Tasmania was the destination in Australia I was most excited about, and my ~5 days in Hobart were a brilliant introduction to the island. The coastline, wildlife, and seafood were all highlights, but it was the pop-up markets that really took the cake. I went to four separate markets in one weekend! Here’s the play-by-play of this uniquely Tassie adventure.
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From the airport, I took the SkyBus to downtown and dragged my heavy checked bag uphill to the historic Battery Point neighborhood. My lodging for the first two nights was a boutique bunkhouse called Montacute, housed in a brick building with a garden, carpeted stairs, and squeaky wooden floors. I stayed in a 4-person room, and quickly met a friendly Frenchman named Antony who was wrapping up a working holiday in Melbourne. The Montacute drew a diverse range of clients, and while I sat in a cozy armchair in the hallway, I heard many languages being spoken – Korean, French, German, Russian. Between the funky layout of the rooms and the eclectic visitors, it felt like the kind of place where a murder mystery would take place.

​I sat in the dining room for several hours, waiting for check-in to open, and exhausted from my 3:00am wakeup in Wellington that morning. The fast-talking host dealt with the queue of arrivals; the orientation speech got shorter and shorter every time it was repeated. I dropped off my bags and set out for groceries and dinner. It was just a few minutes’ walk to the Salamanca Plaza, a major shopping area with art galleries and restaurants. Across the street, a major section of the wharf was sectioned off for the setup of an event called “Taste of Tasmania.” My own first taste of Tasmania was a hearty bowl of laksa, a delicious Asian curry noodle soup.

​The next morning, I was up bright and early for a day trip to Tasman Peninsula and Port Arthur. The company was called Pennicott Wilderness Journeys, and their office was in a prime spot by the harbor. The charismatic bus driver Phil gave us local insights on the bus ride out of Hobart. He pointed out burn scars from previous wildfires, marine sanctuaries off the coast, and the hometown of Neil the Seal. Neil is an internet-famous elephant seal, known for playing with traffic cones and blocking driveways. We only caught a glimpse of Neil, but his hilarious videos are worth checking out!

We crossed the Eaglehawk Neck, a thin strip of land and the only connection between the Tasman Peninsula and the rest of Tasmania. The Eaglehawk Neck was fiercely guarded with a line of dogs during the convict era, making the Tasman Peninsula a natural prison. We stopped at a café for breakfast while Phil herded tourists. The Pennicott company had a dizzying number of versions of the day trip – some that started in Hobart, some that started in Port Arthur, some that went to a lavender farm or a Tasmanian devil sanctuary for the afternoon activity. As a result, the group was merged and split and rejoined several times throughout the day, an impressive feat of logistics. On one of the bus rides, I sat next to a psychiatrist from Melbourne and had a nice chat.

​The day became even more dazzling when a large pod of a hundred dolphins joined the cruise. They rode the waves created by the boats, swimming alongside us, and showing off with impressive leaps. We also saw fur seals, basking on the rocks and frolicking in the water, and several enormous lion’s mane jellyfish, ominously orange against the dark water.

​We continued to Cape Pillar and the island across, very creatively named “Tasman Island” (sensing a theme?) The lighthouse on Tasman Island was an elaborate project to maintain, requiring supplies to be hoisted via crane and then carted up the mountainside with a horse-powered crank. It’s also one of the landmarks used in the annual Sydney-to-Hobart yacht race, scheduled to start in just a few days. On the way back, we spotted a few albatrosses and black-winged shearwaters on the open ocean.

​From the dock, we were taken to Port Arthur for a few hours at the historical site. Lunch was provided at the site’s restaurant, including salmon sandwiches and a surprisingly good flat white. Over lunch, I met a couple from Melbourne: a school music teacher and a restaurant owner. I mentioned that I was thinking of a restaurant job in Melbourne for my working holiday and asked some general advice. I think they were slightly shocked at my loose plan. I later looked up the restaurant, which turned out to be a fancy “$$$” French restaurant in the CBD – not the kind of place I’d be applying without any experience!

​The Port Arthur historical prison site was a beautiful cluster of sandstone buildings and grassy fields right on the edge of the water. It had the mystique of Alcatraz but with the pleasantness of the Presidio. Through a combination of self-guided exploration and a 30-minute guided tour, I learned some of its history. During the convict era, repeat offenders from other parts of Tasmania were sent here to be punished and reformed. It turned into a mini civilization of its own, with convict labor being used to manufacture raw materials for export, and a tight-knit community of prison staff. The main building was an impressively large multistory Penitentiary. It was originally a flour mill with a wheel that was manually turned by convicts, and later was converted into jail cells. Another building was the Separate Prison, where prisoners were placed in solitary cells and largely deprived of human interaction. For church services, the prisoners were blindfolded and herded into standing pews with dividers. When the prison was gradually closed around 1877, many of the convicts had nowhere else to go and lived on the site as paupers on government welfare. But some ex-convicts became tour guides -- the site became a major attraction as soon as it closed.

​I’m glad I went to Port Arthur and learned about the convict era of Australia’s history. The site was thought-provoking about how the convicts were portrayed – were they victims of poverty and the harsh legal system, or genuinely terrible people who deserved incarceration? Were the methods of punishment cruel, even if they were progressive compared to other prisons of the era? It was fascinating and unsettling.

Back in Hobart, I pieced together a charcuterie dinner featuring a Tasmanian cheese sampler. One cheese included pepper berry, a local plant that added a spicy kick.
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The next morning, I went on a self-guided walking tour of the Battery Point neighborhood, admiring the beautiful brick buildings and decorative porch trimmings. My route followed the Battery Point sculpture trail, a series of giant numbers, hidden in quiet parks and beaches. Each number had a corresponding anecdote from the area’s history. For example, a floating “313” indicated a shipyard where 313 vessels were built. The trail passed by the site of an old jam factory and the finish line of the Sydney to Hobart yacht race. By coincidence, it also passed a state-of-the-art oceanography research vessel called the Investigator, funded by Australia’s CSIRO agency.

​I wandered into the center of Hobart’s CBD, an impressive array of restaurants, pedestrian streets, and shopping malls. A caroling choir and Australian animal holiday posters added a festive spirit to the air. I looked for a pair of binoculars at a camera store. The employee encouraged me to try them out on a large billboard several blocks away, which convinced me to make the purchase. I stopped for a wonderful lunch at a casual Vietnamese restaurant, including pork bao and an excellent bowl of pho. An underground Woolworth’s grocery had all the ingredients for my next meal.

​The next 3 nights, I stayed with an Australian couple that I found through Servas, named Daryl and Elsje (“el-sha”). They were incredibly friendly, generous, interesting, entertaining people and we had so much fun in a few short days. Daryl picked me up in Battery Point with a cheerful greeting and drove me to his home in West Hobart. I was introduced to Elsje and their two pets, a schnauzer named Lucy with a partial haircut and a Siamese cat named “Missy” (short for Miss Minoes, a reference to a Dutch movie about a woman who turns into a cat). After introductions, they let me loose with a guitar while they ran errands.

​Daryl’s background was in media, entertainment, and theater. Among his many pursuits were magic, comedy, music, acting, playwriting, ventriloquism, and “Santa-ing” for the local community. We went down to the basement, pulled out a briefcase of tricks, and had a magic jam session. He even trained Missy to participate in his routine, and for a treat she would put her paw on the queen. A ventriloquist puppet named Arty the Penguin sat on the sofa, from Daryl's days working at a local Antarctica exhibit. Daryl was full of energy the whole day, from offering me a coffee in the morning to his return from an evening of Santa-ing and theater engagements.

​Elsje was an excellent gardener, often sporting scratches on her legs, and took me on a tour of the yard. I was dazzled by the variety – raspberries, cherries, quinces, leafy greens, tomatoes, and so much more. The driveway was recently renovated, and she had grand plans for the front yard. She was a seasoned chef and a fellow sweet tooth, so we bonded over meals and desserts. I enjoyed hearing stories from her life and family history. She came from a family of Dutch immigrants who settled in Kingston, just south of Hobart. At one point, she brought out a history book about her father’s role in the Dutch resistance to the Nazis. During her career, she trained airport and hospital staff in crisis management and happened to teach a workshop just 4 days before the infamous Port Arthur massacre (a tragic shooting that led to Australia’s gun reform). Though not a morning person like Daryl, she was also gregarious, perceptive, and full of life.

​The first evening, Elsje made a dinner of chicken wings and a dessert of crepes with raspberries and ice cream. After we stuffed ourselves, Elsje took me for a wallaby spotting tour in the neighborhood. We hopped in the car and drove up the hill. It didn’t take long – we spotted one a block away, grazing in a neighbor’s garden. We walked along a dirt trail and spotted several more, including one that froze and stood still for a few minutes while I calibrated my new binoculars. Back in the car, she meant to take me up Mt. Nelson but we were distracted by a group of 15-20 wallabies congregating on a grassy field. We ended up in her hometown of Kingston, and returned to Hobart on a longer coastal route.

