Cinq étoiles

A 'Cinq étoiles' (five stars) is what Mauriceo and Katia, from Rio de Janeiro, call a perfect spot for a break in a long day's walk. When we were companions on a couple of caminos, the search for the 5 étoiles was an eager (and sometimes desperate) occupation. Now, there are rules. A cinq étoiles provides shelter from the drenching rain and shade from the beating sun. It has a seat. Personally, I like one high enough so I can dangle my weary legs, like a kid on a high stool. It sometimes has a table on which to share bread, salami, goat cheese and fruit, but it is not an absolute requirement. A cinq étoiles MUST have a breathtaking view or, at the very least, chirpy birds, a burbling river nearby and no stinging insects hovering, ready to zoom in. Needless to say, a Cinq Etoiles is a rarity.

Looking for such a place, I followed the picnic table sign and left the State Highway, a grand name for the usual twisty two-lane road with passing lanes for slow vehicles (me). For the first time since my arrival on South Island, I could actually see the top of the mountains and was snatching awed glimpses of snow-covered summits while managing the bends. I was going to enjoy my houmous, crackers and apple in the Cinq Etoiles of the century and drink in the view.


Instead, I found a small helicopter business, offering at half-price a flight over glaciers north of the famous Franz Joseph glacier that grinds almost all the way down to sea level. I had previously discarded the helicopter option as being extortionate... The blue contraption was the size of a bumble bee... OK, I was going for it. To make sure that toy device could manage me, I had to be weighed, a  traumatic moment. In the meantime, while the young pilot was waiting for another booking to make the flight worth his while, I was swatting away sand flies. If people tell you that these insects are active only at dawn and dusk, they're wrong. Finally, I threatened to demand a NZ $ 5 discount per bite and, laughing, the young pilot took me up in the bumblebee, the only customer, with unimpeded view of jaw-dropping chasms, of the deep blue of the cracked ice and of Mount Cook in the distance, the highest peak of the Southern Alps at 3700 metres. The Cinq Etoiles of the century, indeed, under the hazy sun.

So much more beauty was to follow that it almost hurt....a swim, later that day, in the silky waters of lake Rotokino, and, the next day, a dip in blue icy pools and a drive by the limpid expanse of lakes Wanaka and Hawea...  It leaves a poignancy in my heart. I feel blessed, uplifted, filled with such tenderness, as if holding a sleeping newborn, the eyelashes curled over a perfect chubby cheek and wanting to hold it safe, oh so safe. May it not come to harm, oh please.

In that respect, and humans being so destructive, sand flies are a perfect deterrent. A small paragraph, here to show how right I was NOT to choose a camping van for my little tour. I imagined myself trying tail-gate cooking surrounded by a cloud of midge-like blood-sucking critters and buffeted by squalls of driving rain. This picture of hell is quite realistic as, a few days ago, while I was driving up the east coast towards Christchurch in drizzle and gloom, more severe weather was happening in the west: buckets of water fell,  a bridge was torn away, roads got flooded and, as I write, the west coast road is still impassable.

No, seriously now: a lot of people use camper vans and love it. Otherwise there just wouldn't be so many of them on the roads.

Fjordland, the stunning and deeply indented south western corner of South island enjoys, if that's the word, 7 metres of rain per year, its steep slopes covered by temperate rainforest. I didn't know that, as, full of optimism, I left behind me the radiant sunshine of my mountain hostel and its paddock of deer to drive up and down the dizzying bends of the State Highway 94 and through a barely lit, drippy, single-lane tunnel hewn in rock. As I reached Milford Sound, I entered a ghostly world.
Some travellers I met in hostels told me (smugly) that, no, they had had perfect weather, thank you very much. Damn them.

It was actually phantasmagoric. Bottle green deep waters, dark looming shapes draped in clouds and waterfalls surging from hanging valleys. We were shown the fault line between the Pacific plate and the Tasman plate, the U-shaped valleys bearing the mark of 5 successive glaciers, seals fishing the rich waters. Once upon a time, they were almost hunted to extinction. It is, by the way, a seal hunter who discovered that fjord. Cook sailed past a couple of times and mistook it for a bay. It would have been a perfect deep shelter from swell and wind but he cared for his crew and tried to stay as far away from the jagged teeth of the west New Zealand coast. People working on the tours live on the fjord. They drink pure local water and produce their own electricity. Just to mention, South Island is 98% powered by hydroelectrics.

