Too blue, too green, too lush, too clean

Two things happen simultaneously when you travel: you discover a  new place, and you discover something about yourself. The first is the stuff of travelogues, packed with adjectives (verdant, pristine) and descriptive shortcuts (It’s like The Lord of the Rings!); you know that National Geographic/Discovery Channel/Lonely Planet have been there before you. The second is an expedition into largely uncharted territory: yourself. You are in unfamiliar surroundings, among strangers; your comfortable assumptions do not operate here. We could argue that this is the natural, stripped-down, real version of you. Meet yourself. A mildly terrifying prospect, if you think about it: What if you don’t like you?

The other week I learned that I am a complete moron in the outdoors, that there are places in the world where no one’s heard of Manny Pacquiao, and 25 years is too short a time not to hear the ’80s pop hit Der Kommissar. I learned that walking barefoot on stones is painful, where a handbrake is, and how to take a shower, shampoo, and apply conditioner in under ten minutes. I also confirmed my long-held suspicion that if you go to a dance club and the first song you hear is It’s Raining Men, you are in for a night of horror.

Oh and I went to New Zealand. About two dozen print and TV journalists from Southeast Asia, including four Filipinos, were invited to Kiwiland by Zespri, the kiwifruit company. Kiwifruit is that country’s biggest horticultural export and Zespri, which is fully owned by the kiwifruit growers, is its leading global marketer.  Southeast Asia is one of the fastest-growing markets for the fruit; Zespri products are now widely available in the Philippines. Kiwifruit is not only vital to the New Zealand economy, but it’s so closely attached to the idea of Kiwi-hood (the people call themselves Kiwis) that the best way to understand the fruit is to see the country.

By the way, Zespri is a computer-generated name. It was not originally intended as an anagram for “Prizes,” but that works, too.

For five days we toured kiwi orchards, watched presentations on horticulture and nutrition, and engaged in sporting activities. Because when the concepts “horticulture,” “nutrition,” and “sports” (besides tennis) come up, everyone says, “Let’s send the nerd who lives in the bookstore.”

We ate many wonderful meals in fabulous restaurants, knocked back many excellent bottles of wine, went up a mountain, sailed around a lake, and jumped off a building. All the stuff I’d managed to avoid doing back home, I had to cram in a few days. It was like therapy, only fun.

The beginning was not promising. After a ten-hour flight from Hong Kong made bearable by repeat viewings of 30 Rock, I landed at Auckland airport with a massive headache. Half-conscious, I staggered after my companions through the immigration counter, the baggage claim, and the biosecurity check. Our bags were X-rayed to ensure that we weren’t bringing alien organisms into New Zealand’s environment. Now I have these brilliant yellow luggage tags that say “That’s mine!” on one side and “Not yours!” on the other. When I tried to get my bags from the X-ray machine the technician said, “That’s not yours.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

In my zombie state it took me a full minute to get the joke.

Our hosts/minders Daniel, Marion, and the fabulous, tireless Jenny herded all two dozen of us onto a large tour bus. We were going to take a three-hour drive to Tauranga, where we would check into the Sebel Hotel on Trinity Wharf. Just before I lost consciousness I realized why the airport has a strict biosecurity check: New Zealand is gorgeous. The highways are lined with dense vegetation, it’s green everywhere you look—an intense green that smacks you in the eye. Maybe the green looks greener because the air is so clean—already my lungs were drowning in oxygen.

I woke up an hour and a half later when the bus made a pit stop. The restroom was in a park that used to be a mine—a river ran through it, and up ahead loomed mountains and forests. It was ridiculous: even the restroom had a view.

Another half-hour later we stopped at a bar for snacks. Here I became acquainted with a custom strange to Manila’s mallrats: Restaurants only serve food during mealtimes. The kindly proprietor explained that the kitchen was closed, but they could serve coffee, cold drinks, and whip up some chips (potato wedges, skins, fries). While we waited for the chips we toured the in-house museum of someone’s Easy Rider days: a collection of vintage motorcycles.

“Stores generally close at five,” explained our driver Paul, who knows everything. “This way people have time to hang out with their families, take their wives to dinner, or go surfing.”

“Oh, human beings,” I said.

“I’ve taken an instant dislike to you,” said Paul. This is always the basis of a great friendship. Later we agreed that we should hit the sleazy bars where I would insult people, and he would punch them in the face.

At 5:30 we checked into the Sebel Trinity Wharf. I skipped dinner at Mount Bistro, a decision I regretted when I heard the descriptions of the meal. But my headaches come with a body count, and it was best to lock myself up. The New Zealand papers might’ve had a more riveting headline than the one that played for most of the week: public outrage over the fact that a judge who had keyed the car parked in his designated space was let off the hook. He keyed a car. In his space.