​Daryl kindly offered to drive me downtown for my next Pennicott tour to Bruny Island. To my surprise, he lifted up the cat and brought her into the car too! His van was modified for a road trip with pets, including covers on the seats and door handles – a pandemic project. On the drive, Missy jumped up on the dashboard and started the windshield wipers in the process. Somehow, Daryl managed to keep the car moving straight while picking her up and turning off the wipers in an impressive feat of multi-tasking.

​My day trip to Bruny Island was a food-themed tour with about 10-15 people. We hopped in a van with our guide and driver Kai. The van was able to drive onboard the Bruny Island ferry, so it didn't take long to reach the island.

​Our first stop was for cheese and beer at the Bruny Island Cheese Co. An employee with a thick French accent tried to explain the selection. I liked several of the harder cheeses, like the cryptically named “C2.” The whole operation was a bit puzzling, as their cows were on Tasmania rather than Bruny Island. During the tasting, I met a boisterous couple from Perth who said I looked like Roger Federer.

​Our second stop was at the Neck, a strip of land connecting the northern and southern parts of the island. A platform at the top of a staircase gave us the panoramic view needed to appreciate this unique landform. The Neck was my original inspiration to visit Bruny Island, and it didn't disappoint. As we continued the drive, we spotted a white wallaby! Bruny Island is known for having a small population of white wallabies, but it was still a treat to see one. The southern part of the island gets more rain, and for our third stop, we explored an old-growth fern jungle on foot.

​The Pennicott tour company was large enough to have their own restaurant at a spot called Adventure Bay. We were given two drink tickets, a plate of oysters from a local farm called Get Shucked, and a fish entrée. While many oysters are grown in oscillating tides (they close in air, and this strengthens their muscle), the Bruny Island oysters are grown underwater, giving them a softer texture. I’m a pretty adventurous eater, but these oysters were tough to get down. They were large – too much time to think while eating – and the creaminess felt out of place. After the first one, I waited for my drink to arrive before stomaching any more. Thankfully, the Whey Stout (from the Bruny Island Beer Co) made a wonderful chaser.

There were several other solo travelers on the tour, and we gravitated to the same table. One was Antony, the Frenchman I met at the Montacute hostel. Another was a lady from Sydney visiting her bucket list places, inspired by a friend with a terminal illness. Also in the group was a soft-spoken but confident Asian man from LA who was traveling off a generous severance package. We swapped travel advice over our fish & chips and Tasmanian wine.
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The next stop was a beautiful white sand beach called Two Tree Point. It was the first “real” Australian beach I had encountered. It was lovely, with rock pools and kelp to complement the white sand. Historically, this part of Bruny Island was prized for its timber, and explorers like Captain Cook had docked nearby. The name Adventure Bay came from the HMS Adventure, one of Cook’s ships.

The tour had two more stops – chocolate and honey. The chocolate tasting was a bit unusual. We were offered a bar of fudge, and then shown around the sculpture gardens of the eccentric chocolatier – a bit of a Willy Wonka experience. This included “the graveyard,” a set of fake tombstones with humorous quotes and a frog pond. The honey tasting was more straightforward, the highlight being a cup of delicious honey ice cream.
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There was a long line for the return ferry crossing, which gave me time to buy cherries from the Black Devil Tasmanian cherry stand. I thought that a kilo sounded like a good amount, but I was caught off guard by the enormous bag! I joked with Antony that it was an example of Americans not knowing the metric system. The cherries were so good that I snacked on a few, even after all the other food.

​Upon returning to Hobart, I checked out two Friday night street markets that were in full swing. One was a “twilight market” right on the harbor, with crafts and food trucks. Another was the “Franko” market (held regularly in Franklin Square) that had even more food trucks plus live music. There were lots of tempting options, but I was stuffed from Bruny Island. Elsje was kind enough to pick me up. Later that evening, I made a coconut curry for dinner as a little thank-you for my hosts, and shared some chocolates from Bruny Island.

​I joined Elsje on her outing to walk Lucy at Sandy Bay, a dog-friendly beach in the evening. It was a bit chilly but it was nice to stroll along the beach while off-leash Lucy terrorized seagulls and greeted the other dogs. We stopped for gas and Elsje got us Valhalla brand ice cream drumsticks, which we ate on the couch while watching Wallace and Gromit on TV.

​It was Saturday morning and I had a whole unstructured day to work with. Daryl made a nice breakfast including eggs and bacon, then took me to his local café where we had coffee and practiced a few magic tricks. He dropped me off by the edge of the Salamanca Market, the premiere weekly street fair in Hobart. Multiple rows of tents had taken over the entire street, and it was packed! There was a dazzling variety of crafts, tasty food, and live music. It took an hour to browse from one end to the other. A few sights that stood out included: dog ponchos painted with the stripes of the extinct Tasmanian tiger, giant animal stickers for putting on garbage cans, a knife shop with a bird logo called Cockatool, a Mexican food truck offering wallaby burritos, and a seafood grill where all the employees were in pirate costumes. There were also an absurd number of craft distilleries. I tasted some pre-mixed cocktails including one with gin, sherry, and fernet. In between shopping rounds, I ordered a stuffed Turkish flatbread called gozleme, sat in the grass in the adjacent park, and watched the dogs playing at the Puppy Parking tent. Despite my efforts to window shop, I walked out with: a deck of Tasmanian devil playing cards, some stickers and postcards, jars of peanut butter and jelly, two cocktails, and a bar of fudge. It was a major highlight of Hobart!

​The rest of the afternoon, I needed to do some travel research and café hopped my way through the CBD. I started with a pot of tea from Sun Moon Lake at a cozy spot called Abel Land. When it closed, I moved to the local Banjo’s, a chain restaurant that evoked Panera. The "hopping" took a literal turn when I ended up at a craft brewery, called Shambles. My flight of beers included a Tasmanian blackberry sour, a red ale, a porter, and an IPA. From there, Elsje (and both pets) picked me up.

I mentioned to Elsje that I had a distant relative in Tasmania named Eva Zvatora, a Czech immigrant who worked as a dentist. Although she died in 2015, I was hoping to find out about her life and connect with any living relatives. Together we started an internet search and found a picture of a plaque dedicated to Eva near the town of Penguin. As fate would have it, Daryl’s relatives lived in Penguin, and Elsje started to have a hunch that Eva was in fact the relatives’ next-door neighbor. To be more precise, it was Daryl’s late brother and sister-in-law Bev who were the potential connection. Elsje immediately reached out to Bev, but didn’t hear back, so she tried Bev’s son Tony. We were eating a delicious dinner of lamb and pink eye potatoes when Elsje received a call back from Tony. She cleverly asked Tony if he remembered the name of the dentist next door without spilling the beans. From memory, he offered the name Zvatora. The hunch was confirmed! It was a magical moment.

When Daryl came back from his Santa obligations, we caught him up on the amazing Zvatora connection. Daryl happened to have some pictures of Bev’s house, Eva’s house, and their surroundings. The two houses shared a driveway, so it made perfect sense that the Peebles family would have known the Zvatora family. We started brainstorming the possibility of me visiting Penguin to meet the Peebles, but it wasn’t realistic to squeeze it in. Still, I was energized by this small-world coincidence. Think about it. My Servas hosts, picked out of an online directory, just happened to know my grandmother’s Tasmanian cousin. It was truly meant to be! Stay tuned for more updates on this plot thread…

Alas, my stay with Daryl and Elsje was over and it was time for the next chapter of the adventure. Daryl drove me to the rental car pickup and I bid him farewell. But before leaving town, I had to squeeze in one more market! The Sunday farmer’s market was just a few blocks from the rental car agency. I picked up fresh veggies, including Tasmanian pink eye potatoes, and a special type of berry called the Tayberry (a cross between a blackberry and raspberry). One other stand caught my eye – Soyoyoy, a.k.a Tasmania’s tofu company, where I bought some special tempeh for Rachel. I tucked this bag full of produce into the trunk and hit the road, bringing Hobart along in spirit.

It was the moment I had been bracing for… my first solo drive on the left side of the road. I eased into the day, getting into the right headspace. I had my now-usual breakfast of avocado toast and an Avalanche instant latte. I checked out of the AirBNB and ran a few quick errands in town. The first leg of the drive was a short one, just to get out of Christchurch and its roundabouts. There wasn’t much traffic on a quiet Saturday morning, and with plenty of advance research, it went smoothly. I stopped for another coffee and a pastry at the Old School Collective, a popular but relaxed café on the outskirts of town.

