Migrant Workers and Bogans

I took the ferry to the south island from Wellington at two in the afternoon. I had arrived late, and had to buy a second ticket, then spent several hours napping on the terminal floor. The Cook straight is a beautiful trip. The Sun was setting as we arrived in Picton, and I realized as I walked out that the buses were done running for the day. A kind old man offered me a ride halfway, but as we were leaving the parking lot a man in need of jumper cables stopped us. I ended up being passed off to this man and his family; a young boy, and middle aged Kiwi, and his Asian wife who he just referred to as “Bob.” They took me to the doorstep of my new home, a hostel converted from a holiday park, now known as Duncannon.

It could house up to 200 hundred people, but there weren’t nearly so many while I was there. Blenheim is a dreary place in winter, and sunshine is rare. I took up employment with a contractor named Savvy, a shady operation run by Indians acting like gangsters. Big jewelry, polo shirts, 4x4 trucks, everything. The work was brutal outdoor labor in vineyards, stripping branches from the wires and stumps. The boss strutted around with the air of an overseer, stopping occasionally to tell you what you were doing wrong.

At the hostel, there was a strong air amongst the residents that they knew they were being put-on. Most were backpackers attempting to build savings, but there were some that traveled to New Zealand just for the work. It was a wide-ranging international community. I learned of the many accents of England, and met a variety of travelers. A wild and entertaining Scot named Lorry, a well traveled French girl named Faustine, a bevy of people from Uruguay (all of whom were fascinated by the yerba mate gourd I drank. They didn’t believe that I picked up the habit in Texas) and a Malaysian whose name I could never that managed to be present at every joint smoked on the property. Blenheim is barely a dot on the map, which means that weekend entertainment for most consisted of sneaking in alcohol and loitering in the smoking area.

Days consisted of a fair routine; work in the field, a semi-warm five minute shower (shower tokens were free, but the open air was cold), then loiter about the kitchen chatting to people. Meals were of the peasant food variety; porridge and kiwi fruit for breakfast, peanut butter for lunch, rice and beans for dinner. Occasionally splurge on a small head of two-dollar broccoli. When the rain was too heavy to work, it just varies between reading books and hunting for conversations. Every once in a while I would make a foray into town for a cup of coffee just as an excuse for activity.

Americans are not known for being a traveling people, and I’ve met few as I’ve wandered New Zealand. I find that there are a few things completely unable to be understood about America that fascinates most people I meet. Primarily it is extreme conservatism and guns. It seems to be a mystery to most, and I regularly get drawn into conversation about such. I find myself regularly saying that the show Cops is indeed real. It is interesting that people have some varying ideas on America, based largely on their country of origin.

Due to an inability to make any money in the vineyards, and the overall boringness of Blenheim, I decided to pack up again for a small jaunt into Nelson. The bus took me through the outskirts of Abel Tasman Park, which were some of the most beautiful views I’ve ever seen. The south Island has a much wilder feel than the north, and I look forward to exploring it thoroughly.

Nelson was a bigger town than Blenheim, known for being a haven for hippies on the South Island. I only witnessed a little of this, but for the most part the people were extremely friendly in a genuine way. I was able to meet real Kiwi rednecks (they call them ‘Bogans’) here, complete with mullets, flannel, and racism. I shared a hostel with a family of such; we had little interaction with one another. I found Nelson to be a pretty place, but as with most of New Zealand, no work available in the winter months. So after two days I packed up my things and headed back across the water to the North Island. Now trying my luck in Wellington. If nothing else, it is nice to be in a city where vegan food and a decent cup of coffee is actually an option.