By Lucy

The curtains at this hostel suck. They do not keep out the morning sun.

Up and dressed again, out for breakfast. I wandered down to the Octagon to find the only place that was open for breakfast, Perc’s. I got the sad, lonely table at the back next to the toilet and ordered their brioche French toast with poached pears and mascarpone. I hate places that use brioche and mascarpone as “fancy” alternatives to regular bread and whipped cream, although it was pretty good.

I went for a walk downtown after breakfast, taking pictures of the old buildings. There’s also quite a bit of street art in downtown Dunedin. I was starting to think 2 days was not enough time to see everything.

I made my way back to the hostel. The German girls have checked out and I have the room to myself, for now. I check over my hands and feet; I have giant blisters from the boots and gloves, plus being wet for several hours.

Also, hills.

When the boys were having breakfast. “I’m going to the chocolate factory, who wants to come with me?”

“The Cadbury factory?” Will, from Kent, asked.

“No, it closed in 2018. This sign is a lie.” I pointed to the sign on the wall. “A different one.” Probably opened in response to the Cadbury factory closing.

“I’m going for a hike. I need to get out of town.” Esko, the Finlander, said.

“I’ve got some emails to send, but I was going to the Otago University museum in the afternoon.” Added Will.

“Want to go together?”

“Sure.” We exchanged numbers.

Fine. Off on my own!

I walked down to the docks, where the chocolate factory is. There’s lots of street art in Dunedin, which I love. I’m not one for visiting galleries; art needs context to be alive, not cloistered in white walls.

I walked down a couple of dark alleys and across a busy motorway to reach the warehouse by the docks where the chocolate factory, Ocho, is. The factory itself has been redone; the cafe front is all white floors and glass walls. A young woman was tapping away, seated in the cafe area. She stood up when I entered.

“Hello! Are you here to purchase some chocolate?”

“Umm, I was wondering if I could do the tour?”

“Oh, usually the tour is booked the night before.”

I was worried about that. I had tried to book something the night before and the website crashed, multiple times. I explain this to her.

“Well, the tours start at 11. If you want, you can wait ’til 11, and if there’s a spot you can absolutely join us!”

Half an hour to wait? Sure, I had nowhere to be and nothing to see in that time any way. Will texted me that he’d be free around 12:30.

At a little past 11, a group wandered out from the tour. The tour guide, another young woman, asked me if I could wait a few minutes more. Sure.

No one else showed up, so I paid for the tour and went in myself.

The factory is clearly designed around tours; the main production are has a big glass octagon in the middle, for easily casting a glance around the production floor. Chocolate production is much like making coffee; you roast the beans and grind them. Then, in the case of chocolate, you emulsify them into a bar and temper it.

Ocho’s beans are grown in the Pacific Islands, not the Ivory Coast like most chocolate. What makes Ocho’s chocolate really unique, and what I love, instead of just dumping sugar, flavouring and emulsifying ingredients into each bar until they all taste exactly the same, Ocho builds the flavour profile around the taste of the beans. Chocolate tastes different depending one where and when it’s grown. In Ocho’s case, the beans are sorted by if they are grown on Vanuatu, the Solomon islands, or Papua New Guinea, and then flavoured accordingly, and the taste of the bars changes from batch to batch. They had raw cocoa nibs to taste, and you really can taste the difference; Vanuatu’s tastes smokey and smooth, while the Solomon island’s tastes earthy, like mushrooms. Then they let you taste some standard Cadbury, and ugh! I always say I don’t like chocolate, but the truth is I like chocolate, I don’t like commercial chocolate bars. You can taste the emulsifiers, it’s so gross! Especially next to some premium cocoa. I almost spit it out!

With the tour you also get a free sample of their powdered hot chocolate, prepared fresh for you at the cafe, and a free 40 g bar of your choosing. I chose the long black hot chocolate, with ground up coffee beans in it, and the Vanuatu chocolate bar because I really liked the raw flavour of the nibs. On a whim, I also bought a second bar of the short black flavour. I had a thought of showing up at the hostel tonight with some chocolate to pass around and pull everyone into a conversation.

Since there were no other tours or, really, any customers at all, I stood around chatting for a bit about Dunedin and the surrounding area. I learned that this factory tried to buy both the old Cadbury factory and its equipment, but they were unsuccessful before it got torn down and scrapped. Still, it must be nice for the chocolatiers to get to work on gourmet, small batch products instead of soul-sucking uniformity. I asked if she had watched the John Oliver episode about chocolate, and she said she had not and noted most New Zealanders dislike John Oliver for interfering with the bird contest, because it is serious business here.