Further south, the landscape evokes Scotland with round hills cloaked in mist, lochs, salmon and trout fishing. Lanes, streets, creeks and bays bear names like Athol, Mc Pherson, Glen Nevis, Oban, Dalhousie, Lochie, O'Shanessy, Dublin, a testimony to the Scottish and Irish diaspora. Te Anau has a tartan festival. Towns are called Ross, Invercargill and Dunedin (the ancient name for Edinburgh). It is almost disorientating to spy the serrated edge of the southern Alps in the distance and the ubiquitous spiky flax flowers, much loved by the Tui birds. Maoris used the leaves to weave baskets and make ropes, careful to take only three of the outer ones to protect the plant. Not Scotland after all. Tui  birds can mimic a variety of sounds. You're relaxing in the garden. The phone rings. You hurry inside. Nope... It was the Tui bird.

As my sightseeing motivations are reduced to zilch by an increasingly obliterating weather, the trip switches focus and offers a succession of beautiful and interesting encounters. I thread anecdotes, magical moments and life stories like beads on the ribbon of road that I follow back north.
John, in Invercargill, is out to buy sheep when I arrive and has left the key for me in the letterbox. He shows me the difference between normal sheep fleece and merino's. The latter's fibre is so thin, the wool so tight and soft.... Merinos are not good in New Zealand, he informs me. They don't like soggy ground but will eat anything. Australia, then. Merino Mink is made here with the addition of possum fur. Now, I read that there were 8 millions of them in New Zealand, a pest for the native wildlife, almost a compulsory road-kill. How in the world do they count them? 'Hey, possums, to attention now! Come out of the bush/forest and stand in line!' There are full-time possum hunters, John explains. They lay a blob of cyanide on the ground surrounded by cinnamon and curry paste. Possums are inquisitive. Attracted by the new smell, they breathe in the cyanide and are killed on the spot. All the hunters have to do is collect them.

Lucida is Canadian, Michael American. They live in Christchurch. I arrive in a shocked, grieving city. On a lamp post, in a suburban neighbouring, hearts have been stuck. A big one at the top bears the message: 'We choose love". In Akaroa, on the peninsula further east, a tribute of candles, balloons, flowers, messages, remains on the waterfront, limp in the rain. A modest, heartfelt hommage that brings tears to my eyes.
Lucida had a band in Canada. We sing together French folk songs and American oldies. She has a Gibson guitar that has a big wide sound, as if it was plugged in. Both her and Michael organise contacts for me in Indonesia and I suddenly have a room booked for two weeks in an eco-neighbourhood in Bali and one of their friends offering to welcome me in Kalimantan. Bless them, bless their warmth and welcome.

On the way to Akaroa, east of the city, Thea shows me around her food forest in the land that she has bought with her partner. When all is grown, it will be a foraging heaven and also a haven for insects and birds. I follow a gaggle of waddling ducks, admire the dome greenhouse and the care for nature, the inventiveness that have gone into the creation of their 'farmlet'. I marvel at the cosy yurt where Thea, an accomplished professional, practises soft-tissue massage. We swap treatments but I don't think she got such a good deal with my rusty Shiatsu. The tiny mobile home where I sleep, built in Christchurch, is a Cinq Etoiles condensed example of ingenuity.

There were close encounters of another kind. Kaikoura, north of Christchurch, has one particularity: close to the coast, a canyon plunges 1000 km into the depth, ideal for sperm whales, deep sea divers that they are.  A timid sun throws an eerie light on the swell as we have 4 sightings of these leviathans, their huge tail disappearing

for the next 45 minutes dive. Interesting fact: the biggest predators on the planet won't eat mammals, no dolphins, no seals, no humans. If their sonar detects a heartbeat, they will discard it as an unsuitable prey. Phew... Wandering albatross weave and glide around us. I see one run on the sea to lift itself into the air, its wingspan the size of a human adult.

The next morning, I walk at low tide around the headland hoping to spot some seals and spy a group of youngsters, sleek and dark brown, playing in a rock pool. I approach and sit at a distance. Their little heads pop up, they watch me, curious, a bit alarmed, maybe. I don't budge, tell them how beautiful they are. Reassured, they start jumping and slicing the water, the pool fairly boiling with their antics. The harder I laugh, the more they somersault. Kids will be kids. They are showing off while their parents digest their Sunday meal nearby.