The second leg was an hour long, a comfortable stretch of Highway 1 with only one one-lane bridge. There was a convenient rest stop in the small town of Cheviot. The stop was just a block from a Four Square grocery store where I could buy ingredients for lunch and dinner. The third leg was a bit trickier, with a curvy mountain road and a few short tunnels. I ended up in a caravan with a slow lead driver and a slow truck pulling a boat, so I didn’t have to worry too much about passing or giving way. The final stretch of this last leg was right along the coast and was extremely scenic. There was no indication of the road damage from the 2016 Kaikoura earthquake, apart from one giant net shielding the road from falling rocks, which might have been there anyways.
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In Kaikoura, I stayed in an AirBNB that was a bedroom in a house. The hosts, Frances and Tony, were originally from Christchurch and retired to Kaikoura, right next to the golf course. Their love of golf was evident from the décor, including a “chance of golf” indicator on the fridge. At first, they struck me as introverted and not really “into” hosting. The check-in orientation was laughably brief – no key was given, and I had to ask how to get in/out of the house. (It turned out there was a spare key in a combo box, with the password “golf.”)

The ice finally broke over dinner. I had cooked myself an Asian stir fry and was finishing off a Tui beer when Frances and Tony joined me at the table with their own dinner. I learned that Frances was from a farming family and had an impressive backyard garden. They were in tune with their mini ecosystem, describing the lives of the resident birds in impressive detail and maintaining their own stoat traps. I also learned that golf courses, especially country clubs, are surprisingly cheap in New Zealand and in some cases, are naturally maintained with grazing sheep!
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At their recommendation, I hiked up the hill to catch the sunset over the Southern Alps. It was so pretty, with the ocean and mountains both visible, the pink clouds, and an incredible variety of birdsong. The neighborhood itself was a bit eclectic, as it was only partially developed. It contained lots of grassy, empty lots. Frances and Tony had owned their land for 20 years and built their house 4 years ago. Most of the other houses were less than 4 years old. But it sounded like a tight-knit community, with neighborly exchanges of excess vegetables and seafood.

​It was a 5 minute drive to a public parking lot by the beach in Kaikoura. The main street showcased Kaikoura’s fame for everything aquatic – whale watching cruises, crayfish, sea lion colonies, etc. I continued along a black sand beach, spotting a small group of dolphins from the shore. Wildflowers dotted the edges of the coastal pathway, different species than I’d seen earlier in the trip. The Kaikoura Ranges were becoming more visible as the clouds shifted, and still had a bit of snow.

​I hiked around the entire Kaikoura Peninsula, an 8 mile piecewise route consisting of a paved road, a bluff trail, and a forest trail back into town. Along the paved stretch, I spotted layered rock formations, jutting at sharp angles, and the occasional seal carcass, ribs visible through gaps of dried skin. Though I kept an eye out for a whale tail, I saw only birds – herons, cormorants, oystercatchers, and seagulls.

​About a third of the way through the hike, I reached a Seafood BBQ food truck that ran a thriving business despite its odd location. I wanted a little taste of crayfish, despite my historical objection, as it was a local specialty. The name of the town, Kaikoura, literally means “eat crayfish” in Maori. So I opted for the entry level dish – a crayfish fritter. The crayfish wasn’t very discernable from the fritter, which was a little disappointing. In my peripheral vision, I watched in amazement and horror as an Asian couple posed with their crayfish, holding them in the air and taking photos for several minutes. I was suddenly glad I went with the fritter.

​One of the corners of the peninsula was Point Kane. I followed the path up to the top of the bluff for views overlooking the wide, low-lying shelf of rock. As the trail continued along the bluff, I could see the enormous fur seal colony, spread out over this rocky shelf right by the water’s edge. The seals fumbled across the rocks like giant caterpillars and swam in mini lakes between the rocks.

​The trail continued through a cattle grazing area and to the south side of the peninsula. A scientific display explained that the Kaikoura area has a deep ocean trench that creates an abundance of marine life, making it attractive to all seafood lovers (including the whales!) I ate a sandwich while watching kayak tours launch into the shallows.

After completing the loop, I went back to settle in for the evening. An Australian couple arrived and checked into the second guest room. They were just starting their New Zealand trip, so I gave them my leftover cooking ingredients and guide book.

Day 39 of Survivor: New Zealand. I drove from Kaikoura to Picton, crossing back into the Marlborough wine country, and closing the loop around the South Island. The rental car return was much smoother than the pickup 26 days earlier. I gave the keys back to the same Scottish lady, dragged my bag across town to the ferry terminal, and finally could relax.
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The ferry ride from Picton to Wellington was just as beautiful as the first time. I sat on the observation deck the whole time, enjoying the scenery on the way out of the Marlborough Sounds. A friendly Kiwi couple struck up a conversation, and we talked for the last hour of the journey. They were from New Plymouth, a more industrial city on the North Island, and had been biking around the scenic Queen Charlotte Drive. They had a car on the ferry and a 5 hour drive in store that evening.

​In Wellington, I found a bus that would take me to Cuba Street and rode across town. The hostel I picked, called the Marion, was one of the better hostels I had encountered. It had several large common areas, including one with a guitar that I played, interesting lighting and artwork, and leaned into the aesthetic of its original brick building by leaving some of the walls and rafters exposed. I only had a few hours between the ferry and my flight, so I grabbed Thai food on Cuba St and took a shower.

​The Air New Zealand checkin counter didn’t open until 4:00am, two hours before my flight. I waited in the bag drop line in front of a giant sculpture of Smaug the Dragon. The main waiting area of the airport had another Lord of the Rings sculpture, of Gandalf riding a giant eagle – presumably the handiwork of Weta Workshop. My first flight, from Wellington to Auckland, was a very quick 1 hour. In the flight safety video, a takahe named “Mr. T” was taken around New Zealand, eventually matching with a bird sanctuary through the “Nester” app – a final dose of cheeky Kiwi humor. I had a window seat overlooking the North Island’s mountains and was delighted to see the enormous Mt. Ruapehu rising above the clouds. The elusive Mt. Tongariro stayed out of sight, but its outline was faintly visible as a bump in the clouds.

​In Auckland, I changed from the domestic to the international terminal, and browsed the gift shops. From manuka honey and Dunedin craft spirits to kea and penguin puppets, it brought back memories from the previous weeks. I ate the PB&J that I had made at 3:00am in the deserted hostel kitchen.
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In hindsight, it was very unusual to enter Australia through a flight from Auckland to Hobart, as it only runs a few times a week. However, it was a nice geographic progression – crossing the Tasman Sea to Tasmania, staying at a similar latitude. Both Australia and New Zealand take their biosecurity seriously, so I discarded my NZ bird feather collection to avoid questions at customs. I was expecting immigration to look at my working holiday visa, but they let me through without a question nor a passport stamp. A bronze statue of Tasmanian devils on a luggage cart was a sign that I had officially made it into Australia!

​After the 3.5 hours on the road, Vince’s silliness had kicked in, and the Christmas tunes now had an extra layer of karaoke. (This silly alter ego became known as “chaos kea.”) We parked at a public lot in downtown Christchurch near a giant penguin mural, figured out the parking payment app, and reviewed the AirBNB checkin instructions. We were supposed to pick up the “orange key” from a convenience store. The clerk flipped through a binder that had all the colors of rainbow, except ours. It turned out that the cleaning service had missed our apartment. We waited in a semi-enclosed, glass-roofed train station while the AirBNB host sorted it out. Historic street cars rumbled into the station, exchanged a few tourists, and then rumbled out. A giant clock in the shape of a kiwi sitting on an egg was perched above us. When we got into the apartment, it had a great view overlooking the station – we could now see the kiwi clock from above. Our view also included the pastel facades of New Regent street, a nearby pedestrian area.

​With plenty of afternoon light, we set out to explore on foot. We stopped at the original cathedral, still in the thick of its restoration from the 2011 earthquake and covered with scaffolds and cloth. We crossed through the lively CBD to the Botanical Gardens, which were spacious and well maintained. The rose garden was blooming and fragrant. It was a mini paradise, complete with cute ducklings scurrying across lily pads.

​We finished our walk at a food court with tons of international fare. It was cozy and energetic, filled with savory aromas and illuminated signboards. We settled on a Latin American kitchen. Rachel and Vince had burritos, while I had the Cubano sandwich. We agreed they were good but a little different than the ones at home. Our meal was rounded out with a few yuca fries and NZ beers.

