Vagabond Tales: An Introduction To Possum Punting

by Kyle Ellison on

If you want to anger a New Zealand local ask them if their accent is from somewhere in Australia. While this is sure to elicit a stern yet polite correction, if you REALLY want to enrage a New Zealand local ask them what they think about possums. Strangely enough, the two annoyances are intertwined as New Zealand actually places the blame for the possums firmly on Australia.

Why? Because the non-native possums are Australian, not Kiwi, and many New Zealanders would simply prefer to see them exist solely in the country from whence they came.

Officially known as the Australian Brushtail Possum, the noxious pest was introduced to New Zealand in 1837 in an effort to kick-start the fur industry. All this managed to do, however, was allow the possums to populate with reckless abandon and quickly spread to over 95 percent of the country. Whereas in Australia the possum has a litany of natural predators to keep their numbers in check, New Zealand lacks any form of land predator to naturally stem the flow of hyper-population. Flower gardens, native birds and farmers’ crops have never been the same ever since.

Even the cows in New Zealand are at odds with the possums, thanks to the possum’s innate ability to spread bovine tuberculosis and cripple New Zealand’s lucrative dairy industry.

So how much do the Kiwis actually hate the possums? Enough that a local school recently held a possum-throwing contest, which unsurprisingly sparked outrage amongst the nation’s animal rights activists. Shooting possums is a right of passage for children growing up in rural New Zealand, and I’ve personally witnessed drivers swerve cars towards possums in an effort to strike them as they attempt to cross a road.

I simply cannot make this statement in any plainer terms: people in New Zealand simply hate the possums.Given this unified level of hatred there really are few limits on what’s considered unacceptable in terms of their general treatment. The degree of discontent never really sank in, however, until an evening spent camping along the remote shores of Abel Tasman National Park.

Having sea-kayaked for most of the day past a string of postcard-perfect sandy coves, two mates and myself pulled into the welcomingly-named Mosquito Bay to pitch our tents just prior to dusk. With no rain clouds to be found anywhere on the red and orange horizon, the team opted to pitch the tents sans rain fly to provide maximum star viewing and feel the ocean breeze. A few beers and few shots of whiskey later, our haggard troupe of semi-drunk paddlers retired for the evening into our three-man tent amazed that we had the sliver of sub-tropical perfection all to ourselves – or so we thought.

Somewhere between the hours of 1-4 a.m., I awoke to the sound of my city-bred college roommate Ted repeatedly making a sound I can classify only as “shooshing.” Ted was obviously attempting to “shoosh” away some unforeseen creature, yet given the depth of the darkness his passive efforts were simply lost in the coastal night. Chalking his antics up to the cheap brand of whiskey, I attempted to roll over beneath my Patagonia sleeping-bag liner and drift back into a blissful outdoor sleep.

That was, of course, until I felt the evil red eyes staring straight into my soul. If you’ve never experienced a face-to-face encounter with a possum while in the throes of a whiskey haze, the furry rodents, which appear as cute marsupials by daytime, change by night into real life Chuck E. Cheese rats seemingly possessed by Satan.

Amazed that at one point I had failed to see our evening visitor, I now sat within a claw’s reach of the foraging rodent – the thin fabric of the tent a laughably meager form of protection.

Then, just when it seemed that the red eyes and scavenging claws of the nighttime lurker were going to tear their way through the tent walls, a rogue human leg appeared out of the darkness and laid a swift and powerful kick right into the gut of the mischievous prowler.

Not even knowing that there were other people camping in the confines of Mosquito Bay, at some point during our booze-induced slumber a native Kiwi couple had arrived late and pitched their tent right next to ours.

As the possum was apparently disrupting their slumber as well, the largest rugby-playing, Haka-dancing Kiwi of man you have ever seen had emerged from his tent wearing nothing except boxer shorts and a single hiking boot, no sock.

As Ted was “shooshing” and I was entranced by the red pupils of evil, the mostly-nude Kiwi bushman was instead preparing for a possum punt of dramatic proportions that nobody saw coming in the darkness. With a single drop step and a rotation of his right leg – which could nail a field-goal from 50 yards out – the possum-hating forest dweller laid the top of his right foot into the underbelly of the possum with such ferocity that it sent the shrieking marsupial on an aerial departure from which it never returned.

“Just gotta lay a firm foot into ’em mate!” exclaimed the freelance rodent destroyer. “Let the little bahstards know who’s in charge. Nothing like a good possum punt!”

