I am an artist!

Once more, I find myself maxin' and relaxin' in the town of Nelson. Yesterday evening I got back from hiking in Abel Tasman National Park, which can be summed up in one word: beaches. They're the reason that so many people come to the park, and understandably so. Long, arcing strips of golden sand next to clear blue water...what's not to like? Here are a few pics:

Yes, the beaches were great, but the walk was actually a pretty bizarre experience, for a variety of reasons:

First, for a national park, Abel Tasman seems a little too developed for my tastes. During the walk, I came across a variety of holiday homes, lodges, and other buildings...even an airstrip! The wierdest point was when I came across the posh Awaroa Lodge and Cafe. It's right next to the track, so you can't miss it. Just to be different, I decided to have a quick snack at the cafe. So one minute I was sweating my ass off, lugging a pack through native bush, and the next minute I was lounging under a patio umbrella sipping a capuccino and nibbling on a croissant. Sure, I realize that Abel Tasman National Park is not a wilderness by any means, but this was just over the top.

The Awaroa Lodge and Cafe:

Second, since a) the Abel Tasman Coastal Track is a Great Walk and b) I am a cheap bastard, I decided to camp rather than stay in the overpriced huts, which led to some interesting encounters. The first night I camped at the Bark Bay campsite, which was actually quite nice. I arrived right as it was getting dark, so I quickly pitched my tent, cooked dinner, and got ready to turn in for the night. See, right now in NZ the sun goes down around 8:00, and since most campers don't have campfires or lanterns to provide light in lieu of the sun, they just go to bed when it gets dark. So it's almost like regressing to childhood, when bedtime was at 9:00. Anyways, there was a nearby group of garrulous English kayakers that decided to make their presence known to the entire campsite long after sundown. Apparently they were all keen on spotting a possum (though I'm not sure why...there are reportedly 70 million of the buggers in NZ), and when they did, they all squealed with delight and made quite a commotion. But that wasn't the end of it. They were the only group in the campground that decided to have a campfire, and they were determined to keep it going long into the evening. However, rather than collecting all the firewood they'd need before dark, they made periodic excursions to the wood pile (right next to my tent) to chop wood as needed. The last time they woke me up with their chopping was around 11:30 PM...WAY too late to be making all that noise. And it wasn't just one guy doing the chopping, either. They'd go over in groups of three or four: one to chop the wood, and a few extra to provide moral support. So you'd hear the WHACK of the axe, followed loudly by, "Whoooo! Bloody good chop, mate!" and "That's the ticket!" and "You've almost split it! Give it one more good blow!" Bloody poms!

On the second night, I camped at Mutton Cove, which was far less rowdy: there was only one other tent at the site, occupied by a relatively sedate Dutch couple. But this night, as it turns out, it would be Mother Nature giving me problems rather than other people. It started right after dark when I was snuggling into my sleeping bag. I was trying to fall asleep when I heard a faint rustle outside my tent. I ignored it at first, but the noise just got more and more persistent. Finally, I grabbed my headlamp and shined it around, just in time to catch the sight of a tiny mouse darting into the darkness. "Alright," I thought, "just a little mouse. I'll just make a lot of noise and scare him away." So I flailed around for a bit, slapping the ground and shaking the tent. Satisfied that I had given him a good fright, I settled back into bed. But 30 seconds later, he was back. I repeated the noise-making ritual a few times, but each time the mouse came back. Finally, I decided that I needed to get some sleep, so I would just forget about the mouse, let him do his thing, and go to bed, which I did. When I woke up in the morning, the first thing I did was look around the tent for evidence of the mouse. I didn't see any holes, and all my food was sitting right where I left it. "Ha," I thought, "looks like you gave up, Mr. Mouse. I win!" I realized I had spoken too soon when I reached for my bag of instant oatmeal, only to dump most of it in my lap through a hole in the bag. Turns out that the mouse had crawled under the tent, directly below my oatmeal, chewed a hole up through the groundcloth and into the bag, and stuffed himself on what would have been my breakfast. I couldn't believe it. I had set my food about one foot away from my head. Thinking that the mouse would be at the periphery of my tent, I had been swatting around at the edges, when in actuallity, he was right next to me...practically UNDER me! This mouse had some serious chutzpah. Actually, if he happens to be reading this post, I have a message for him: To the Mouse of Mutton Cove--You just made the mistake of your life. You messed with the wrong camper, buddy. Enjoy your victory while it lasts, because while you may have won the battle, the war is FAR from over. One day I will return, and when I do, I will destroy you. Consider yourself marked for death.

