took hours of searching to find and when I requested it, the lady on the phone had no idea what I was talking about, as I pronounced it “hi-achay;” it’s actually “high ace,” like the card – the first of many intercultural misunderstandings).  It’s a three-speed ten-seater, with a vinyl smell the kids hate and which reminds me of the 1970s.  Tough to back up, as a small cow could hide in the blind spot, and the front is pretty much flat, so at anything over 100 kph the thing dances from side to side like it’s hot to take off into a ditch.  It’s the only thing we could rent big enough to accommodate our 15 pieces of luggage.  To secure a one-way rental from Auckland to Gisborne, we had to rent it for 14 days, so it continues to be my ride for the time being.  It is what it is.  On the upside, I feel a bit like a hippie beach bum driving it around town, and have kept my COVID-hair, borrowed Michelle’s glasses, and bought a hat to accentuate the look.

I’d been nervous about driving on the left, but the 463 kilometers home went relatively smoothly; just a couple left-hand turns into the wrong lane on empty roads.  And the trip was gorgeous.  Through avocado country, then kiwi (the fruit) country, cow country, and along the coast with the ocean to our left and massive, twisted trees growing horizontal out of sandstone cliffs and overhanging the road from the other side.  Michelle remarked that it was like Vermont and Hawaii had a baby (a big one).  We stopped for decent dim sum in Tauranga and again two hours later at a beach outside Opotiki, where we could just make out the smoking cone of Whakaari, the White Island, currently the most active volcano in New Zealand. 

From this point, the drive became more twisty, as we followed the Waioeka River up into mountains covered with lush native forest.  We passed a few knee-deep fisherman and were passed by a handful of vehicles, who consistently beeped thanks when we pulled over to let them by (I’m always charmed by polite drivers, as it reminds me of Vermont.  People here wave back when you drive by in the neighborhood, which also makes me unreasonably happy).  I expected the forest to stretch nigh to Gisborne, but the second half of this final leg was mostly high pasture.  For all the celebration of New Zealand’s sheep, we saw much more cattle, which makes it feel all the more like home.

Gisborne itself feels to me surprisingly like western Montana.  Missoula on the ocean, with vineyards and orange groves.  It’s a laid-back town in a laid-back country (one of Michelle’s colleagues told her that folks in Gizzy are so laid back “we’re practically lying down”).  Our house is a couple miles east of downtown, in a new development of maybe sixty houses, plopped down beside a quiet road to a small beach, nestled in a valley between steep hills covered in long brown grass and gently terraced by generations of ruminants.  The current inhabitants are cattle, though I imagine there may have been sheep here at times as well.  On my walk yesterday it was so quiet I could hear cow teeth ripping the grass a hundred feet away.  It was them, me, the birds, and at the beach, a couple surfers who must have been up before five.  We won’t be able to keep chickens here – that’ll have to wait for our forever home – but it does feel a very safe place for the kids to stretch their wings a bit.

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In our first week the kids and I have spent an unreasonable amount of money at the local bookstore, and I am learning a great deal from said books about local flora and fauna.  Maika has fallen in love with mince pies, while Emlen favors the cheesed variety.  We planted a garden and have visited three beaches. Both kids have become avid body surfers, which bodes well. 

Getting to know the house has been great, and we’ve learned to open it up in the early evening for the breeze to cool the living space.  I’m loving hanging our laundry on the line rather than using a dryer.  There are some weirdnesses, like the B.O. infused outdoor furniture, but nothing a bit of vinegar or maybe Febreeze or at most a bonfire won’t fix.

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One week in, life here is pretty amazing, and we feel incredibly fortunate.  We (along with what must have been half the town) hit the farmer’s market yesterday, where there were fresh dumplings served on huge leaves, great coffee, local wine, live music, and tons of veggies and fruits, including amazing finger limes that were new to us all.  We had to cut our visit short, however, as Emlen is still recovering from a playground injury sustained our second full day in town, which has somewhat curtailed our explorations (he’s doing much better today!).

The kids have their first day of school tomorrow, and the school really deserves a post of its own.  We (the adults) are trying not to prejudice their experience, but based on our tour on Friday, it seems great.  No hallways – all the classrooms have big porches and to get from one section to another you cross through a garden or some other open space.  Two gardens, one for vegetables, another for native medicinal plants.  Shoes optional, and the kids are encouraged to climb trees, of which there are many.  There’s a skate ramp at the playground, a pool they’ll swim in every day, and six beehives, which, starting Maika’s year, the kids can help tend.  To be honest, I’m a bit jealous.