Since it was 12, I started walking downtown. I texted Will asking him what the plan was. Were we meeting at the museum? That hadn’t been agreed upon. I stopped at the Octagon and sat down on a bench for a minute. 20 rolled by – no response. Well, fine then. I walked down to the museum and walked around by myself.

It’s a small museum, no ROM here. Some exhibits I didn’t see; there was a LEGO exhibit that cost extra for some daft reason, when entry to the museum is free. There’s a “People of the World” Exhibit I walked thru quickly, because it’s basically the same as every international exhibit in every museum ever.

At the top of the museum was something called the “Animal Attic”, a collection of taxidermized animals, skins, skeletons, and things in jars that someone had been collecting since the 1880’s. I made a point of taking a picture of the “rat king” for Kevin, something so rare even he wasn’t sure they ever existed.

It was actually pretty cool, I was surprised by some things, like how big anteaters are.

In the middle was some collection of “jewelry” sort by kingdom. I didn’t get it.

There was a Polynesian exhibit, which is what I really wanted; some local knowledge. I was especially curious about the artifacts of the Lapita people, who seem to be the original Polynesians. Curiously, they had a robust and intricate pottery industry, which slowly wound down until it ceased to exist, for no reason anyone can currently discern.

My stomach started grumbling. I went down to the museum cafe and ordered a cheesy mushroom sandwich and some sort of tropical juice drink, which was unpleasantly spicy. I listened to the British guy at the table next to me tell his non-British companions about how he hadn’t read Shakespeare but he had read all the written works by Winston Churchill and that he was actually very clever. Blech!

At some point during lunch, some sort of choir/caroling group set up at the highest floor of the museum atrium and sang in so that we could all hear them.

After lunch, I went through the exhibit with the dinosaur bones and geology stuff. Dunedin, like Akaroa, was a former volcano that now forms the harbour the city is built around. Most of Otago, up to Queenstown and Glenorchy, is schist, which is a kind of shale formed at temperatures/ pressures higher than what forms slate. It is more crystalized, with a higher lustre, and usually folds into complex shapes.

The last exhibit was called Tangata Whenua. I recognize the word whenua… it’s in Bionicles. It means “country” or state. A sign said that bringing food or water into the exhibit is tapu, which means taboo. That’s where we get the word from.

I turned to a staff member nearby. “What does tapu mean? I have a waterbottle and some chocolate…”

“Oh, the Maori believe that you should keep bodily functions separate from sacred functions. Just don’t eat or drink in there and you should be good.”

The exhibit is gorgeous, so many lovingly crafted artifacts. A large carved waka, a canoe, took up the middle of the exhibit.

One part of the exhibit noted that it used to be things would be carved and sacred, but still used, like an oar, but after Westerners should a preference for buying “sacred artifacts”, they started making things that were intricately carved but useless, just for selling.

Around 4 I was done seeing everything and headed back to the hostel. I was a little tired of the sightseeing and cafes and just stopped at Subway to get a footlong, 6 inches for dinner and 6 for the next day.

People were slow to venture in to the dinning room. Finally, around 5:30, I had a bit of a crowd. Esko and Michael listened to me explain my gourmet chocolate, and the conversation turned to other things. At one point, an older American man decided I seemed knowledgeable and started asking me about Canadian politics. I finished my bottle of wine. Will wandered in and explained that he doesn’t have data and couldn’t see my messages after he left the hostel, which is makes no sense and made me ignore him the rest of the night. Just like the other asshole from Kent!

At one point, one of the other guys wanders in with a sea urchin cracked open. “Does anyone want any? I bought too much.”

You bought too much… sea urchin? That’s not usually cheap, is it? I agreed and took a bite of the raw, yellow flesh inside the stabby shell. It was unpalatably salty, which gave way to a bitter aftertaste. Perhaps it’s better cooked?

I glanced at the clock on my phone; 10:30.

Holy cow! Where did the time go? We were having such a good conversation and I hate to duck out, but I gotta go to bed. Monday will be a long day!

I got up and wandered downtown, on a quest for a place with a cheap, no-frills breakfast. I found a coffee shop where I could order bacon and eggs and toast.

I felt bad leaving the city already, but I hadn’t anticipated having this much to do. I had anticipated being this broke – I’d burned through 400 NZD in the last three days, mostly eating out. Woops.

Back at the hostel, I packed up my stuff and brought it downstairs to the dining room, where everyone was having breakfast. I wanted to charge my phone to 100% before heading out, since I couldn’t charge it overnight.

Despite the forecast for the weekend having been rainy and chilly, and Monday warm and sunny, the weather had reversed itself. It was mostly sunny and decent during the weekend, but Monday was bitterly cold and drizzling. Rats.