With the tips of his boxer shorts waving in the evening breeze, the mysterious possum punter single-stomped his way back to his nylon fortress – his work here was dramatically through.

I was stunned by what had actually just occurred and the fact that the man’s tent was completely gone by morning only added to his mystique.

So here’s to you, Mr. Possum Punting vigilante. I want to thank you for your swift and thorough cleansing of our campsite and your public display of where you stand on New Zealand’s possums. Your nationalistic pride shines like a beacon through the night, and you have served your country well.

Looking back, I’m just glad I never called him Australian.

[Image courtesy of turtlemom4bacon on Flickr]

Museum Month: JEATH War Museum, Kanchanaburi, Thailand

by Laurel Miller on

History has never been my favorite subject, but once I began traveling in earnest, I discovered something. If I visited a destination, I usually became obsessed with its history or indigenous peoples. Unfortunately, I didn’t discover this in time to save the downward trajectory of my GPA when I was a student, but it’s made me sound infinitely more worldly in daily life.

I found the JEATH War Museum in Kanchanaburi, Thailand, purely by accident. Anything historical pertaining to war is a subject I normally avoid – I’m a girl like that – with the exception of the “Platoon” soundtrack. Thus, the most I knew about “The Bridge on the River Kwai,” which is located in Kanchanaburi, is how to whistle the tune. The town and bridge are actually located at the confluence of the Rivers Kwai Noi and Kwai Yai, at the headwaters of the Maeklong (Mekong).

I ended up there because I had a few days to kill prior to flying home, and it’s less than a two-hour bus ride west of Bangkok. Kanchanaburi sounded peaceful, and is a popular getaway for backpackers and Thai urbanites. The main activities are dining in the many “floating restaurants” on the river, taking cooking classes, hiking in beautiful Erawan National Park and sightseeing (more on that after the jump).

I ended up meeting two fun Australian girls at my riverfront guesthouse, and we proceeded to spend the next three days together. On our first afternoon, I asked them how they’d ended up in Kanchanaburi, and they told me they were there to visit the JEATH War Museum and pay tribute. I looked at them blankly.

“The what?” I asked. They looked at me with pity, thinking, like millions of Aussies before them, that the American educational system is an abysmal failure (no argument there).

“The Japan, England, America, Australia, Thailand, Holland War Museum,” one of the girls said patiently. “Y’know, it’s dedicated to the thousands of Allied POWs who died while constructing the Bridge and Death Railway from 1942 to 1943.”

Cue crickets chirping.The girls, to their credit, didn’t make fun of me, but instead explained that the JEATH Museum details a tragic episode in Australian (and, to a lesser degree, Kiwi) military history, and it’s something that schoolchildren learn about at a young age. Within the hour, we’d rented bikes and were pedaling through stultifying heat and humidity to the museum.

The JEATH Museum is located at Wat Chai Chumphon temple, and is housed in an exact bamboo replica of a POW sleeping hut. Inside is a horror house of relics, photos, letters, and descriptions of events and forms of torture carried out by the Imperial Japanese Army, as well as depictions of daily life for the POWs. We spent hours there, alternately sickened and fascinated by how 60,000 Allied prisoners and 180,000 Asian laborers were tortured and forced to labor under unspeakable conditions. Sixteen thousand men were worked to death or perished from starvation, dysentery, or other disease.

According to the museum’s website, the photographs on display were taken of “real situations by either Thai’s or POWs. There are also many real accounts written by former POWs, their relatives, friends, and authors that interviewed the many prisoners that suffered at the hands of the Imperial Japanese Army.”

Like the Holocaust and other genocide museums and concentration camp memorial museums, the JEATH museum is testimony to man’s ability to perpetrate atrocities against his fellow man. I suppose it’s also a tribute to man’s ingenuity when it comes to inventing new and exciting ways to torture other humans, as well as a nod to the resilience of the human body and man’s will to live. Ultimately, I believe museums such as this are also about man’s capacity to forgive: we saw visitors of all nationalities at JEATH, including many veterans.

In the days that followed, I grew obsessed by the story of the POWs. I took a ride on the famed Death (also known as the Thai-Burma or Burma) Railway, and visited Hellfire Pass, a cutting through sheer rock that earned its name due to the fatalities its labor incurred. It’s said that by night, the flashlights of toiling POWs resembled a scene from hell.

