The problem is that since most of the pertinent buildings are in the center of the business district, and most of them are two stories high, the storefronts have been ruined by becoming, well, modern storefronts.

So to get a sense of the way things were you have to keep your eyes up. It’s very touristy.

Like Oamaru, Napier seems stuck on the fact that their home is embodies a time period, and just hasn’t moved on from there. There are plenty of costume and antique shops where you can pick up classic clothing.

It made me covet a wool cloche hat something fierce.

Unlike Oamaru, people in Napier don’t walk around in period costume, but I like to think that they get together once a month and have a Roaring 40’s party, complete with Charleston dancing and cigarettes in long holders. There can’t be enough of a market for antique and costume shops otherwise, can there? Surely not.

One shop was even selling those spangly headbands with feathers on the side like flappers used to wear, and oh I wanted one! Never mind that I would never actually get up the courage to wear it, or that I could even necessarily get it home in one piece, I just wanted it. It didn’t matter.

I did manage to abstain, though. Because that’s fun.

Another thing about New Zealand is that there have been a number of very large sculptures made from corrugated tin. I don’t know if this is a cultural thing or what, but it surprises me every time.

And I saw a guy bathing his dog in a fountain. Apparently the dog had found something rather smelly to roll in.

The real excitement about Napier, however, is something that most people don’t think to do. It’s in the Lonely Planet, but when I mentioned it to people they said that if they’d heard of it it’d never occurred to them to go.

It’s the Penguin Recovery Workshop at Marineland. It might sound a little boring in that educational kind of way (or educational in that boring kind of way), but it was fantastic. Marineland is part rehabilitation center for marine wildlife, part Sea World, but much smaller. Injured marine life is brought to them, and if they can rehabilitate and release, they do, but if the animal can be rehabilitated and can’t be returned to the wild then they keep them at Marineland where they either hang out in their pens (getting fresh sea water, which is filtered through the sea floor and pumped into their pools) or they get trained and put on performances.

The penguins don’t perform. I don’t think it’s their “thing,” regardless of what Mr. Popper would have you believe.

So. I was the only person doing the tour that day, and was met by two penguin wranglers who looked to be about sixteen, which made me feel old and weird, but whatever. They took me into the kitchen and showed me the various kinds of fish that all the animals get, pointing out which were the “McDonald’s” fish, which the penguins loved but if they got too much of it they wouldn’t eat anything else and would, of course, get fat. And perhaps make a documentary about it, I don’t know.

They grabbed a bucket of fish slices and invited me into the first penguin area. This is Twiggy:

Twiggy would hang around for the food.

I was told who each penguin was, and why he or she was there (one has a hunchback, one has a cricked neck). They weren’t terribly interested in coming over for food (they’re very shy, you see), but I got to feed one or two, and watch as they got tossed in the water to get some exercise.

Then we walked over to say hi to the gannets. They only have a few that belong at Marineland, and a bunch fly in and stay for the posh life.

They said something about this black one, but – heh – I don’t remember what it was, aside from the fact that it was a fair bit older than most, and also is very pretty.

We hopped into penguin enclosure number two, where there was another set of penguins waiting for food. Well, not really “waiting,” since they never got the nerve to come over to me on their own, but they ate when they were wrangled to my feet for a snack.

It’s important to read signs, you know.

This is Draco.

Named, indeed, for the Harry Potter villain because he’s not so thrilled about being held, and has a tendency to poo on people. It was okay; I was thrilled enough for both of us. I fed him some fish, and he routinely mistook my fingers for food.

That’s right, I’ve been nibbled by a penguin. It was awesome. AND he didn’t poo on me, so that’s pretty good too.

The next stop on the tour was the very incapacitated penguin pen. This held one penguin with a flipper missing, one with a flipper AND an eye missing, and Gonzo, who was without a lower beak, thanks to some errant fishing line. He really did look like Gonzo from the muppets.

They’d never make it in the wild, but they were doing just fine at Marineland. Gonzo took a while, but finally learned how to eat, by hooking his beak over someone’s finger and gulping down the fish offered with the other hand.

See how the pool behind me is round? Know why? It’s for the penguins with one flipper. Because they swim in circles. That made me laugh far more than is polite. And then the penguin pooed on me. I guess he didn’t think it was so funny.

I got to meet the quarantined penguins as well, and then wander the park. The animals there are hilarious. From hearing-impaired seals lazing about,

to seals with itchy noses,

to the princess seal who whines until she gets what she wants.

When the show started one of the seals would hang out by the door, watch the dolphins and seals perform, and bray. I’m not sure if it was jealousy or protest.

Speaking of jealousy, I don’t think I wanted to work with animals more than when I saw this:

She’s a trainer and was great with them, showing how the huge male sea lions could talk, answer questions (pointing down was shaking their head no, pointing up was nodding), and do flips. I talked to her for while, and realized that if I was going to find myself stuck in anywhere in New Zealand it just might be there.