The next day we visited orchards and got a crash course on the kiwifruit. In sum, you should eat kiwifruit every day because it contains nearly twice the vitamin C in an orange; vitamin E and antioxidants to protect your body from free radicals; more potassium than a banana (Tennis players should eat kiwifruit between sets; less danger of choking); more folate than three peaches; and as much fiber as a bowl of breakfast cereal. It also has the highest concentration of lutein in fruits for good vision, and a low glycaemic index to help weight control. Kiwifruit is the new apple.

Ironically after all that kiwifruit goodness, we had the one blah meal of the trip, and it wasn’t really the restaurant’s fault. New Zealand has a population of four million, which is roughly the number of people who visit SM Megamall on a weekend. The restaurant had one cook and one waitress, which suffices for a three-Starbucks place like Tauranga. Imagine two dozen Asians arriving for dinner. Chaos ensues.

When traveling I have the annoying habit of asking people about the Philippines. This is because I believe the Philippines is the capital of earth. (Oddly, when I am home I complain incessantly. I must be schizophrenic.) “What do you guys know about the Philippines?”

“Um. . .World War II,” said Steve from Zespri. Steve is the kind of guy you take to immediately; within two minutes you’re smacking him around.

“And Imelda Marcos, I suppose.”

“Is that the lady with the shoes?”

“But you’ve heard of Manny Pacquiao, right?” That drew a blank.

“Pacman, only the greatest boxer ever, champion in seven weight

divisions?”

“So he’s huge?”

“No, he was tiny! Started out at 90 pounds, worked his way up.”

“We’re not very big on boxing,” Steve said. It’s true that rugby and cricket are on TV nearly 24 hours a day, but no boxing. In any case we all agreed that Steve must come to Manila posthaste, watch Pac-Man, in concert, and eat duck fetus from the shell (balut).

Arguably the most spectacular dinner we had in New Zealand was at Peppers on the Point on the shores of Lake Rotorua. Peppers perfectly illustrates my problem with New Zealand: You can aim your camera anywhere, click at random, and the shot will be beautiful. The water and the sky will be too blue, the leaves too green, the flowers too flowery, the air too airy. It makes you feel like your regular life in our 21st century megalopolis is that of a rat in a crowded maze.

My one consolation is that it’s too tranquil, and tranquility makes me bonkers. I feel like the voices in my head are talking to the voices in your head, and they’re up to no good.

At 6 p.m. champagne and sushi were served in the chapel overlooking Mokoia island, and then the guests wandered through the grounds. You can pet the Shetland ponies and alpacas in the paddock, or watch the sunset over the crystalline waters. This is a very dangerous place for a date: you will end up proposing because you wouldn’t want to waste such a pretty view. Then you have the four-course meal: creamed pumpkin, snapper carpaccio, roast beef, spiced Manuka honey pannacotta, and you decide you might as well get married because how can it get better than this?

The Pinot from the Peppers cellar was so good, I drank too fast and had to get some air. I went outside to clear my head and was promptly joined by a big, shiny black cat, probably kiwi-fed. I think my cats had sent out a telepathic broadcast to all cats to check on me. The maitre d’ walked by and asked, “Are you expecting company?”

I said, “George Clooney?”

He said, “We all wish.”

Speaking of Clooney, we in the Filipino group realized something vital on the third day: all the Kiwi guys we had seen were good-looking. Either the tour organizers had vetted everyone on our route, or the healthy environment, good food and outdoorsy life produces only fine specimens. For instance our host/shepherd Daniel has the Hubbell thing going; I wanted to say, “Please slather on SPF 70 sunblock, you know what happened to Robert Redford.”

At the off-road safari place I noticed the guy who was washing the windows and thought, “Wow, all the guys in New Zealand are cute, look at that one. They must’ve hidden away. . .the rest.”

Thirty seconds later Anna said, “Wow, all the guys in New Zealand are cute, look at that one. They must’ve hidden away. . .the rest.”

It’s freaky when you hear your thoughts expressed in someone else’s voice. But New Zealand is that peaceful.

Next: Sailing, luge, off-road driving, sky-jumping; all of which I’d rather do than cooking.

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The Sebel Trinity Wharf is at 51 Dive Crescent, Tauranga, telephone +64 7 577 8700; www.mirvachotels.com.

Peppers on the Point is at 214 Kawaha Point Road, Rotorua, telephone +64 7 348 4868; www.peppers.co.nz/on-the-point.

For more information on kiwifruit, visit http://www.zespri.com/zespri-health.html.