Rachel made pancakes for breakfast, pulling it off wonderfully despite a lack of measuring cups. The “chaos kea” also made an appearance, launching the last pancake out of the skillet and across the apartment. It landed fairly close to the target plate on the kitchen table!
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The day’s plan was an outing to the Banks Peninsula, about an hour away from Christchurch. I got a little driving practice on the way out of town, then handed over the keys to Vincent for the more challenging curvy mountain roads. The hike we chose was a little less common, so we stopped at a visitor center in a nearby town for a map. They didn’t have the brochure of interest but were quite chatty.

The Banks Peninsula is volcanic in origin. At its center is a large bay, formed by flooding of the original crater. Our hike was along the Onawe Peninsula, right at the center of this flooded crater. Onawe is considered the volcano’s plug – a giant stopper of hardened magma. If that wasn’t enough mystique, it was also the site of a Maori fort (called a “pa”) where a bloody battle was fought between tribes.

​We crossed a rocky strip of land that was exposed by the low tide, passing orange and brown swirled rock formations. The trail then ascended a wide grassy lawn that seemed out of place. Finally, it looped around the main hill, including some forested stretches. There were good views of the boats in the harbor, including the colorful boathouses on the shore.

​Departing the small parking lot, we thankfully didn’t encounter any cross-traffic on the unpaved one lane connector to the main road. We continued driving along the edge of the bay to the town of Akaroa, often hyped up for its French heritage but at its core a charming seaside town. A statue of a Hector’s dolphin, the small and rare dolphin found in the area, marked the storefront of a tour agency. On the pier, groups of terns squawked in protest as we passed, resettling on the other side. Akaroa was also our long-awaited opportunity to try the New Zealand style fruit ice cream. A giant spiral drill was used to mix frozen fruit into ice cream, creating a pretty (and sturdy) swirl, packed with crunchy crystals of fruit. It was simple and excellent!

I napped on the drive back, but I know it wasn’t an easy one. In return, I cooked a coconut curry dinner. The fridge was too cold and had frozen the pak choy, but the curry was forgiving of this. We settled into our usual evening planning and research. The mattress hadn’t been comfortable the previous night, so I tried sleeping partially upright in an armchair, which worked out better.
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For our last day in Christchurch, we gladly left the rental car behind and walked around town. Vincent and Rachel had a few clothes to donate, and we found a shop that would take them. We returned to the botanical garden for more horticultural immersion. There was a set of greenhouses with different climates, from desert to tropical, with unique plants around every turn. I liked the carnivorous pitcher plants and the amazing variety of leaves – some with multiple colors, some that were fenestrated (with windows), and others with variegated patterns that could have inspired latte art.

Speaking of lattes, I stopped for one at a quiet corner café, also adding a meat pastry as a snack. The friendly waitress ended up bringing two pastries, and said it was to make up for the delay (though it wasn’t a long wait). The pastries were covered with a sweet and sour sauce and were surprisingly good. The café was conveniently located across the street from our next stop, the Quake City museum.

​In 2010 and 2011, Christchurch experienced several earthquakes that dramatically changed the city’s identity. Iconic buildings came tumbling down, the death toll accumulated in now-infamous structural failures, cliffs collapsed, and the land experienced liquefaction. The Quake City exhibits were succinct and educational, with explanations of the magnitudes, live footage from the street, info about how search and rescue teams operate, and interactive scientific displays on liquefaction. One of the best things at the museum was a set of interviews with Christchurch residents. The first video was focused on their acute experience surviving the quake; the second video was a follow-up 10 years later. The citizens’ descriptions painted a vivid picture: the stifling dust, the eerie soundscape of alarms (and the silence behind them), of running across bridges while fearing aftershocks, of searching for family members, only to find them helping others in need. The follow-ups were equally profound: one had recovered from injuries and was starting to work a modest amount, a police officer found himself tangled in yet another tragedy with the 2019 mosque shootings, another felt like Christchurch had lost its sense of identity, comparing its loss of historical continuity to Alzheimer’s. The videos both ended with two girls singing a song of hope, but the unsettling reflections still lingered.

​The rest of the afternoon, we poked around shops in the CBD and briefly visited the “cardboard cathedral” that is set up as a temporary substitute. It was quite pretty with its stained-glass windows and large Christmas tree, though perhaps it was embellished in my mind by the symbolism of resilience. We also strolled through the restaurants of New Regent St, the pedestrian area near our place.

​Vincent and Rachel packed for their early flight while I made a simple pasta dinner. I also tried two low alcohol beers, chosen for the label – one with a kiwi and one with a kea. It was nice to have an IPA with only 2.5% ABV for a change. The clouds at sunset were visible through the window, and at night, so were the colorful lights of New Regent St.

​The two of them were up, “dark and early,” for their pre-booked Uber ride to the airport. We bid each other farewell – only a temporary goodbye, as the plan was to reconvene in Tasmania a week later. I returned to my blanket cocoon and donned the usual eye mask, in anticipation of the early sunrise.

We stayed in the town of Twizel, pronounced “twy-zel” (not “twizzle”!) Our accommodation was probably the largest AirBNB of the trip, with 3 bedrooms, a spacious living room, a full kitchen, and a yard. As the wind whipped through the neighborhood, the metal roof panels would pop and pang. The laundry clothesline turned into a giant pinwheel, spinning in the wind and flinging a large portion of my clothing into the grass.

For dinner, I made a round of fried rice, with tofu instead of scrambled egg and a choice of tempeh or chicken for protein. It was a satisfying meal, and we even opened the Forrest rose! This bottle from Marlborough had been tagging along with us for the entire trip around the South Island. I also tried a Tui beer, a strong 7.2% lager with a confident tui on the can. It was delicious and became my favorite New Zealand beer!

​The next day, we took a day trip into Mt. Cook / Aoraki National Park. It was a spectacular drive, hugging the edge of the sparkling blue Lake Pukaki as the sharp profile of Mt. Cook / Aoraki became larger and large. Some say that the name Aoraki means “cloud piercer” in Maori – if true, a brilliant name for the tallest peak in New Zealand. However, on this particular day, there were no clouds to pierce. We were blessed with wide open blue skies, apart from a few stray clouds blowing over from the West Coast, but even these clouds kept their distance from Aoraki.

​We followed the popular Hooker Valley track, which started at the White Horse Hill camping area and took a relatively flat 3 mile path to Hooker Lake. The views were stunning! Depending on the curve of the path, the backdrop was either Mt. Cook or its neighbor Mt. Sefton. We loved the sharp double peak of Mt. Cook, and the ice shelves and waterfalls on Mt. Sefton. The track passed both a gray glacial lake and a gray river of smooth rocks. Both were a fitting foreground for these mountain scenes. The track also had three suspension bridges, that bounced under the weight of the hikers and were exposed to the full force of the wind. We experienced some mild “sea legs” after each crossing. We had our lunch at the lake overview, holding onto our sandwiches and bags to prevent them from blowing away.

Our second hike was essentially a staircase to a viewpoint overlooking the Tasman Glacier. The lake formed by the recession of the glacier was a surprising shade of bright blue. Since we couldn’t see the lake until reaching the very top, it was a wonderful dramatic reveal. The glacier itself was visible in the distance, and while its body was camouflaged with a dirt covering, its shelf was a discernable stripe adjacent to the lake. Of course, it was tragic to see how much it had receded. In 1990, the lake didn’t yet exist – it’s now several kilometers long. Meanwhile, the blasts of wind pushed us sideways, and claimed the hat of a fellow tourist.

Our itinerary for the next day had one simple activity listed – “enjoy the mountains.” We drove to the edge of Lake Pukaki and hiked along the ridge, enjoying the blue water and mountain scenery. The trail was completely deserted and ended at a cute little kettle lake filled with gray water. The hillsides were covered with yellow-brownish tussock, animated by the wild wind. On the way back, we stopped at a visitor center where I tried salmon sashimi from an alpine salmon farm in the area. I marveled at the concept of alpine salmon, the freshness, and the low price – while the others marveled at the views.

​Some of our other meals in Twizel included lentil and quinoa bowls from chef Rachel and pasta and veggies from chef Grant. We discovered that Twizel was large enough to have two separate Four Square grocery stores, only a block apart. It was good to have down time for calling home and travel planning. Twizel is part of the Mackenzie Dark Sky sanctuary, but we didn’t end up stargazing because the sunset was so late and the nights were cold and/or cloudy.

On the drive out of town, we stopped at Lake Tekapo. It was pretty, with the Mt. John observatory perched on the left and the Southern Alps in the distance, but it fell short compared to Lake Pukaki, so we didn’t linger. What caught our attention was actually a field that was bursting with mountain lupins. We stopped to admire the purples and pinks, as far as the eye could see. I tried making a “snow angel” pose but it turned out hilariously bad – like I was passed out on the ground!

​The route to Christchurch crossed the sprawling Canterbury plains. It was one of the longer drives, at 3.5 hours, and Vincent once again led the charge. At one point, a small critter darted across the road ahead of us – the infamous stoat! New Zealand’s #1 public enemy had finally been sighted.