South Island, which welcomed me under the rain, shines like a jewel on my last 2 days, the more to make me sad to be sailing away. In Nelson, I have again the fun and pleasure to stay with Marcia, Brendyn and their children, Felim and Niamh. I am treated with French onion soup and breakfast pancakes and with another beautifully healing massage swap. Thank you, Marcia... On a balmy afternoon, I amble on Nelson beach, have a good swim and see much joy and laughter around me. Dogs running, catching sticks, friends chatting, children squealing, couples holding hands.

Australia has fires, New Zealand earthquakes. I thought Invercargill looked a bit run down. It's because half of the town will be destroyed to be rebuilt with better regulations, to prevent a repetition of the deaths and casualties of the 2011 Christchurch earthquake. Kaikoura was badly shaken two years ago and the tremor was felt all the way to Wellington. The road into and from Kaikoura is still being repaired and I spotted tsunami muster stations for road workers. Teams of traffic control employees in fluo jackets swivel their stop/go lollipops along the way. They wave and smile us through. Every time. Better than the Queen on a official visit. They must get repetitive strain injury.... This is Cinq Etoiles kindness on a Cinq Etoiles land.

Gold Nuggets

The title of this blog doesn't relate to the gold mining past of South Island -though I crossed today a couple of towns that were gold rush beehives in the 1860s- nor have I suddenly become rich. I am much more talented at spending.
Let me explain. I was asked why I didn't read more books about New Zealand. Yes, indeed, why? Probably because I meet a steady stream of people who are fonts of knowledge and all keen to impart to me nuggets of live information that will forever be linked in my mind to a face, a voice, a landscape admired, a laughter shared.
John got on the Aukland-Wellington 'Northern Explorer train after Mount Tongariro. I had been straining to see the snow covering its cone-shaped summit. Clouds parted for a split second and I heaved a sigh of wonder.
' Tongariro is part of the Taupo volcanic zone', John announced. ' Three volcanoes under what is now Lake Taupo last erupted in 183AD and the black ash apparent in the sediments -that you can see here, and there, yes?- is a result of that great eruption.' I am a rapt audience. John is 77, has got a white beard and a twinkle in his eyes. He used to teach biology and natural science. Ah well, that explains it.
'Not only that!, he continues, 'but Roman diaries and Chinese documents of that time reported cooler summers and incredibly red sunsets. We are due an eruption any time soon, by the way. Every 2000 years.'
The train rattles past a paddock with strange antlerless deer. 'Young', he explains, 'that's why. They are bred for venison.'
Aaah! I exclaim, 'and since when...?'
'In the 19th century, some bright spark introduced a stag and three does. Within a few decades, they were all over the place, munching down the primeval forest. No predators, you see. They are a DOC (Department of Conservation) nightmare but hunters love them and love the goats too, champion chompers. And the wild boars. People would shoot deer from helicopters, the most daring would jump onto their backs.'
'No!!! Really!!!' (I do have to say something from time to time).
'Yes! They even invented a gun with four barrels and a corner of a net in each barrel to shoot the net, catch them alive.'
We glide on a dizzyingly high viaduct, a small river snaking at the bottom. 'See this canyon dug into grey green clay? ' he returns to his running commentary, 'Well, that was deposited by ashes blown by underwater volcanoes, was sea-hardened, until it was pushed upwards. It makes for a very brittle and ever-eroding landscape.'
Unprompted, he switches topics.
'My wife is 20 years younger than me. (wink, twinkle) She works as a nurse in the outback.'
'In Australia!!'
'Yes, with a mobile medical unit between Alice Springs and Darwin. She takes care of the Aborigine population. 3 months on, one month off. So we have a new honeymoon every time.' (wink, wink, twinkle, twinkle).
He shows me a picture of a beaming lady, his wife, holding a round-faced newborn.'This Aborigine woman comes to her out of the bush. Waters just broke. Had never seen a doctor during the whole pregnancy. My wife, she calls the flying doctor. Just a few hours later the baby was born in Alice.'
And on he goes. I get a glimpse of his life. I understand better the land where he lives.
The landscape looks depressingly bare after the luxuriant greenery of the north, rolling hills of dun grass parched in the unusual summer drought.

