Home on the 3,000 Acre Range

    Four days ago, Simon, Kellogg, Luise, Dardan and I arrived in the city of Gisborne, which is located on the southeast coast of the north island.  We checked into a hostel called the Flying Nun, which we thought to be no more than a catchy name, if not a bit silly, until we were informed by the innkeeper that the place was in fact an old nun convent that had been converted into a lodge to accommodate backpackers.  Given this information, we were a bit surprised that we hadn't deduced it for ourselves, as the resemblance of the old building to what one might imagine a nunnery to look like was quite striking.  The building looked well and truly ancient from the outside, featuring a mural of a spritely looking nun gazing down upon the main entrance of the building, as well as a holy cross at its apex.  Walking around inside, we quickly discovered that hardly anything at all had been done to the building during its so called "conversion."  The bathrooms only featured signs reading "ladies," as nunneries are of course rarely ever home to a guy, and there were hardly any modern appliances to speak of.  By no means did this surprise us, and we thought of posting up in such a place for a night as quite a new and enjoyable experience.
    We only stayed in the hostel for one night, though while we were there we met about a hundred travelers hailing from South America.  They were a loud and lively bunch, and at no point throughout the night did silence ever break the friendly conversation being made in Spanish echoing throughout the hallways.  We did our best to keep up with them, putting to use our very limited Spanish ability, but we did little else that day other than repeatedly try to get in touch with our new WWOOFing host and make arrangements for where and when we might meet her.  We succeeded on about the fifth or sixth call, and she told us she'd meet up with us the next afternoon after she was finished with her violin lesson.
    We met her the next day at a designated spot on the main road that we all knew well enough, and we were a bit surprised at what we saw.  Her name is Angela, and she is seventy years old...which might not sound all that unusual until you consider the fact that she manages a 3,000 acre farm all by herself.  That proved to be nothing, though, next to her ability with a chainsaw that we would witness the next day.  But I get ahead of myself.  Angela very graciously lead us up the gravel road to her farm, our grossly overloaded Honda wagon limping along behind.  We found the farmhouse to be a very, very old one, but that just made it feel all the more warm and cozy (especially at the wonderful price of zero dollars a day, assuming you can keep up with your work).  Like the hostel before, the farmhouse featured very little recent work that had been done to it, and even less evidence of modern technology.  In fact, I think I would feel comfortable in saying there is no technology at the farmhouse...and when I say no technology, I mean it.  In the mornings before you shower, for example, you have to stoke a fire to heat the water if you want your shower to be warm, for there is no self-sufficient heating system within the house's plumbing.  All of the furniture within the farmhouse is broken and caving in on itself, and my bed is no more than a simple pallet on the floor in the corner of a room that I share with Kellogg and Simon.  Few of the rooms have light or electricity, and our own room features only a lonely lamp hanging from a cord in the center of the ceiling, with no power outlets to speak of anywhere.  But, surprise surprise, the house affords marvelous views of the beautiful New Zealand landscape on all sides, and, like everywhere else we've been to so far, the bird denizens of the forest can be heard singing their sweet songs at all hours of the day and night.  Here are a few pictures that were all taken from the front yard of the house:

And here is a picture of the farmhouse itself:

    The work we have been doing since we arrived has been incredibly fatiguing; mostly, we've been walking up and down ridiculously steep hills to collect dead and dying brush, pile it up in massive stacks, and set them alight.  We've also been collecting all the firewood we can, as wood is obviously at a premium in a house where you need it to keep your water and yourself warm.
    Unfortunately, the Gisborne library where I sit and write this is closing in a matter of minutes, so I will likewise have to close here for now and update the blog again when I next have the chance.  Needless to say, there is no internet or cell phone service to be had at the farm, so whenever I can get back into town I will write again.  Farewell for now, and thanks as always for reading!

Your tired friend,
Jack