The drive from Bluff to Dunedin was around 3 hours, and the driving time was split between myself and Vincent. We refueled and changed drivers in the little town of Clinton. The truck drivers ahead of us were setting a good pace, but were also polite and gave us the opportunity to pass. In general, we found New Zealand drivers to be extremely courteous.

Our lodging in Dunedin (pronounced “dun-EE-din”) was in a suburb called Vauxhall (pronounced “voxel”) that was across the bay from downtown. Our host Georgina lived on the property, a charming 2-story home with a basement and a balcony. Our rooms were private, and the kitchen was shared with Georgina. She was very friendly and made us to feel at home, even helping us with our bags when we left. We all had interesting conversations with her at various points in the stay. I learned she was living in Christchurch during the 2011 earthquake, had a son in Hokitika, and had moved to Dunedin in 2016. Unfortunately, she came across as a bit stuffy or closed-minded on certain topics. At breakfast she expressed a disdain for avocados. Her most memorable comment was a puzzling and hilarious non-sequitur about penguins. When we told her about seeing 300 penguins (more on that later), she replied: “oh, that’s 200 penguins too many.” We still don’t know what she meant!
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Our first mission in Dunedin was retrieving Rachel’s jacket. Careful readers will remember this was the jacket left behind in Nelson that our AirBNB hosts had mailed to Dunedin in advance of our arrival. The pickup location was a Countdown grocery store that partnered with the NZ Post. According to their website, they would hold packages for up to 10 days, and this was day 9, so we headed there with urgency. Unfortunately, the grocery store had returned the package to the NZ Post! A recently hired (and very unsympathetic) employee claimed their location wasn’t actually a partner in the first place. Next we tried a local post office, but it turned out to be a retail store that accepted mail drop-offs, and not an actual NZ Post location. They were able to direct us to the actual NZ Post office. As luck would have it, the NZ Post still had the jacket for us to collect! The clerks mentioned that the package’s contact phone number, handwritten on the pouch, had an illegible digit that may have complicated the situation. In any case, Rachel was thrilled and relieved to have the jacket in hand after this roller coaster.

​We continued into downtown Dunedin, struggling a bit with navigation and parking, but found a spot. The city is known its Scottish heritage, its Edwardian and Victorian architecture, and for its street art. My guidebook included a map for a street art walking tour, and we gave it a shot. A few artwork highlights were a giant chrome bull, a wispy eagle, and the word “tofu.” Some works were visible from the street, others hidden in a more obscure parking lot or alleyway. It was a sunny Thursday afternoon with relatively few other pedestrians, certainly no fellow tourists. A few sketchy people, including a guy with face tattoos, reminded us that this wasn’t the safest area imaginable, and we walked elsewhere.

​We continued our walk along a pedestrian-oriented street that was gutted open by a massive construction project. At the end was our restaurant of choice, a Nepalese fusion place called Mela. We sat in front of a photo of some yaks on Mt. Everest. I had the most amazing tandoori momos, a twist on Nepalese dumplings that were smothered in red sauce and oven baked, plus some tasty lamb chops.

​We stopped for a few groceries before heading back to Georgina’s. After weeks of wondering what a pavlova tasted like, I finally caved in and bought the smallest grocery store pavlova I could find – still the size of a dinner plate. It was branded as “Kiwi’s Favorite Dessert” and had a picture of strawberries on top. Upon cutting a slice, I was disappointed to find no fruit inside – only merengue. The merengue was pretty good, and it was improved by adding a few blueberries or some blackcurrant jam. However, the anticlimactic moment of cutting into what amounted to a giant marshmallow was too funny to forget.

​The next day, we had a “flipped” schedule – a morning at the AirBNB, and an afternoon/evening of exploring. We cooked a Mediterranean inspired lunch with a Greek salad, sauteed chickpeas, cous cous, and hummus. The leftovers were packed up and taken on the road for our dinner. We drove 30 minutes along the Otago Peninsula, a mountainous drive with amazing panoramic views of the ocean on both sides. The road went from paved to dirt as we got closer to the Sandymount trailhead.

​There was something delightfully unusual about starting a hike at 5:30pm with the sun still high in the sky. The trail went through a dense tunnel of trees and emerged into a set of sheep pastures. The views overlooking the headlands were stunning, with dramatic cliffs, sandy inlets, and rolling green hills as far the eye could see. Rachel was eager to get a picture with some real New Zealand sheep and we approached a few groups, but they all turned and walked away. All of a sudden, two sheep started walking towards us, baaing loudly. I quickly realized the lambs grazing on our left were not accompanied by any ewes, and we made a hasty retreat. Those ewes were moving swiftly! And the baaing was a clear warning shot. It changed how we saw the rest of the sheep on the trail.

​The trail was marked by a series of posts, and of course the sheep were parked right next to them. We hesitantly skirted around several more sets of ewes and lambs, prepared to turn around if any crossing appeared too treacherous. The lambs were so cute when they played and headbutted, but the ewes were keeping a close eye on us, so we kept our guard up too. When two lambs approached us with curious eyes, we frantically tried to shoo them away, in case mom was around the corner.

​The final stage of the hike was uphill and sandy, with dense flax plants setting a narrow width. The loop brought us back to the parking lot, empty except for our car and one other. We had dinner at a picnic table and enjoyed the great views a little longer.

​Our next destination was the Royal Albatross Center, located at the farthest tip of the Otago Peninsula. The hill outside the building was swarming with seagulls and covered with their nests. A few cute baby seagulls were visible from the walkway, but the cacophony of screeching encouraged one to keep moving. There was a free viewing platform looking towards the only mainland albatross colony in the world, but it was around the edge of the cliffs and not visible. However, as we left the platform, we started to notice a few larger birds amongst the flurry of seagulls – the motionless wings of the royal albatross! They were enormous and majestic. We stood outside and tried to spot as many as we could, at least 15 or 20 in total.

​The Royal Albatross Center was the check-in point for the main attraction of the evening – blue penguin viewing. A charismatic docent gave us some background on the penguins and Maori culture in general. The blue penguins, also called little penguins, are the smallest penguins in the world – just 12 or 13 inches tall! They’re also known as “fairy penguins” in Australia. We walked down a staircase to a wooden platform overlooking the beach, waiting for the penguins to return at sunset.

​Soon, the rafts of penguins started to arrive from the ocean. The guide said that you could see them in the water – which I doubted until a cluster of black distortions materialized on the surface of the ocean, moving towards us. The raft landed on the beach, a group of ~20 penguins that stood up and started waddling forward confidently. They scrambled up a field of sticks and driftwood and congregated in a sort of foyer, shivering to shake the water off their heads and flippers. From the foyer, a single file line of penguins marched uphill into a neighborhood of nests. The penguins turned onto side streets or hopped up inclined pathways, and started chirping loudly when they reached their partners or nests. It was like a little Hobbiton for penguins.

​The viewing deck was perfectly situated to enjoy the parade. It was built on the hillside, right above some of the nests. The penguins were moving just feet below us! We could hear them squawking underneath the platform, and a few emerged out the back. The guides encouraged people to rotate so that everyone had a turn in the front row. The deck also had constant lights pointed down so we could see their antics even after the sun was down. Apparently, the penguins don’t like sudden bursts of light but are fine with constant light. The name “blue penguin” was definitely merited, as their backs were a dark navy blue in the light.

​The rafts continued – wave after wave. In total, the guide estimated that 300 penguins returned from the ocean that evening! This was the best turnout in a year, and a significant portion of the ~500 penguin population. It was quite a treat. New Zealand’s birds continue to steal the show.

Video showing the cuteness overload:

​Before leaving Dunedin, we stopped at their Saturday farmer’s market. We were greeted with a concert band playing Christmas tunes, a delightful reminder that the holiday season was in full swing. The market had an excellent selection of vendors with food and drinks of all kinds, and music too. Besides the concert band, the air was filled with sounds of an accordion-guitar duet and a four-piece Bluegrass band. Many stalls were cash only, and we were light on cash. Thankfully, a few vendors with card readers offered cash back with a purchase, which opened up lots of tasty possibilities! Among the three of us, we tried: a croissant, a chai latte, tofu bao, a coffee, beef and lamb pies, some craft distilled spirits, and dessert crepes. Of course, we also picked up veggies for dinner. One of my favorite things about the market was  a "cup library" shared by all the coffee vendors at the market. Such a unique way of reducing waste.

​On the drive from Dunedin to Oamaru, we stopped at the beach to see the Moeraki Boulders. These unique boulders are almost perfect spheres, protruding from the sand as hemispheres. They were great for silly poses, with dramatic skies as the backdrop. It was a little cold and windy, but a worthwhile stop.