Thea lives in Christchurch, originally from England, also on the same train. She has planted a tree garden on her land. Pines for windbreak, others for seeds, for birds, insects, others for fruit then fruit canes...
'Jacinda Ardern has promised to plant 1 million trees this year', she tells me as I deplore the bare landscape.
Well, between her and Andrea up north, the quota is already looking good.

At Te papa museum of New Zealand, in Wellington, I learn that the Maoris landed by successive waves from 1200 AD. They had already deforested the islands down to 55% when the Europeans arrived, who were not idle either in that department, trying to recreate a bucolic austral landscape away from home.

My friend Roswitha, in Palmerston, takes me to Bushy Park sanctuary near Whanganui. It gives an idea of what those islands were like before, a land of huge trees and birds, before the Moas were killed to extinction by the Maori settlers, before our stoats, weasels, rats, the Australian possums, before the aforementioned deer and goats. The sanctuary is surrounded by a double fence and explodes with bird songs among the ratanuis, rimus, pongas, among the nikau palms -the southernmost palm tree- and a variety of ferns that give the whole forest a Jurassic Park feel. A native robin, white breasted and just as familiar as the European ones, hops close to us. A fantail, a drab little bird with a melodious song, shows off on a vine. We see the red and black flash of a saddleback, swopping between branches.

Back home, Jeff, her husband, smokes a freshly caught trout on manuka wood. I am told (another nugget) that manukas, a type of tee tree, are the best to start reforesting as it grows fast, not very high and efficiently prevents soil erosion. There you go. A few thousands of those for Jacinda Ardern's planting.




In Nelson, on South Island, as the rain pounds the land, Marcia and Brendyn welcome me with open arms. Conversations float easily across the dinner table. Felim and Niamh, their children, explain to me all about the new Zealand school system and I learn that the biggest eagle ever used to live on those islands. Haast eagle had a wingspan of 3 metres.  It disappeared at the same time as the Moas.
Nuggets, nuggets, and more nuggets...















South Island is stunning and awe-inspiring, in spite of the grey wooly hat that sits on its high summits. Still, the sun peeks out just at the right time. After a drive through the beating rain, I start to despair but no, it comes out and sets behind the mountains at Hanmer Springs, as I am getting lobstered in thermal pools. It shines on me as I walk up the spectacular Pororari gorge and down the Punakaiki river. It seeps through dark clouds as I stand on the swinging bridge above the Hokitika gorge and turns the milky waters from the glaciers into a pale turquoise. It dives this evening in all its glory into the Tasman sea.

But around Lake Kaniere, I walk up a gloomy track on wet leaves and slippy rocks. All is drippy, mossy, hanging with lichen and vines, trunks are shrouded in green growth or loom black against ferns and leaves. I am susceptible to moods. I just want to see the lake, then will turn back. This really is a Lord of the Rings landscape. It doesn't bode well. Even the little tomtit that hops near me doesn't dispel the disquiet.

It reminds me of John's stories again. With the young Americans and Germans who do woofing in his farm,  they reenact Lord of the Rings characters. 'I have beard extensions to play Gandalf'. (twinkle, wink, wink). He shows me pictures. 'The hat was really difficult to make... Ah, and this is how I made Gollum's costume, etc...' We agree that the dark rider in the film was truly sinister, its flanks bathed  with an otherworldly sweat.
And I think of the evil that happened in Christchurch, of the pain, trauma, shock and grief wreaked on a town that was only just going back to normal after the 2010 earthquake. And I think of the generosity of heart of its Prime Minister and I can't believe that it occurred here on these peaceful islands.

Not a 'festival virgin' anymore

'So, you are not a festival virgin anymore', Andrea declared when I told her I had never before been to a festival. Come on, that couldn't possibly be! Concerts... erm... quite a few... I racked my brains, dug into archaeological layers... And it came back to me. Eons ago, I had hitch-hiked from Paris to Reading, to see Patty Smith. I was so keen to take a picture of her that I pretended feeling faint in the heaving throng of people pressing against the stage. Hands had propelled me forward above the crowd -a rather fantastic moment- I jumped and clicked. The flash didn't work. Still... And then other images uncoiled like a ball of yarn... Montreux festival (a better behaved occurence), B B King jamming on stage until 3 am and, the next year, John Lee Hooker, looking like an old mummy...