I’ve since told dozens of people about the museum and the events that occurred in the region during the Second World War. While I’ve obviously met Americans who know about the Bridge and Railway, none have been aware of the POWs and loss of life that occurred. My assumption is that because only 356 Americans died – as compared to over 2,800 Australians – it’s not considered one for our history or schoolbooks. It’s a shame, because despite the tragedy, it’s a part of human history that should be remembered, both in tribute and as a warning.

The JEATH War Museum is open daily from 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. Click here for more information on visiting Kanchanaburi; you can purchase inexpensive bus or mini-van tickets at many guesthouses, backpackers and travel agencies in Bangkok. On a more pleasant note, Kanchanaburi is a lovely town, and the region is definitely worth a visit for its more bucolic charms.

Click here to watch an episode of Gadling’s “Travel Talk” on Kanchanaburi.

[Photo credits: bridge, Flickr user David McKelvey; sign, Wikipedia Commons; train, Flickr user nova031]

Video: ‘No Kitchen Required’ In New Zealand, ‘When Maori Attack’

by Laurel Miller on

Here at Gadling, we’ve been keeping tabs on the new BBC America reality show “No Kitchen Required,” which is taking cooking competitions to new highs (and lows). Battling for fame and glory are award-winning chef Michael Psilakis of New York’s Fish Tag and Kefi; private executive chef Kayne Raymond; and former “Chopped” champ Madison Cowan.

The chefs hunt and gather ingredients to prepare regional cuisine in various locations, including Dominica, Belize, Fiji, Thailand, South Africa, Hawaii, New Mexico and Louisiana. The show is a cross between “Survivor” and “Top Chef,” with a dash of over-the-top, Bear Grylls-style drama thrown in, but it’s all in good fun and provides a fascinating cultural and culinary tour of little known destinations and cuisines.

Here, we have a teaser clip from New Zealand that features the chefs watching a haka, or traditional Maori warrior dance, prior to having the local community judge their respective meals. Here’s hoping they didn’t give anyone food poisoning.


Air New Zealand launches in-flight putting competition

by Kyle Ellison on

You might be able to sink a putt at your local muni course, but can you do it from 30,000 feet?

In a recent release by the New Zealand Herald passengers aboard the A320 airliner traveling between Auckland and Queenstown will have a chance to compete in an in-flight putting competition from the relative safety of cruising altitude. Part of a marketing arrangement to celebrate the airline’s sponsorship of the New Zealand PGA pro-am, the airline has lauded the contest as a world first for in-flight entertainment.

In order to take part in the contest and to be eligible for prizes (which include, amongst other things, flights and accommodation to the final round of the event and a new set of Callaway RAZR clubs), putters must fill out an entry form in the departure lounge and be randomly selected by Air New Zealand flight staff.

Winners of the contest will be notified by March 27. In the meantime, check out the leaderboard to see who has skillfully sunk the longest putt and perfectly played the lie of the high altitude turbulence.

How to sell a campervan in New Zealand

by Kyle Ellison on

As I hope I’ve exhibited in penning the series “Freedom to Roam,” there are few better travel experiences than touring New Zealand by campervan. Trekking through the Southern Alps, exploring hidden wine regions, sampling freshly caught seafood, basking on lazy beaches — all are accessible by simply putting four wheels beneath your feet and hitting the open road.

That being said, all of that goes out the window once it comes time to sell the van. For all the monuments of relaxation, which lay scattered about the country, selling a van in New Zealand can be the most ulcer-inducing, stress-provoking, miserable existence that can surely be the worst part of your trip. It’s the price to pay for the economic gamble, and unlike most fairy tales, it doesn’t always have a happy ending.

As I discussed in the initial entry to the series, “New Zealand by campervan,” travelers can save heaps of money on long-term New Zealand travel by opting to buy and sell a van versus renting one and eating the cost. Potential risks of this option, however, involve buying a van that needs immediate maintenance or, worse yet, the chance that you aren’t able to sell the van before you leave the country.

So after 7,000 kilometers, in which the van transported me from glaciers to rodeos and Murderer’s Bay to Mordor, here’s a look into how the gamble worked out as well as some tips for recreating the adventure. First off, you’re going to have much better luck selling a van in Christchurch than in Auckland. Why? Because there are about 45,000 campervans for sale at any given time in Auckland. The supply far outweighs the demand, and this is terrifying if you are a seller. As a general rule for buying and selling a campervan in New Zealand, buy one in Auckland but sell it in Christchurch. Trust me on this one.