The reason I surely wouldn’t stay in Napier is that on Sundays the church bells start ringing at nine am and go on for a half hour. I would go some kinds of crazy.

Another charmer at Napier’s Marineland was a cockatoo who may actually just have a day cage there (a woman came by and took him away after a while). I was watching him and whistling, making due note of the “Bobby bites sometimes!” warning in the cage, when Bobby came over and said hello.

“Hi!,” I replied.

“Give us a scratch?” he said, cocking his head. “Oh ho ho ho,” I laughed, and braved that very large beak that parrots are wont to have, and skritched his neck. He tucked his head down and lifted some of his feathers to give me better access. Birds have very soft skin, I’ll have you know.

Some women saw me with my hands in the cage and came over. Bobby saw them and walked over. “Give us a scratch?” he charmed, offering his neck.

I’m in love with that bird.

Later I saw the women who had led me around take the quarantined penguins out for their daily exercise. There’s a waist-high pool in the middle of the walkway, filled with fish, and the penguins get tossed in one at a time. When they get to the edge they’re put right back into the middle again. After a few minutes they’re pulled out and toweled off gently, then put back into their pens.

My hostel, the Criterion Art Deco Backpackers, was mediocre. The living room looked rather spectacular, with very high ceilings, stylish (well, by 1930’s-1940’s standards) fireplaces, and pool table. My bedroom was small and packed tight with two bunk beds. Luckily enough I was the only one in there. I don’t know where anyone else would’ve put their luggage. I only stayed one night, and for the life of me now can’t remember why. I moved to Wally’s Backpackers, which may or may not have been a good idea.

It had just been purchased not a month before I showed up, and some of the transitions were a little sticky yet. Even so, for a supposedly established place it seemed pretty devoid of decoration. And it needed new carpeting something fierce. Oop, apparently it just opened it 2003. I wouldn’t have guessed that.

I didn’t get a great feeling from the owner, but that may have just been a reaction to his constant socks-and-sandals fashion abomination. Lonely Planet calls it “slick urban hostelling.” Clearly our definitions differ.

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As a result the town is used as a filming location pretty frequently. In fact, while I was there they were filming some movie called “Wife’s Flight” or something, in which some women leave Wales(?) to come to New Zealand to be with their husbands. Or something. In the scene I watched being filmed, a guy got onto a bus. But it was set in the 1950’s(?) so it was very exciting.

The main thing to do in Oamaru is to see the penguins, so I got myself a ticket and got myself on the proper bus. First stop is to see the yellow-eyed penguins, who are the rarest penguins.

To see them you get to spend an hour on top of a cliff in the cold wind – in a blind, if you wish, which blocks NO wind, thank you very much –

and wait for them to swim out of the water, toddle along the beach, and disappear.

They say that the penguins then climb the cliffs to their nests where they meet their mates with dinner, but since it’s a hella steep cliff and I didn’t actually see them climbing up, I’m pretty sure there’s an elevator in there somewhere.

We only saw four or five, but that’s about average for nighttime viewings.

Then off to the blue penguin colony where they have stadium seating, and a guide who, J and I decided, moonlighted as a children’s storyteller. She was very emphatic and exuberant, you see. After some chatting she directed our sights out to sea where you could see a small, dark cloud of water working its way towards the shore. From the waves spilled perhaps fifty tiny penguins, who wobbled their way up a cement ramp, over the road, and over to their nesting boxes. They immediately started chattering in that “Hi honey, I’m home!” kind of way. Sometimes they paused in the road for a “Same time tomorrow, Fred?” “See you then, Bob,” exchange.

Then they went into the boxes, came out of their boxes, wandered around, got into scuffles with each other, and wandered around some more, yammering loudly the whole time.

We weren’t allowed to take pictures, so you’ll just have to imagine tiny, snuggly blue penguins.

I have several million photos to upload, so this might take a while. Bear with me.

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This is actually my third stop in Christchurch. The first I didn’t think I’d stick around, but at 6:20pm I was browsing the internet for local swing dances and found a big workshop happening that night, starting at 6:30. I checked my watch, booked it upstairs to get my shoes, and took off into the night.

Two lindy hop workshops later I learned there were more workshops and a dance the next night, so I decided to stick around. Budgetary concerns kept me from the next workshops ($20 each adds up, even when hostel living is relatively inexpensive), so I just went to the dance. It’s a small scene, but generally friendly (for the uninitiated, it’s much easier to get into a dance scene if you’re relatively competent at the relevant style of dance).

J told me that I had to go to Cave Stream while I was around. I had no idea what it was, but apparently it was one of the coolest things to do. Unfortunately, and naturally, you can’t get there without a car, and it’s a fair bit of trouble getting there by bus as you’d have to ask especially to get dropped off nearby, and then walk. But! He might be taking the lindy teacher who was there for the workshops next Tuesday, so if they went and I was around I could tag along. That, combined with my offer and acceptance to teach a workshop for the Charleston Stroll at the classes the next week, and my interest in seeing Akaroa, led to me heading to the Information building the next morning.