Michael the Canadian and my American politics student followed me outside when I left. “Text me when you get where you’re going, so I know you’re safe.” Michael says, gesturing to the sky.

I nod. “I appreciate it.” It was better to have someone geographically closer, although I continued to keep Simonetta up to date on my travels.

Christ was it cold out! I was soaked immediately, my hands frozen to the handlebars. I had more than half a tank of gas, so I planned to stop at a small town called Milton for gas before the turn off the main highway to head west, but it was too cold. I was at serious risk of being too numb to hit the break or the gear shifter. I pulled over about ten minutes before Milton and grabbed gas. I went into the gas station to see if maybe they had those hand warmer packets. No luck.

On the road again. I went through an area of twisties called Manuka creek, where the trees formed a canopy over the road and it smelled rich and green.

Next I stopped in a small town called Lawrence. I went into a cafe – I had to change. I was so soaked the water was dripping down into my boots and making my socks wet, which would make my toes numb and give me even more trouble. I ordered a flat white so as not to be rude and sat at a table at the back to massage feeling back into my fingers.

A lady from behind the cash came over with my coffee. “Oh, you poor thing, you’re soaked! Did you want a blanket?” She nodded at my helmet. “My boyfriend’s a bikie.”

I nodded, shivering. Soon I was wrapped in a thick flannel blanket, hot coffee in hand. People always say that you join a gang for a sense of belonging, but I was only really beginning to appreciate that sense of belonging. For the cost of the bike, I’d been allowed entry into a group who look after their own. Every biker and biker’s family member was looking out for me. I wasn’t alone on the road.

I had to change. I changed my shirt for a long-sleeve, my jeans for two pairs of regular pants. It would hurt if I hit the ground, but I couldn’t keep going in my wet jeans. Two pairs of sock, one thin, one thick. I couldn’t do anything about my cold, wet gloves, unfortunately, but I set them to dry out on the back of a chair.

I stayed there for longer than I meant to. It was warm in there and I was not relishing getting back on the bike, but there wasn’t another option. I thanked the cashier for borrowing the blanket and she bid me safe travels.

I kept going in spurts. Every half an hour I had to pull over, under a tree, to peel my gloves off and put my frozen hands under my arms to warm up. I didn’t want to stop at any more cafes – I was really feeling the time and money I was burning. At one point I found a building with an unoccupied overhang – nice and dry. I’m a real vagabond now, camping out by deserted buildings.

My next real stop was a small town called Alexandra. Now I could have lunch… at 2 PM. I was more than halfway there, yay.

I was drawn to a place called Cafe Rossi, no guesses for why. I ordered a hot chocolate and some potatoes wedges with made-in-house sour cream. They weren’t much to look at, but the wedges were perfectly crispy, the sour cream thick and creamy, and the hot chocolate was decadent, with homemade marshmallows.

There was a bar table at the windows. A little old lady was seated there. “Do you mind if I sit here?” I asked her.

“Not at all. You’re not from New Zealand, are you?”

I told her about my travels and my plans. She warned me that Queenstown is growing “for no real reason” and traffic will be bad there. Noted.

I gassed up and headed out. On to Queenstown.

I was weaving up into the mountains from here. This part of the road followed the shore of the Clutha river in tight bends and turns. My speed dropped more.

I became aware that, hilariously, I was outrunning the sun. It wasn’t really raining anymore, but it wasn’t warm enough to quite dry me off either. I didn’t want to stop and wait for the sun to catch up – it was not guaranteed to make things better.

Then I hit Queenstown. Dear god, Queenstown.

Sandwiched between the mountains and the shore of lake Wakatipu, Queenstown is a quaint New England town. It is hip, happening and hopping. There are new builds everywhere, every sidewalk crammed with tourists, all manner of shops, but only one main road through town… which was stop-and-go traffic.

Stop and go! After the day I’ve had!

I should have stopped for groceries. But it was 5 o’clock, the store would be packed, and I had miles to go yet.

Actually, I did stop just outside of town, on the lake shore. My right leg was cramping terribly and I was struggling to hit the brake. I turned the bike off and laid down beside it for twenty minutes. No one stopped to ask if I was alright.

The traffic cleared up as I headed towards Glenorchy; no one was heading out there that late. Past Queenstown is a dead end, no way out but back. However, the sun finally came out and the drive along the crystal clear, blue alpine lake was beautiful as it glittered in the sun.

I stopped in Glenorchy. Maybe I could grab a pack of noodles here to tide me over until I could gather my bearings and do a proper shop.

Closed.

Nothing to do but to keep going until I found my destination.

Only 350 kilometers today. I left around 10 and arrived around 7:30, as the sun was disappearing behind the mountains.