I’ve come back from 8 days of paddling just under 200 miles of river through farm-lands and National Parks of New Zealand. I traveled with 18 other people in a group called the “River Rats.” The “River Rats” are a group of mainly retired (or close to) men who have led trips down the Wanganui River for 34 years, bringing friends and family and visitors along with them each year. There are many commercial canoe companies that lead trips down the river, but they are hundreds of dollars more expensive and cover a significant smaller part of the river. Thus, the “River Rats” trip is only known by locals and by word of mouth. Luckily, a friend of my Aunt’s told me about the trip and I signed up immediately. The trip consisted of 17 New Zealanders, most of whom were burley 70 year-old men with tree-trunk thighs sculpted by years of extreme rugby workouts-and myself. Many of them had done the trip 10 or 20 + years and the fact that they were retired certainly did not put a damper on their strength and ability to embark on a strenuous week-long trip through native bush and river rapids.
They put me in a canoe with the most experienced member, and were not shy about hinting at their assumptions of me being a novice to the outdoors and anything that takes hard work. A few summers ago I had worked for Mass Audubon as a camp counselor and led a canoe trip for 11 and 12 yr old boys through the marshes of New England. This was the last time I had canoed, but I was confident in my ability when I had to rope 2 canoes of exhausted 12 year old boys who refused to paddle any longer, and tow them for an hour out of the marshes to the safety of dry land. Therefore, I knew my stroke was strong and had no doubts in my ability in joining the trip.
My partner and I’s canoe therefore became the leader of the pack and we floated through rapids with no problems and aided others when they needed the help. There were no major white water rapids, but the rapids were big enough to fill a boat with water and make 3 boats in our group capsize. At night we cooked great meals and sat under the stars. We shared stories and had candid conversations about our two countries and the ludicrousy of many things American.
They asked me things like why we call foreigners “aliens” at customs in our airports. They are not Americans, but they are not from outer space. I heard horror stories of them being poked and prodded through customs and embarrassing encounters with obnoxious Americans. New Zealand is so far away from the States, that many New Zealanders have spent little time with Americans-the whole trip was a bit of a question and answer session, and of course it went the other way around too. They enjoyed answering my questions about New Zealand, and prided themselves in the magic and beauty of their country and scenery we were embarking on. One night as I was getting ready for bed a Kiwi bird called in the near bye bush. Kiwis are endangered and nocturnal, and it is rare for even New Zealanders to see or hear them. Three different group members ran to my tent; “Pheybey a keywey, a keywey!” 
I felt right at home and each member of the group treated me like family. One night at dinner, a group of 20 American kids on exchange rolled up to our campsite to stay for the night. I watched them doing their group huddles and group cheers and then looked over to my own group of retired fishermen, farmers, ex-rugby players, search and rescue volunteers, sailors, and bush men- and I have to say that I was happier with them.
We paddled several hours a day and stopped in between for various sightseeing along the river. We tramped up steep gorges through thick bush to find old Maori War Poles, graves and old settlement villages. We also visited waterfalls, explored caves, and hiked to the top of beautiful vistas. Further on in the trip, one of our campsites was located on the same bank as a Marae. A Marae is a gathering place for Maori to carry on their cultural traditions. They are sort of like our Native American’s “longhouses.” Anyways, this one along the riverbank is not usually inhabited, but it turned out that the night we were there, there were 60 Maori people at the Marae.
We are not allowed to go onto the Marae, but just before dinner one of the members came over and told us they would like to invite us on and do so in the tradition of a ceremony. So myself and my fellow rugged Kiwi canoeists lined up and entered the gate of the Marae tip-toeing silently as the elders sang to us. The ceremony consisted of a member of the Marae giving us a speech, the other 60 members presenting us with a song, and then we were to elect a member of our group to speak and also present a song. The member of our group thanked them for inviting us and explained that we had come from all over New Zealand to canoe the beauty of their river (to the Maori, it is their river). “And we even have a traveler who has come all the way from upstate New York ,” he said. By now I was peeing myself and was excitedly beaming from my place in the line, looking around and taking in all that I could while this special experience lasted. It was later that I found out it is custom for visitors to keep their face down and not look in the face of the elders. Crap, I blew that one.