​We arrived in Oamaru, a beachside town that stood out for two reasons: its elaborate building facades with carved whitestone, and its celebration of the steampunk genre. After checking into our cute cottage with ocean views, Vincent and I walked into town for groceries. We wandered through the deserted Victorian quarter, admiring the architecture and stopping to gander at a few shops with steampunk costumes and props. In the grocery store, a few unusual items jumped out like kiwi-themed Christmas crackers and an aquarium of fresh barnacles. We had a quiet evening, including a pasta dinner from Rachel. I opened the elderflower liqueur from the farmer’s market and mixed it with some soda water for a light and summery cocktail.

​We only spent one night in Oamaru, but it was a fun stint. We lucked out and found their Sunday farmer’s market, snacking on vegan baked goods from Moa Bakery and listening to live acoustic guitar music. Vincent and I also visited the Steampunk HQ, an interactive theme park and sculpture garden. In front were a train engine and blimp that would belch smoke and flames if you inserted a coin. Inside, we encountered bizarre contraptions, rusty tools, ghoulish figurines, mad scientist workbenches, and so much more. A room called the “portal” contained a hall of mirrors and an ethereal light show, like a Yayoi Kusama infinity room. Outside, a junkyard of rusty vehicles that could have been from a Mad Max movie was available as a playground of sorts. A giant train had a roof-mounted crane that could be raised and lowered with horrendous screeching, and an artillery gunner’s booth had interior lights to simulate firing an electrical blast. It was extremely bizarre and very cool.

​From Oamaru, we turned inland and headed into central Canterbury for more time in the mountains. Our coastal adventures in Dunedin and Oamaru were now behind us, but the memories of the Otago scenery and cute penguins journeyed with us.

​Our next destination on the trip was Stewart Island / Rakiura, the smaller “third island” of New Zealand that few get the chance to visit. Its main attractions are rooted in its remoteness: raw nature, dark skies, and abundant bird life including a large population of wild kiwi. We spent two nights on Stewart Island itself, and two bookend nights in the port town of Bluff on the South Island.

​Bluff was sunny and windy when we arrived. It’s best known for producing the massive Bluff oysters, but unfortunately our visit didn’t overlap with the oyster season. Our AirBNB was a beautiful hillside home from the 1890s with a modern interior and a spectacular view of the water. Blackbirds and tui nibbled at the flax plants, the plants’ stems in constant motion from either the birds or the wind.

​I walked into town for groceries, taking a quick peek at some monuments and murals along the way. It was so windy that even the seagulls looked cold. A long wall by the shore was painted with bright blue cresting waves, ironically placed next to a tsunami warning sign. Other murals in town depicted shipwrecks and sharks, more ominous subjects in bright cheerful colors. A few kids were out in front of the store scootering around, while other kids were inside accompanying their parents as they shopped, but otherwise the town was quiet. It reminded me of the port towns I visited in Patagonia – hardy yet oddly charming.

​The next morning, we caught the ferry from Bluff to Stewart Island. Our large luggage went into steel containers that were carted around by forklift. The journey across the Foveaux Strait was turbulent and uncomfortable, a painful hour. I listened to music and pretended to be elsewhere. The other two went deep into survival mode, and Vincent’s nausea persisted on dry land. The only silver living was spotting a few albatrosses while leaving Bluff.

We stayed at a hostel in Oban, a town almost too small to handle all the tourism. Our room was a small but comfortable triple. The hostel staff were polite and helpful. Although the layout was a bit like a military barracks, it felt communal and safe. When we left a few items in the shared bathrooms, they were still there a day later. The most striking feature was the clientele. The other visitors were more diverse than your typical backpacker hostel, including families with children and groups of old ladies – perhaps a symptom of Oban’s lack of lodging, or the kind of people drawn to Stewart Island.

​The first day, we went for a hike from Golden Bay to Deep Bay. It was a well-maintained trail through a pretty forest, punctuated with glimpses of the ocean. The soundscape was filled with the robotic chirps and whistles of the tui, bringing to mind R2-D2. The sudden whoosh as they darted through the forest could be startling. I found a beautiful tui feather, small and iridescent blue. In contrast, the cute and timid fantails were usually seen before heard as they flitted through the trees.

​I continued hiking by myself out to Wohler’s Monument. The route passed by a small neighborhood and a disc golf course, then hugged the ridge above the beach. It ended at the grave of a local hero, buried on a hill overlooking a beautiful sandbar that connected the main island to the smaller Native Island. The trail returned to Oban, finishing with an excellent view overlooking the harbor.

​For dinner, we picked up fish & chips from the Kai Kart, a low-key gourmet gem that was just down the street from the hostel. The generous portions were wrapped in bundles of thick paper. When unfurled, they took up the whole table – we could barely see each other behind the wall of paper! The blue cod was so tender that it crumbled on the way to your mouth. It was incredibly tasty, some of the best fish & chips out there. They even had a good vegan burger.

​We signed up for an evening kiwi spotting tour with a company called Beaks & Feathers that began at 11:00pm. As we walked through the dark to the pickup location, we started to doubt there could be anyone else out in the deserted town. But sure enough, our guides were waiting on a dark porch, and the rest of the small group assembled on time. We hopped into a van with the custom plate “C K1WI” and drove up to Oban’s airstrip, the location chosen by Beaks & Feathers.

​As soon we arrived at the airstrip, the guides heard a male kiwi calling nearby. It didn’t take long to find it – but it quickly darted into the bushes. The guides described this behavior as “suspicious” and speculated that it was trespassing on another kiwi’s territory. We learned the kiwi are territorial and stay together as a family unit, so the guides knew the ages and genders of the airstrip’s normal inhabitants. The suspicious kiwi re-emerged, and we marveled at its awkward and endearing way of walking. Keeping its long beak down to hunt for bugs in the ground, it tottered forward on its legs, making a surprising amount of rustling in the brush. It was like a creature from a Dr. Seuss book, drawn from the imagination to be deliberately gangly and goofy. (Back in Milford Sound, our guide Jeff had joked, “whose idea was it to make the national bird shy, flightless, and nocturnal?”)

​We continued down the airstrip, walking on the paved section while our two guides shone red-tinted flashlights into the grass on either side. When a kiwi was spotted, the guides would tell us if it was male or female based on its size. The female kiwi are larger, as the kiwi eggs they lay are quite large. We’d slowly get a bit closer, while the kiwi continued milling about in the grass, and if we were lucky, it started ambling in our general direction. A few times, it walked right alongside someone in the group, checking around their shoes for bugs. At one point, a kiwi randomly fell on its side, apparently tripping over itself, before springing back up.

​Farther down the airstrip, we heard two kiwi squeaking aggressively with a third nearby, which our guides explained was quite unusual. The guides told us that a male and female pair will sometimes team up and make loud calls to assert dominance over their territory, but this scuffle came across as a fight. The female re-emerged and walked alongside our group, but the two males never re-emerged, so the cause and resolution were unclear.

​In total, we probably saw 5-6 kiwi over the course of 2 hours, spending a good 10 minutes with each one. We were thrilled! There are about 15,000 wild kiwi on Stewart Island, which is roughly 1/3 of the total kiwi population in all of New Zealand. Even still, we wouldn’t have found them without our guides. And there was something delightfully ironic about seeing these flightless birds on an airstrip, of all places. As a bonus, towards the end of the tour the clouds dispersed, and the night sky came out in full force.

​After a morning of sleeping in, we embarked on the next adventure at noon: a day trip to Ulva Island. We caught a water taxi at Golden Bay, piloted by a laidback local named Rakiura, who shares the Maori name for Stewart Island. He took us across the bay to Ulva Island, a peaceful place known for its avian diversity. We had a great time exploring this “island off an island off an island”.

​The trail was in perfect shape, a bit surprising considering its location. We hiked through the forest, taking our time to look for birds. We spotted several green parakeets (kakariki) including one that flew right by us. An overstuffed kereru silently roosted on a thick tree branch above us, inconspicuous despite its size. Small birds that were too fast to identify – probably warblers, tomtits, or robins – belted out tunes all around. The silhouettes of brown parrots (kaka) flew high above the trees. It was a lovely stroll. As we got closer to the beach, hikers in the other direction warned us about a sea lion resting under a downed tree. Even though we were expecting it, the sight of an enormous sea lion lying in the forest was still disarming. We tiptoed past.

​We reached West End Beach which had orangish sand, black rocks, and was divided into two segments by a rocky tower. We marveled at the bright red sea anemones, some of which were above the water line and had curled up into balls. We continued to Boulder Beach, where we had lunch on a rocky outcrop by the water’s edge. The final beach was Sydney Cove, a wide sandy beach where I joyfully jump-roped with a string of seaweed until it fell apart.

