Haast and Beyond

There are few places on earth that would make Earlville, New York seem cosmopolitan and chic by comparison.  Suburban Sarajevo, maybe, or a Bedouin village in Western Sahara.  When I pulled out of Queenstown this morning, it was with every intention to drive the few hours to Haast on the west coast of the South Island.  It was marked just as prominently as Christchurch and Wellington on my map, so you can imagine my surprise when I showed up in Haast to find that, in fact, there was no Haast at all.

I pulled over to a dusty public restroom and bulletin board by the side of the road and asked another parked traveler where town was.  "I think we're in it, mate," he said disappointedly.  Haast has four streets.  Four.  And one of them's a dead end.  Rest stops in New Jersey have a larger population than Haast.  My new roadside friend and I went into the only cafe to ask for a map, and the woman behind the counter sort of just rolled her eyes and asked, "What are you looking for?"  Two hours later I was in the town of Franz Josef.

Franz Josef, by comparison, is terrific.  I'm in an RV park for the next three days, and I have my ascent of the Franz Josef glacier planned for Friday.  I've been told by pretty much everyone in this country that I can't leave New Zealand without doing it, so that's more or less the big news around here.  I'm online here inside a converted 1960's bus.  No joke.  They've stripped the seats and put computer terminals in.  I may check my e-mail a lot while I'm here simply because the novelty of sitting in a rusted-out bus and typing away hasn't worn off yet.  It's like a cross between Miss Frizzle and the Grateful Dead in here.

Hope you're all enjoying your Fourth of July celebrations back home.  Talk to you soon from the magic school bus.