Cook Strait

There I was, sitting on the bus for the second day, watching the landscape slide past my eye and getting annoyed that I was rushing through this region at the speed of a fugitive. I had now finally given up on the Abel Tasman Great Walk, which some people call a beach stroll, even though Nelson would have been the perfect stop for it. Looking back, I am not sad about it. The 22-degree halo that had formed around the sun had already told me what was coming. A 22-degree halo is a ring-shaped light phenomenon around the sun caused by the refraction of light through ice crystals in high clouds, and it is often considered a sign of approaching high cloud cover and a possible change in the weather. Explanation over.

At some point I noticed that these buses were making me slightly nauseous. I get bus sick. And then I remembered that crossing from Palermo to Cagliari four years ago, when I threw up my soul on the ferry. Really bad. And now I want to sail across the Tasman Sea, or rather the Cook Strait, on a ferry, and I am already getting sick on the bus. Mel was really pushing it too. Some interstate was closed, so he put his foot down properly, over potholes and through corners. I could enjoy every single bump. There was no chance of getting any work done. I was grateful for every stop.

One of them, because Mel had to take his legally required break, was at the Pancake Rocks. Forty-five minutes. He kicked us off the bus, pulled me briefly toward him and said, We leave again at exactly five to three, and now get yourself down there to the right, it’s nice. Five to!

And just like that I was on the 1.1-kilometre loop track, and what can I say, really beautiful. Beautiful nature, the blowholes were active, and I saw dolphins. The Pancake Rocks are layered limestone formations that look like stacked pancakes. As simple as that, and genuinely an impressive natural spectacle.

On the way I was accompanied by Maja, a kindergarten teacher, who lit herself a cigarette along the ճանապարհ and was not a particularly great conversation partner. Want one too, she asked, holding out her cigarette to me. I smiled and declined gratefully. Live straight edge, girl. But thanks. It only took me two years to quit smoking. Would be stupid to start again now. How had I managed it? I told her about the hard fight, which impressed her a little, since she had gone through something similar. The main thing is simply not to quit quitting, no matter how many relapses you have. We talked about this and that, but somehow I did not feel like socialising that day. So I sat back down on the bus and kept staring out of the window as the nausea returned.

We reached Nelson in the dark, and the farewell to Mel was warm. I walked through the city in the dark, actually very pretty, just no time. My accommodation was playful, full of all kinds of paintings, I liked it. Unfortunately, unfortunately, unfortunately, I had already booked my passage to Wellington.

The next morning I was back at the bus again, this time one of the shut up and get in variety. But not with coffee, otherwise you’re buying a round. Phew. So off to Picton. Stupid thing was, the bus seemed to have some sort of problem. It had no power on the hills, so we crawled uphill with a mighty trail of smoke behind us. To make up for it, all stops were cancelled, and downhill and on the straight he really put his foot down. And there came the nausea again. Pothole. Should I still get some medication or just suffer through it? I looked at the map. In Picton it would be possible, if we arrived in time.

Of course we were a bit late, and I checked in at the port straight away. You should be back here in exactly one hour, they said. And me? I simply sat down in the waiting hall because outside it had started pouring. So there I sat, working on the next chapters, and beside me sat a man who might have been roughly my age, getting up now and then to ask at the counter when we were actually leaving. It was already boarding time, after all. I asked him in English why we were still sitting here, and he answered in German, no, in Austrian. He had apparently recognised my language from my computer.

Martin is from Vienna, from the 9th district, Servitenviertel, Althangrund, Freud, Beethoven, Schubert, so an Alsergrund man, and a globetrotter who does slow travelling and has been down here for about nine months. I really should take a proper look at Vienna one day, I thought to myself. A city that definitely has more culture and history to offer than all of Australia.

Martin told me he had only been in Australia for three months. Perth was supposedly wonderful, Melbourne, quite rightly, everyone loves it, and Adelaide, well. He had now been travelling around the South Island for two months and, to my surprise, had had roughly the same idea for New Zealand as I did. And, again to my surprise, he had done very similar things to me, and so much more on top of that. Of course. He has time.

And so we got talking and boarded the ferry, which then departed an hour and a half later than scheduled. As someone trained by Deutsche Bahn, no problem at all. During Corona in Namibia, over a hundred countries visited, I listened. Italy seemed to be both our favourite place in the world. It really is beautiful. He talked about slow travelling and about how to get around relatively cheaply.

The rain and the wind made it almost impossible to sit out on deck, so we sat by the windows and let ourselves be carried out through the sound. I was surprised: no nausea, nothing, not even once we were properly out there. The sea was calm too, and unfortunately not that spectacular. So I do not need to make this crossing again when I come back here. One more thing ticked off the list. I could have spent three more days in Queenstown if I had flown. Ah, I am lovesick.

In Wellington we got off the ferry, took the shuttle bus to the station in five minutes, and then our ways parted. I was on the run to my accommodation. He said he had not booked anything yet, and since it was not raining, he thought he had spotted a green patch up on the hill and would sleep there tonight.

When I got to my accommodation and opened my dump of a room, I saw it had enough potential for two. I sent him an email saying he could stay with me tonight if he wanted. No answer yet, but we are meeting for beers this evening. Well, he is having beer, I am having water.

In that spirit.