​We met our water taxi at the pre-determined hour for our ride back to Stewart Island. The skies were too cloudy to attempt a stargazing tour, so our evening was wide open. We had been looking forward to eating out, but it was a Tuesday and the beloved Kai Shack was closed. As far as we could tell, only one other restaurant was open. When we arrived, the tables were fully booked, and the overflow bar was crowded. It felt like the entire island was there. They didn’t have any vegan options, so we headed for the grocery store and used the hostel kitchen as our fallback. My stomach was on another hunger strike, so I sat this one out while Vincent and Rachel braved the kitchen. Poor Vincent returned to the room shell shocked from the kitchen warzone. Much later, I had a few canned veggies for a light meal.

​One the third day of exploring the island, we walked to the pretty Bathing Beach just outside of Oban. Then I peeled off for a longer solo hike to Horseshoe Bay. The trail hugged the coastline and hopped from beach to beach as it went around a peninsula. With a ferry to catch in the afternoon, I hiked quickly, and startled a few sleepy kereru as I passed. The pristine sand of Dead Man’s Beach and the panoramic views from Horseshoe Point were highlights. Along Horseshoe Bay, I passed by enormous tangles of kelp, a thick grove of trees that formed a tunnel, divers gearing up, and a water taxi being unloaded from a truck.

I made it back to Oban just as the rain started. We hung out in the hostel’s common area, chatting with a friendly Japanese-New Zealander family. The dad had a toothy smile, thick framed glasses, and a bucket hat. He had worked as a hairdresser and food production manager, and had interesting perspectives on Japanese work culture, immigrating to Auckland, and life in general.

The return ferry was mercifully less turbulent. We made a quick grocery run in Bluff and headed to the same AirBNB on the hillside. I made sweet potato wraps for dinner, stuffed with pesto, caramelized onions, and sundried tomatoes. Later, I gave myself a “spring shearing” with my hair trimming supplies.
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I’m so thankful we had the opportunity to visit Stewart Island. The wild kiwi were definitely the most memorable part, but the coastal hiking and bird watching were also world-class. It would have been nice to have clearer skies for better stargazing, especially since the Aurora Australis was peaking and had put on an amazing show a few nights earlier, but all of the stars don’t always align.

​The route into Te Anau was pleasant. Dense clusters of red tussock adorned the hillsides. We passed through Mossburn, the “deer capital” of New Zealand, and a handful of deer farms. We braced ourselves for a humble AirBNB, as the photos on the listing were meager, but it turned out to be a cozy and spacious 2-bedroom apartment. The living room had a bookshelf with a few classic titles and hutch with a set of eclectic glassware and a CD player. The faucets were awkwardly close to the edge of the sink; after several weeks of dealing with quirky kitchens and bathrooms, this was not worth fussing over.

​We picked up fresh groceries at the local Countdown, which had a large selection of camping food near the entrance, hinting at the hiking-oriented clientele. While in the store, the elusive Mark snuck up and found us! Mark was on a solo trip to New Zealand, and we’d been texting for a few days to find the overlap in our itineraries, which ended up being in Te Anau. He had reached the town using a very different route: hiking the Routeburn Track over the mountains from Queenstown, and then catching a one-way ride from a tour bus.

Mark joined us for a simple pasta dinner at our place, and we spent the evening swapping stories from New Zealand and beyond. Between the four of us, there was a lot of travel experience at that dining room table. Amazingly, I’d seen Mark in 3 different countries in the past 2 months – Croatia, the US, and now New Zealand – all somewhat coincidental. But in every case, the overlap was brief. The next day, he successfully hitchhiked to Dunedin.

​Our day tour to the Milford Sound was everything we could have possibly hoped for, and then more. Our guide was an upbeat, hilarious local guy named Jeff who narrated almost the entire drive while handling the roads with ease. It was a small van with ~10 people and we managed to stay ahead of the hordes of Queenstown tour buses (a recurring punching bag in Jeff’s comedy). Jeff also had the best NZ accent. For example, “Kepler Trail” sounded more like “Keepler Tryal” and “Te Anau” became one word, “Tee-annu”.

​The drive to Milford Sound is known for being incredibly scenic, and it traversed 3 contrasting valleys. The first valley was flat and devoid of trees, as the cold temperatures inhibited plant growth on the valley floor. A massive scar on the mountainside was the result of a “tree avalanche,” when the a falling tree and its interconnected roots brought a whole strip of trees down with it. 

​The second valley was steep and rocky; here we found a group of kea, the endangered mountain parrots that I was hoping to see. They had a plush coat of earthy green feathers, with orange under the wings when they took flight. Known for being intelligent but mischievous, the kea hopped on the tops of cars and waddled across the pavement looking for trouble (a group of kea is called a “circus”). You had to be careful not to turn your back on one, as they seized every opportunity to peek inside your vehicle or lunchbag.

​A long, downhill tunnel led to the third valley, flanked by majestic granite walls and leading towards Milford Sound. It had the grandeur of Yosemite’s sheer faces combined with the jagged peaks and snowcaps of Patagonia. We reached the harbor, and Jeff gave us the passes for our ferry cruise. We boarded under the supervision of the towering Mitre Peak. The cruise ran the length of the sound, turning around at the edge of the Tasman Sea. We learned that the descriptor “sound” is technically a misnomer, as it was carved by glaciers rather than a river, making it a fjord. We watched the parade of mountain peaks from all sides of the boat – there was not a bad seat in the house. The mountains were incredibly tall, yet their sharp angles were softened by the lush greenery, the tufty clouds, the snowcaps, and the waterfalls. A single penguin and a few fur seals were spotted, but the landscape was the real star of the show. At one point, the boat edged towards the base of a waterfall, thoroughly splashing the brave passengers on the exterior deck. Overall, Milford Sound definitely merited its reputation as a premiere fjord experience. 

​As an added bonus, our guide offered the chance to sign up for a scenic helicopter ride. Rachel had been thinking about doing a helicopter tour earlier in the trip, but the idea was nixed by the poor weather in Franz Josef. Now, on this beautiful day in Milford Sound, she jumped on the opportunity. Vincent and I watched the helicopter takeoff from the small airport. Rachel had a front row seat on the journey to the tallest mountain peak, where the helicopter parked and the passengers enjoyed time in the snow. It sounded like an unforgettable experience. (In the meantime, Jeff took us landlubbers for a short walk.) We all agreed the unexpected helicopter flight was the cherry on top to a perfect day.

​The van ride back was more leisurely, now that we’d completed all of our side quests. We stopped for photos at a scenic bridge, skipped rocks at a pretty lake, and watched more of the kea shenanigans. Back in town, Te Anau was bustling as it was the eve of its annual running race on the Kepler Track, a 60 km route that normally takes several days to walk. We settled into the apartment and had a tasty meal of coconut curry soup with tofu and vermicelli.

Our next day was yet another sound – the ominously named Doubtful Sound. It earned this name when Captain Cook looked into its entrance from the Tasman Sea, studied the wind patterns, and decided it was “doubtful” they could get back out. It was much harder to reach than the Milford Sound, and in hindsight, quite surprising that a large, guided tour would venture that deep into the wilderness.
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The first leg of the journey crossed Lake Manapouri on an hour-long boat ride. We sat on the upper floor right behind the captain. The day was gray and cloudy, but the hills and mountains on the edges of the lake were still visible. Four jittery windshield wipers kept the captain’s view clear, while the passenger windows slowly were obscured with droplets.

​On the far side of the lake was a hydroelectric power plant that was a bit hard to fathom. The water from Lake Manapouri goes down a hidden manmade waterfall, generating power, and then is piped for 10 kilometers underground, eventually exiting into the Doubtful Sound. The gravel road from the Doubtful Sound to Lake Manapouri (that we were about to follow) was built so that heavy machinery could be brought in from ocean barges and is one of the most expensive roads in New Zealand.

A fleet of three tour buses absorbed the boat passengers and set forth on this unlikely road, the second leg of the journey. The inside of the bus window was swarming with sandflies. I squashed a good number, until one turned out to be full of blood, at which point I stopped. The bus driver had a good sense of humor and provided light commentary. He pointed out a road sign that read “trucks use low gear” but with a handmade addition, “buses can freewheel.”

Though the clouds persisted, the view from the mountain pass was clear enough to see the Doubtful Sound from above. It was moody and mysterious, even despite the commotion of tourists in brightly colored rain jackets jockeying for photos. On the descent from the pass, we saw pockets of debris in the shoulder, the remnants of severe flooding that had washed out the road. We passed a youth outdoor retreat that had just been shuttered a few months earlier due to these precarious conditions. It still had several signs to watch out for children playing, an eerie ghost town in this inhospitable place.