I was not in Christchurch, however, I was in Auckland, and competition was stiff. In a market like this you need to get noticed fast, and you want to make sure your car is clean and in good working order. Luckily, ours was only in need of an oil change. So with new oil, a new filter and $85 later, I was in possession of one more selling point.

Next, you need to find a place to advertise your van.

Option #1: Backpacker’s Car Market, Auckland

Though the name sounds welcoming, be warned. This place can be the most depressing spot on the planet. If you are a seller, seriously, this can be the seventh circle of Hell. Here’s the deal with the Backpacker’s Car Market: As a seller, it’s going to cost you $135 NZD for a spot at the market in which you have three days to sell your car. If it doesn’t sell after three days, time to fork up the cash again.

During our time at the car market there was a lone traveler from Israel named Gabriel who couldn’t sell his van. It was painted the color of an old man’s couch and had about 340,000 kilometers on it. Gabriel was on his 14th straight day of sitting at the market, which is a soul-sucking garage in a sleazy part of town. Needless to say, Gabriel was not in a good mood.

The main problem with the Auckland Backpacker’s Car Market is literally in the name; you are selling to backpackers. Often times this means you are haggling with people with minimal foresight with regards to quality and maximum emphasis is placed on the cost. If the van next to yours is $200 cheaper, they’re going to buy that van. Why? Because, that’s like, a lot of beer, dude.

Furthermore, every day there is a new seller who is on their third day or has a flight in the morning, so they get desperate, drop $1000 or $1500 off of their car and leave the country with something other than a total loss. As you can imagine, it’s tough to compete with these people.

Granted, there are all sorts of travelers who successfully sell their van here, but a room full of money-desperate travelers trying to sell used cars to penniless backpackers is a recipe for misery.

Want a better option? Sell your car at the Backpacker Car Market in Christchurch where you can leave the van for up to six months. Plus, there are only about 12 vans here to choose from, so it’s a seller’s market.

Option #2: Utilize online forums

Just as we have Craigslist here in America, so too does New Zealand have their share of online forums. While TradeMe is the most well known, they require a hefty listing fee as well as a fee for if your van sells. It’s cheaper than the car market, but it’s still an expense. Better bet is to go on Gumtree or Backpacker Board where you can list the van for free and still reach a large number of buyers. This option works best if you have a mobile telephone where buyers can contact you to arrange a meeting.

Option #3: Put flyers at a hostel

This seems like a good idea until you go into an Auckland hostel and add your flyer to a stack of about 100 deep. Similarly, staring down a wall that is plastered in flyers for vans that are exactly the same or cheaper than yours can be another depressing realization. Nevertheless, you still have to try…

Option #4: Sell it to a dealer

For those who have entered desperation mode there are a fair amount of dealerships willing to give you pennies on the dollar for what you paid. This is a last resort as you won’t get more than a few hundred dollars, but it beats taking a total loss. Still, not recommended.

Option #5: Good old fashioned ‘For Sale’ sign

This, it seems, is almost clichéd. It’s just too easy. Put a sign up on your car and go about your daily life. What an incredible concept! There’s no way that can actually work though, right?

Wrong. Of both the campervans I’ve ever sold in New Zealand (2007 and 2012), this is the method through which I sold both vans. Once, while parked outside the Fat Camel hostel in downtown Auckland, and this current time, while sleeping at a holiday park on the outskirts of town.

So after nearly a week of haggling at the car market, printing dozens of fliers, visiting every hostel in Auckland, putting write-ups on every message board and getting jerked around repeatedly by a penny-pinching German named Johan, I was at wits end and beside myself with the frustrations of being unable to offload a perfectly good van and recoup some of the money I barely had in the first place.

Just when all seemed lost and this gamble was going south, an unexpected voice with a decidedly British accent disrupted me from a vigorous writing session inside the television room of the crowded campground.

“Are you Kyle? The one with the van for sale in camp number 13?”

“Why yes. Yes I am. Why don’t we step outside and chat.”

—

This concludes blogger Kyle Ellison’s series “Freedom To Roam,” the tales of an epic eight weeks spent embedded in a New Zealand campervan. After the worst week of his life spent failing to sell his van, he finally lucked out on a deal for $3400 to an affable British couple who he wishes nothing but the best in their travels. So what was the final overall cost for a campervan for eight weeks in New Zealand? $300. Was it a gamble? Sure. But when you’re an international vagabond, sometimes that’s just how you have to roll.