Winter in Maniototo

While staying with Cassie's family, I experienced the winter wonderland around Maniototo with many drives across the thinly inhabited basin. Clean snow partly blanketed the brown-gold fields strewn with scraggly gray trees and shrubs heavy with burgundy berries. Under ample wool, sheep grazed near barns made from the local metamorphic stone.

Hoar frost crystals coat the ground

On Saturday, Mr. Lindsay took us to the nearby village of Naseby to see what was happening down at the curling rink.

Naseby's Indoor Curling Rink

Curling--which I enjoy snickering at back home--is no laughing matter here. It's more of a regional religion. In a glassed-in cafe above the rink, observers pose intently in chairs, mesmerized by gliding granite stones. Over beers, old men contemplate expert maneuvers.

Years of curling memorabilia line the cafe walls. One corner houses a shrine to Sean Becker, a New Zealand curler. A sheep farmer native to the nearby town of Ranfurly, Becker represented New Zealand in the 2006 winter games at Turin.

Curling Pins and Patches

That evening, we drove to the historic mining village of St. Bathan's. The tiny town rests beside a large man-made lake, which was formed from an intensive gold-mining operation that later filled in with water. Above the lake's flawless mirror, the hillsides shone white and gold in the setting sun.

Blue Lake at St. Bathans

After watching the mountains finish swallowing the sun, we stepped inside the historic Vulcan Hotel as twilight descended.

Vulcan Hotel

Inside, a Labrador slept near a wood stove full of leaping flames. Local men stamped muddy work boots and roosted on bar stools. Mike, the innkeeper, filled orders without being told. He hurled good-natured insults and sly one-liners and then turned out a second round of drinks on the house. His wife Jude, in black-and-white-striped stockings, set out baskets of crackers with salsa.

The next morning, we headed back to Naseby to hit the luge track. Here we were met by Guntis Rekis, an Olympic luger from Latvia. He would be our personal luge coach for an hour. Was it enough to turn us into pros?

Guntis

His training, in broken English, consisted of clipped instructions like "pull to turn" and "feet down to stop." Is that all there was to it?

Looking more like a horseback rider than a luger,

I speed down the track

And we were off. Our first run down the track ended in a series of crashes and ricochets. Guntis looked horrified. "But it's so simple," his puzzled expression stated wordlessly.

After some repeated instructions, he sent us down again. Our performance did not improve. Cassie swung around the last corner balanced at 45 degrees on one sled rail, and landed pinned to a side wall. Guntis looked truly alarmed. "No, no, no," he said, driving us back up the hill. "Now, don't crash this time, Girls."

Cassie laughs off a colossal wreck

After several more runs, we improved slightly. However, I don't think Guntis was impressed in the least. For someone who reaches luging speeds of 148 kph, our clumsy antics must have seemed utterly shocking.

Cornaig Farm

"What are you doing next weekend?...Want to come out to my Dad's?" Cassie, my martial arts buddy, had asked. "He'll pick us up Thursday night and bring us back Sunday."

Cassie's Dad runs a 2000-acre sheep farm in Central Otago, about a two-hour drive from Dunedin. Since Cassie and I are usually sprawled on a mat choking each other, this would be new perspective--not to mention a class-A Kiwi experience.

Geologically speaking, the farm is set within a flat basin encircled by mountains--a place called Maniototo.

Cassie's Dad was born on this farm and has raised sheep all his life. He has 2000 sheep, a number that will more than double in late September when the lambs are born.

Cassie gives Vaughn the Sheep Dog a little scratch on the head

One evening, Mr. Lindsay's wife Ann took us for an exciting four-wheel-drive ride across the farm. She followed the road for a bit and then jutted across open pasture. As we ca-junked over hills and ruts and pools, I made use of the conveniently located hanging handle--you know the one.

When we reached the outskirts of the property, numinous gray crags scratched the evening sky, leaving streaks of pink melting into lavender.

Maniototo was in the clutches of winter, complete with ice and frost, but once inside the house, there was nothing to fear. Central heat is a scarce feature in New Zealand, but these folks knew how to use heat where it matters. A diesel-powered furnace toasted the main room, and they put me in a big fluffy bed warmed by an electric mattress pad. Most exciting of all, the bathroom floor was heated!

Caution: Animal lovers and activists, stop reading here.

(I mean it.)

With 2000 sheep out back, you're never short on meat. For Sunday lunch, Mr. Lindsay went outside and retrieved this--bonafide leg of mutton. After slow-cooking all day, it was a tasty treat and mixed very well with mashed potatoes, roasted pumpkin, peas, and yams.

I didn't want to know, but I asked anyway. "So...ah, does your Dad kill them himself?"

Yes, indeed, he slits their throats, and they hang in the "killing tank" for a couple days to drain.

I knew I shouldn't have asked.

Killing Tank at Dusk

(to the left)

Last One - Random Bits

On our first day in the islands, Jeremy eagerly ordered fish and chips for lunch--having heard about the glories of fresh fish in Vanuatu. The lady behind the counter cautioned him: "We only have it whole--like this"...pointing to a clip-art diagram of a fish. He paused for a moment, trying to consider exactly what difference this would make, and then said, "That's fine."

When we sat down to wait, I suggested tentatively, "I think it's going to come out with fins and eyeballs." Too late!

Fish and Chips - the Quick Way

On our last day on the islands, we scurried around Port Vila looking for souvenirs--something authentic. We wandered into a sprawling shop where local ladies bent over humming sewing machines, crafting their famous bright Mother Hubbard dresses. We noticed they also made men's shirts. Lingering at one woman's stall, Jeremy caught sight of a bright green fabric printed with a map of Vanuatu--a geographer's dream! Noting his interest, the woman removed the piece of cloth from its hanger; it was a sarong. Jeremy suddenly found himself wearing a skirt.

Shifting uncomfortably and looking sideways, Jeremy quietly asserted, "I don't think I'm ready for this." Not willing to give up, he pointed to a men's shirt and said "I like the green cloth, but I want a shirt, not a skirt." The woman was not to disappoint. "Yes," she said, "I can do that. Come back Monday." It was Tuesday, and we were leaving the next day.

No problem. "OK, you can come back at 5:00," she said. It was 3:15. I don't know how she reduced her manufacture time from six days to two hours, but we took her at her word, paid, and left her to it. We wandered around town, killing time. At 4:30, curiosity overcame me, and I went back into the shop and peeked into her stall. Sure as shootin', there she was piecing bright green cloth. Shortly before 5, she presented us a men's shirt, complete with full seams and buttons.

Among its seemingly endless points of interest, Vanuatu boasts World War II history. In 1942, the islands expected Japanese invasion, and couldn't have been more pleased to welcome 50,000 American servicemen to town. The locals pitched in on base, where they enjoyed racial equality and good wages. Even today's taxi drivers will be happy to tell you how the Americans saved the day.

B-17 Wreck in the Jungle

THE END

Part 4 - the Scenes