It’s custom for visitors to also present a song, so we sang some patriotic New Zealand song in the Maori language which clearly I didn’t know the words to. I watched the lips around me trying to move my mouth in tune with the others. I also blew that one. Luckily all 60 people burst in laughter at our feeble attempt to sing a song in a language we didn’t know. They cheered and we were glad the singing was over. Afterwards I found myself being shuffled into line with the other members of my group, facing the giant line of Maori people. I was told we were about to do the “hongi.” As our lines came towards each other, I realized we were about to rub noses and press our foreheads to one another with 60 Maori people- a tradition symbolizing passing knowledge from one person to another. So along I went and pressed my nose into 60 other people’s including 3 year olds, 90 year olds, women with tattooed faces, and men with tribal tattooed arms and legs, saying ‘Kia Ora’ each time (meaning be well/be healthy, or hi ). Towards the end, one of the biggest, burliest, Maori dudes asked where I was from. I told him New York, and guess what? He dropped my hand and went to the next person. Okay so not all New Zealanders love me, but I’ll try not to take that one personally and perhaps thank George W. for that strange interaction. Anyhow, I was thrilled to have that experience and after the ceremony was over I was allowed to take a few pictures of the Marae.
I started talking to a young woman from the UK who had married a Maori guy and was a photographer and she was going around to different Marae’s photographing them and writing a book on contemporary Maori culture. At that moment I lost all poise and collectedness and blurted out, “ohmygod I want to be you.” Luckily she laughed, and I explained that I have an interest in race and cultural relations and indigenous people, and of course that I love photography. So this experience at the Marae was definitely an unexpected highlight of the trip. I also ate an eel on the trip, which I am pretty proud of. I befriended a group of boys who were fishing eels in the river. I took their photographs, watched them skin and cook the eels, and one thing led to another and before I knew it I was eating one. I add this to my list of great cultural immersion feats similar to eating haggis in Scotland.
Another highlight came one night when we were discussing the next day’s paddle. We were to stop for a morning break on a side river that flowed in the Wanganui, which was the filming location for Gollum’s pool in Lord of the Rings. I could barely contain my excitement the next morning as we paddled closer and closer to our resting stop.
As we turned left into the narrow stream flowing through a green moss covered gorge, I was informed the stream was flooded due to all the rain and that paddling upstream would be quite a feat. This was the first time I truly pulled my obnoxious American card. I screamed something along the lines of, “people, we can DO THIS. LET’S GO. PADDLE PADDLE PADDLE. GOLLUM WAS HERE.” The current was so strong, two boats turned back and waited for us down the river. The rest of us paddled our hearts out. We eventually got stuck between a maze of rocks and we had to get out of our canoes and push them through the water, deeper and deeper until we were up to our chests in water. We pushed our way through, adrenaline pumping, and made it safely to shore. The water level was high and had little resemblance to the movie, but I was psyched to have stumbled upon a Lord of the Rings film location (one that few people go to). Unfortunately, most of the New Zealanders I’ve met refuse to see any of the films, and after we got to shore my fellow trip members turned to me and asked, “Who is Gollum anyway?”
Eight days later I am happy to have a bed, a toilet, a shower, and a real meal, but there is something awesome about being away from reality that long, and it certainly is even more amazing to do it in such an unbelievable place.
My new river friends have offered me to come stay in their homes around New Zealand, work for them, go sailing with them, take care of their children, meet up with their kids my age in various cities around the country, and call on them for whatever I need. It’s said that New Zealanders make friends for life. I hope this is true and I look forward to seeing where my new friends take me and the new experiences that lie ahead.