Ahem.

Anyways, to sum up Abel Tasman National Park: beautiful beaches, lots of wierdness. I thought that the wierdness would be over once I hopped on the bus and got back to Nelson, but I was seriously mistaken. I went back to the Tramper's Rest hostel, where I had a couple more nights booked. The crowd there was pretty much the same, except for the addition of a new guest, a German guy named Marcus. I could tell right away that there was something about him that was a little, well, "off." He was sitting at the kitchen table with the phone, having a heating argument with his mother (whom he referred to as "mama"). I found out later that he had been hogging the phone (the only line in the house, and the same one that Alan, the owner, uses to take bookings) for well over an hour. Alan kept telling him to wrap things up, and he would just nod and keep talking. When he finally hung up, Alan had to lecture him about not taking advantage of his hospitality and so on. Perhaps as a form of apology, Marcus offered to sleep outside on the patio (???). So I figured that he was just rude at first, maybe a little socially awkward. But then I overheard him having a conversation with Simon, one of the other guests. He was saying stuff like "I can see from your hands that you are reading my mind," and "some people say I am crazy, but I'm not crazy...just wierd." Uh, okay. I went to bed and had an uneventful sleep, due to the fact that I had earplugs in all night. When I took them out in the morning, the first thing I heard was a bizarre grunting/screaming combination. I could tell that it was Marcus. At first, I thought that maybe he was still sleeping and having a nightmare. Then Alan opened the door and said to me and Simon, "you'd better get dressed, the police are on their way." Apparently Marcus was going bat-shit crazy. When I peeked out into the hallway, I saw him in the kitchen, in some sort of kung fu pose, shouting and glancing around suspiciously. Clearly, the Marcus situation was getting out of hand. I got dressed and went out to the front porch, where I could make a quick getaway if needed. Marcus had cornered Alan in the kitchen and was doing his grunting/screaming theatrics. When the police finally arrived, they tried talking to Marcus, but he was still going on with his kung fu shit and acting generally crazy, so they ended up tackling him, cuffing his hands, and zip-tying his ankles. By this point he was saying some seriously bizarre shit: "Alan, you are not my father. I am your father and you are my son." "Do you want to see me do my haka? Go away, you haka! Go away!" And he kept on saying, "I am an artist! I am red! I am an artist!" Every once in a while he seemed to have a moment of clarity, saying stuff like, "Okay, stop. I am just Marcus." But these moments were short-lived, and he'd go right back to shouting incomprehensibly and writhing around on the ground. Eventually the police hauled him out to their squad car and drove away.

After that debacle, Alan gave us all a little back story on the "Marcus situation." Apparently, he had been to Tramper's Rest a few months before, with his girlfriend, and was relatively normal at the time. Alan learned that he had some sort of mental illness and was taking medication for it. A week or so ago, Alan received an email saying that Marcus had "gone missing" and stopped taking his medication, and that he was supposed to be brought back to the care of a family friend in Christchurch. So when Marcus showed up yesterday night, Alan figured he would try to get him back to Christchurch without involving the authorities. And it appeared that everything would work out, until Marcus started his grunting/shouting routine at about 2 AM (which I didn't hear, since I was wearing earplugs). Apparently he was in the bathroom taking a shower and doing a lot of yelling. One of the other guests knocked on the door to see if he was okay, at which point Marcus opened the door (buck naked), handed the soap to the guest, closed the door again, and did some more kung fu posing. So it was clear at that point that it would not be a normal night. I guess Alan stayed up with Marcus all night long, trying to keep him under control, until he realized that things were getting out of hand and the police had to be called.

Whew. So, that was the wierdness that was. I am expecting the next few days to be low-key, though. Tomorrow I am flying from Nelson to Auckland, where I will catch a bus up to the Bay of Islands, my last major destination in New Zealand. Since I have less than a week left here, I think I'll save my next update for after I get home to the States. See you all later!