I got there, bags in tow, at 10:05am, and asked for a ticket to Akaroa. The woman’s face fell – the last bus had left at 10am. Superb. I bought a ticket for the next day instead, and hauled my things back to Fraureisehaus. A whole day now at my disposal I checked my email, and learned that the leaders of the local swing dance couldn’t make my workshop happen, and so they were sorry but they had to cancel. Things were going my way!

(The view down to Akaroa)

The bus ride to Akaroa went off without a hitch and I settled myself into Chez La Mer backpackers. I booked myself for a Swimming With Dolphins tour for the following morning and wandered up and down the one main road in Akaroa. J sent me a text and said Cave Stream was on for the following Tuesday if I was interested.

Swimming With Dolphins was cancelled in the morning due to bad weather (just as well since it was freezing cold and cloudy), so I rebooked and went back to bed for another two and a half hours.

It was sunny and warm the next afternoon when I got suited up for dolphin-related adventures. The company takes a picture of you in your wetsuit before you head out, and takes another picture of the boat heading out. It was far more successful than my last venture. They managed to find two Hector’s dolphins who seemed interested, and they dumped us in the water, and we bobbed around as the dolphins wove in between us.

A tip, should you ever go swimming with Hector’s dolphins (unlikely, since they’re only found off the coast of New Zealand, but just in case) – bring along two small rocks to clack together under water. They think it’s the most fascinating thing. They also seem to like bright colors which does no one any good since you’re likely going to be wearing the tour’s black wetsuits. Different species like different things. Dusky dolphins (which are found in Kaikoura, which I almost got to swim with) like it when you squeak and hum and generally make a ruckus into your snorkel. Bottlenose dolphins like quiet. Who knew?

On the ride back in I chatted with a fellow scuba diver (he’d brought his own suit with bright green on the sleeves – he was very popular with the dolphins) who told me I absolutely had to dive the Poor Knight’s Islands, which north of the north island. Suddenly I’m thinking three months isn’t enough time. And we saw a penguin. It was cute.

There was little other excitement in Akaroa – it’s just quiet and calm and lovely there. Monday I went back to Christchurch and to Fraureisehaus. I asked J what to wear for the trip, and he said shorts and a t-shirt would be fine. Shorts. Great. I didn’t have shorts. Well, I did, but they weren’t terribly flattering. So Tuesday morning I raced around Christchurch trying to find a not-awful pair of shorts that didn’t cost $100. Not as easy as it sounds.

(Outside of the cave)

At noon I met up with J, and we picked up S before heading off to Cave Stream. Cave Stream, it seems, is an underground cave with a stream and a series of waterfalls running through it. You start at the exit (really) and climb through the water, up the waterfalls (1-1.5 meter high) before climbing a ladder and emerging at the other end. Seems backwards to me, but what did I know? I read the sign outside that said you should wear a long sleeved shirt – I didn’t have one – and a hat – didn’t have one of those either – and recommended closed shoes with thick socks – I was wearing sandals and feeling woefully unprepared.

We pranced down a steep hill to the mouth of the cave. It should be noted that it’s a mountain stream, and with the warm weather the snow on top was melting. And heading into the stream. T-shirt and shorts. What a splendid idea.

The first pool is the deepest, and where you gauge everyone’s comfort (according to the sign) and the feasibility of the tramp (slosh?). Normally the pool is waist deep. When we were there it came up to J’s armpits. J is not a short man. I’m short. We aborted the walk.

Instead we walked to the other end to see how going was from that direction. At the entrance is a waterfall maybe 3 meters high with a ladder at the side for clambering purposes.

WHY NO, I DON’T MIND HEIGHTS, HA HA HA.

J made it all the way down the ladder before deciding that the force of the water was too much, so we wiggled back out again.

Fail.

A quick clothing change later and we went to Castle Hill where they filmed parts of Narnia and wandered through the surprisingly big stones. People climb them apparently. Know why? Because they’re crazy.

(J trying to climb the rocks)

The next night I went to another swing dance in Christchurch. It wasn’t thrilling. It was Halloween and apparently a memo had gone out that costumes were encouraged, and they could choose from 1. devil, or 2. angel. There were also two lions and two witches. Someone should’ve gone as a wardrobe. HAR!

I took off Thursday for Akaroa again and didn’t end up doing any of the tours I was thinking about doing (or hit the walks as much as I’d intended), but got a lot of sun. My poor nose is peeling away, and if this keeps up I’ll end up with one similar to the nouveau Michael Jackson.

I’m tan, though, which is very exciting. I mentioned this to P, a chap I met in Akaroa. He noted I was still pretty pale. “Pale!” I squealed, ever graceful under pressure, “I have tan lines,” I yelled, pulling up my sleeve and wielding a bare shoulder at him. “Look at me! I’m the tannest I’ve been in years! I’m like toast I’m so brown!“

He didn’t buy it.

Now I’m back in Christchurch for the third time, a place that I hadn’t even intended to spend three days. And today I’m leaving, thank you.

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