New Zealand Spirit festival's unique identity explains my momentary amnesia. It didn't connect to anything I had encountered before. For the first few minutes, I was a bit dubious. It looked like a hodgepodge of Om Shantis, dreadlocks, forest sprite garbs, mantra chanting and Reiki. For me, spirituality is something intensely private and not displayed. I heaved an inner sigh, looked at the colourful crowd strewn quietly on the grass under a perfect blue sky, the little tents selling therapies, flowing attires and spicy Chai lattes and decided to shelve my misgivings and go with it.
It was a day of ethereal peace, elation, genuine kindness, empathy... and great music.

In the Om tent (yes), Sika, looking the part with long grey hair and mandala T-shirt, took us on a sound journey, using native instruments and percussions. I lied down, eyes closed and floated very far away. In a small house looking like a gnome dwelling, I fell asleep listening to Tibetan bowls. A group of Indian classical music played ragas and Gandhi's favourite song from Gujarat.




The star of the day was Xavier Rudd, an Australian musician I had never heard of before. I did check him out beforehand on YouTube and there he was, displaying a tanned muscly chest, waterfalls and surf waves in the background. Those videos did not do him justice (though he does indeed have a tanned muscly chest). He is a great performer, skilled and generous and varies his style from pop to rock to world music or even techno. He was adopted by an Aborigine tribe in Arnhem land and is a voice for indigenous people. A few years ago, his first band consisted in musicians from native tribes all around the world. This is probably why he had a proper Maori welcome, a Powhiri. Now, that was, for me, the highlight!! Sorry, Xavier Rudd, kind soul that you are.

They were announced by the sound of conch shells: warriors, complete in traditional costume, feathers in the top-knot, jabbing stars, fierce shouts and tongues sticking out. Not until Xavier Rudd left his offering on the gourd was he welcome with open arms. What was, to me, even more moving, was the response of the audience, all Kiwis, who knew the 'Te Aroha' that has to be sung after a Powhiri: 'I share love with my brothers, sisters, family, with the land' (approximate translation).



There is more: alcohol was forbidden on the premises of the festival (though some interesting whiffs wafted on the air) and offensive attitudes were not tolerated. To avoid unnecessary waste, participants were told to bring their own plates, cutlery, glasses, mugs, water bottle to refill. Not a big ask, considering a majority was camping.
If only there could be in the world such openness and practical intelligence as I witnessed at the New Zealand Spirit festival.

Now, until that beautiful day of music and peace under the sun and stars, there had been times when I had thought (briefly) that I could maybe explore a bit more, instead of quietly going to the same beach and have coffee in the same little cafés. Come on, Lucille, you are in New Zealand for goodness sake! Well, f... to shoulds and musts. What if I am just happy taking it easy and ignore the 'Consumer's guide to the galaxy'.

Anyway, after these discussions between myself and myself, I just decided to remain open to what may.... and Andrea came up with free tickets for the festival....and Goodie called, offering to walk with me the Mangawhai cliff walk, with Lola the dog following us with determination under the afternoon sun, upon rocks and along coves, up steps and down paths and collapsing at the end of the day, without a peep or a stir, with just enough energy left to feebly wag her tail.


Christine is an Aquarian so she was not going to do anything like everybody else. An artist, art therapist and counsellor, she helps people find their life's myth. She's also studied astrology and it was such a delight to swap interpretations and share a 'Uranus in Taurus-master of the 4th house-cycle of Jupiter-zenith and nadir' shop talk. Together, we went to Te Arai and I discovered with relish a beach all to ourselves, with soft white sands and warm quiet waters so I could actually swim instead of fighting waves... I went back again... and again, this morning, not believing, when I saw the rain fall, that I would be so lucky to enjoy that paradise for a last time. But the clouds parted, light shone on the inside of the swell,  the water's edge translucent jade.

My last reading companions have been excellent fantasy books by Robyn Hobb and a series of DCI Ryan murder mysteries, sometimes too much on the grisly side. I have now finished 'I heard the owl call my name'. A classic. A young vicar, not  aware of his fatal illness, is sent to live with an Indian tribe north of Vancouver. He becomes a member of the community and an active part of its survival through the cycle of seasons. A most touching book, with simple description of nature and of the changes a traditional society has to deal with. There couldn't be a better book for me right now.