​Our boat cruised along the Doubtful Sound for around 3 hours, skirting different islands and exploring the sound’s various arms. The scenery was more homogenous than Milford, in part because of the cloud cover. These clouds were poised in the mountaintops, as if the scenery was allowing itself to be seen, but this privilege could be revoked at any moment. The fjord was also enormous. It made you feel small. There were practically no other boats, furthering the sense of isolation.

​The wind and rain picked up, and most folks returned to the cabin. I stayed on the bow for a few extra minutes in my waterproof gear and had some time with just me and the fjord. It was hard to grapple with how such a physically large space could be so untouched, especially since it was just one of 14 fjords in the region. If Milford was a destination, Doubtful was an experience.

Along the cruise, we saw a few seals and penguins, plus some waterfalls and lots of lush ferns. The only sign of civilization was an unlikely fishing hut, permitted to exist because it was built between the low and high tide lines, a clever loophole in the zoning laws. At one point, the boat stopped and turned off the engine, so everyone could enjoy a moment of quiet. It was silent except for the lapping of the water against the shore and the sound of the raindrops on the sound.

The return journey went by quickly, crossing the mountains by bus and crossing the lake back to the visitor center. We drove back into Te Anau and had comforting chili and cornbread for dinner. There were no measuring cups, so I used the gradations on Vincent’s Nalgene bottle to portion out the bread ingredients. Then, the powerful oven burned the loaf on all sides. But once the crispy parts were skimmed off, the bread tasted fine – another victory of travel cooking.

I’m glad we experienced the Doubtful Sound. The tour group was much larger than I expected, but it didn’t detract – there was plenty of nature for everyone.

On our final morning in Te Anau, we browsed souvenir shops in town and checked out a free bird sanctuary. The sanctuary’s main draw was the endangered takahe, the flightless blue feathered bird thought to be extinct until it was rediscovered hiding in the Fjordlands. They also had a few kakariki, the green parakeet, and blue ducks (which were mostly black). On the road out of town, we passed the familiar fields of red tussock and deer, and headed south towards Bluff and Stewart Island.

​The road turned inland and started following the Haast River up into the clouds. We stopped to stretch our legs at Fantail Falls, a picturesque waterfall that split and converged, forming a diamond shape. A clear river of glacial water kept the tourists from getting too close to the falls, so they turned to other forms of entertainment, namely stacking rocks. Smooth river pebbles were fashioned into cairns anywhere they would stand – on tree stumps, on the beach – rising up like stony weeds.

​The last hour of the drive into Wanaka featured some stunning mountain landscapes. The road hugged the edge of Lake Wanaka, offering views across the water of vast grassy hillsides and the snow-dusted peaks of Mount Aspiring National Park. Pockets of sunshine amplified our first real taste of the Southern Alps. In a surprise twist, the road ducked through a mountain pass and emerged on the shores of a second lake, Lake Hawea, hiding in the back.

​We stayed at a very modern AirBNB in a cluster of new development on the outskirts of Wanaka. The mountains were visible from the living room, an epic backdrop to the mundane tasks of unpacking and packing. In the foreground, the green lawn was inhabited by a gang of rabbits, usually at least a dozen in sight at any given moment. The bunnies occasionally shifted to one side of the yard when the owners’ dogs made their rounds, but otherwise enjoyed a carefree life in predator-free New Zealand.

​Vincent and I went out for a brief stroll along the lake, towards the Instagram-famous tree known as “That Wanaka Tree,” seemingly sprouting from the water itself. It was indeed photogenic, even on a cloudy afternoon, and we joined the stream of tourists getting their fill of photos. A shag landed on one of its branches, unaware of the signboard discouraging any potential climbers.

​Famous tree aside, the beach itself was lovely, with bushes of cheerful yellow lupine and a crate full of beach toys for anyone to borrow. We enjoyed a brief stroll on a lakeside path before heading into the main part of town for a few groceries.

The town felt lively compared to some of the less populated areas of NZ’s West Coast. A couple we met in Abel Tasman recognized us walking down the street and went out of their way to flag us down for a short enthusiastic conversation (we later saw them again at the luge course in Queenstown). The ubiquitous Four Square had most but not all of the ingredients. For the final ingredient – fresh dill – we turned to a specialty Mediterranean grocery down the street. Many dill puns were made on the walk back to the car. (“dill or no dill”, “no dilly dallying”, etc.)
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Rachel and I made a loaded veggie curry for dinner. On the side, I also grilled some lemongrass chicken kebabs on the backyard BBQ. There was some light rain, but I was not deterred, and enjoyed the sizzle of the drops on the hot grill. Between the curry and the kebabs, it was quite a feast! I probably overloaded on the chicken, as my stomach was then slow to digest anything for the next several days.

​We only spent one night in Wanaka, so we packed up the car and drove to our morning activity, a hike at nearby Mount Iron. Trail runners and dog walkers went about their routine exercise. Tiny birds sang elaborate songs from the treetops. The way up was steep, but the views overlooking the lake and mountains were stunning. The very top had 360-degree views, including an immense valley carved by glaciers flowing away from Wanaka. After several long driving days, it was satisfying to get some steps in. As with many of our driving days, we carried our valuables in our backpacks, increasing the intensity of the workout.

​Our next destination? The adventure capital of Queenstown! The uphill drive to the mountain summit passed the historic town of Cardrona and lots of purple lupin, but it was the way down that caught our attention. The high-altitude offered a stunning view into the valley below; the sharp hairpin turns kept us grounded in the road trip. In town we struggled to find parking, ultimately nabbing a steep spot a few blocks from our lodging. Since this was one of the pricier destinations, we stayed at a hostel called the Black Sheep Backpackers in a private triple room. Check-in didn’t open until 3:00, so we ate our sandwiches in the car – a flavorful recipe called chickpea mash, a mashterpiece from chef Rachel.

​It was a short walk down to the main pier for our jetboat tour. The sunny weather invited everyone to enjoy the day in different ways. School kids in matching yellow vests and bucket hats went on organized scavenger hunts, Asian tourists attempted to photograph the seagulls by holding up food, a loud man raved about the amazing seafood he had just eaten, and a parade of ice cream cones waged a subliminal advertising campaign. We dropped off our bags at the company’s kiosk and donned life jackets before hopping into the front row of our vessel.

​Back on land, we joined the 3:00pm rush to check into the hostel. This was the first hostel I’d encountered that required you to download an app to open the doors – including both the room and the shared bathroom. (Heaven forbid your phone runs out of battery during your midnight bathroom run!) During the orientation, the hostel neglected to mention a boil water notice in Queenstown. We probably wouldn’t have known unless Vincent explicitly asked where to fill our water bottles. A little online research found that a protozoan with the ominous name “cryptosporidium” had been found in the Queenstown water supply a few months back and the situation was unresolved. To be safe, we brought our bottles to a clean water station downtown.

We had a delightful evening out in Queenstown, browsing shops while waiting for a Japanese restaurant we were eyeing to open. The meal was delicious but light: miso, veggie tempura, tofu, and gyoza. To supplement, Vincent negotiated a bulk purchase of falafel from the Turkish restaurant next door. Even after dinner, it was still so light outside that it felt like mid-afternoon. We strolled around the edge of the lake, watching the fish meander in the crystal-clear shallows.

We survived the night at the Black Sheep hostel without any malfunctioning virtual keys or poisoning from contaminated water. Upon checkout, our groceries had to squeeze into the packed communal fridge; our enormous stalk of celery sadly didn’t make the cut. But despite these quirks, the hostel was a decent place to sleep on a budget, with a fantastic location.
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After starting with a tour on the lake level, we ended by experiencing Queenstown from above. The gondola lifted us at a steep angle, soaring above mountain goats frolicking on the cliffside. At the top, we were treated to million-dollar views of the whole region, including the sharp peaks of the Remarkables, the now-miniature city below, and the two prominent peninsulas standing sentry at the entrance to the river. The lake was majestic, a deep blue as far the eye could see. Yet it was so big that the far reaches of its lightning-bolt shape still remained out of sight.

​We all had an absolute blast on the luge course! There were enough straightaways to jockey for position, enough turns to keep you on your toes, and the incredible views the whole way down. The best runs were the ones with fewest people. Most slow traffic could be dodged, but occasionally a traffic jam would grind everyone to a halt, requiring a hand-push start. We completed our six runs, feeling giddy from a good day of racing. It was definitely the highlight from our time in Queenstown. I even stuffed a GoPro down my jacket and got some video footage of the action!

​The adventure capital certainly lived up to its name. But alas, we had promises to keep and kilometers to go before sleep. We hopped into the car and drove south along Lake Wakatipu until the tip of the lightning bolt disappeared from sight.