A Kiwi A Day
January 29
The "Direct Kiwi" slowed to a crawl as we entered the Tauranga harbor. I raced up the stairs and ladders to the flying bridge, where the other passengers already waited with their cameras and binoculars.
Tauranga
In retrospect, I probably should've brought my sunblock. But it didn't occur to me that the last five miles would mean an hour in the sun until Fred said we were going 5 mph.
The crew was decked out in uniforms and jumpsuits. Our idiosyncratic Captain wore shorts. The Chief Officer didn't look at all like a Giggles in his gold stripes and white clothes.
New Zealand is always beautiful, but more so when you've stared at the waves for 14 days and are starved for a change of scenery. We waved at passing sailboats and admired the small mountainous islands around Tauranga.
An orange speedboat circled around and pulled up alongside us, dropping off a pilot. The pilot knew the harbor and it was his job to safely guide us to shore. As we got closer to the berth, two tugboats latched on, to help with maneuvering. The Captain and Chief Mate pushed, pulled, and steered various knobs and levers and we coasted slowly to the dock, sideways.
Our tugboat
Our crew, down on deck, had unwound enormous ropes off of steel spools. They tossed the ropes to the New Zealand dockhands, who tied the ship up firmly. The giant cranes got to work unloading containers and the gangway went down.
We had to wait a little while for Customs officials, but finally I took a taxi into town in the late afternoon. I was armed with a "to do" list and took some stuff along to send home. I was lucky we were behind schedule. If we had arrived on time, my one day in port would have been a Sunday, and I could not have accomplished anything.
New Zealand turned out to be closed for a national holiday. Damn.
McDonald's, Burger King, the cinema, and the internet cafe were open. I made use of three of the four of them, catching a five o'clock showing of "Charlie's Angels." I spent some time on the phone with my Kiwi friend Lochie, last seen in "Southeast Asia on a Hamstring." I got great pleasure out of chatting with locals.
"Where are you from?" someone would ask.
"New York," I'd respond.
"How long are you here for?"
"About six hours."
(pause)
"Are you on a cruise ship then?"
"No, a freighter."
"Isn't that dangerous with all those sailors?" I'd brag to them that is was not just safe, but was really pleasant. I didn't mention the tremendous ego boost I was getting from all the on-board attention.
Shore leave ended at nine, so after spending my local currency, I walked back to the ship. The crew returned at nine on the dot, chauffeured to the dock in a minivan with a flashing orange light. They had been at the seaman's club, where they could buy snacks, make international phone calls, and use free e-mail.
I was happy to be back on board. The "Direct Kiwi" was starting to feel like home, and I told the Second Engineer this.
"Mare-ee," said Oleg as if I were the silly rabbit in a Trix cereal commercial, "ship is not home. Ship is prison."
January 30
We had lost four passengers in Tauranga, and taken on two new ones. They were nice, but I was tired. Tired of meeting new people, tired of asking the obligatory background questions and tired of explaining my trip.
This didn't bode well for the next eleven months. I needed to figure out a way to deal with my anti-social tendencies. I'd be doing a lot of interacting with strangers.
But not today. I slept, recovering from my dual on-board life. I had been keeping up with both passengers and crew, on two separate schedules in two different subcultures.
The after dinner card games were not the same without our old pals, and we ended early. I wandered into the video room and was treated to "Senseless," dubbed into Russian. Afterwards, the crew told me a funny story about their last visit to Mexico.
They had been hungry, and saw a sign for burritos. What were burritos? They weren't sure. They went in and politely inquired.
"Excuse me, what is a burrito?" One of the Russians asked the cashier.
Of course this led to complete mockery and the entire restaurant got in on teasing them. Everyone -- customers and staff -- was laughing, and only Vole, the Estonian electrician, had the nerve to try an exotic burrito.
Electrician in natural habitat
January 31
Dinner was deep-fried "spring rolls." Basically, the greasy filling contained overcooked cabbage and little wads of beef. Disgusting, really, but it was unique. We hadn't been served spring rolls on board before. Apparently, neither had the crew. When they were served, Vole made an announcement.
"This," he declared confidently, "is a burrito."
February 1
The Chief Engineer's running joke was that I should take a Russian crew member with me around the world, because it was dangerous to travel alone and only a Russian wouldn't have to worry about obtaining an elusive Russian visa. He had offered me the crew manifest like a menu, saying that I should choose one and he'd order them along with me.
Unfortunately, my choice candidate for sherpa and escort, the young Oleg, ruined the joke with a single declaration.
"It is impossible. American passport is like Gold Visa card. Russians can go nowhere."
The only way my Russian friends could travel was as part of a crew, with the guarantee and backing of a reputable shipping company. Individually, they were stuck. Maybe if they were really lucky and tried hard, they could score a visa to Estonia or Finland. But unless they were married and had a wife and child back in Russia, a tourist visa to any other country was hard to obtain, even for working professionals with good incomes. It was impossible for a family to take an international vacation together.
No Grand Canyon. No Louvre. No Tower of London and no Taj Mahal. I mulled this over, trying to imagine being restricted on the basis of the economy of my home country.
I hadn't really appreciated the value of my "Gold Visa card" before. Maybe this would stop me from complaining that my American passport made me a potential target for terrorists.
February 2
We were pulling into Melbourne sometime before midnight and I was leaving the ship on the morning of the 3rd. Evgeny and Vole decided that a small good-bye party was in order.
Marie and Estonians
I was a bit apprehensive. A small party with just me and a few Russian guys? Sounded like an average night in the Officers Rec Room.
I spent the day packing and repacking, trying to understand spatial relations and laws of physics, and why so many super-light items felt like rocks. I went to the bow and leaned way over the tip of the ship, enjoying the breeze and sun. I was trying not to get too pensive and depressed over leaving the Direct Kiwi. There would be plenty of time for regrets later.
I walked back towards my cabin, where the sound of cascading waves was replaced by the ever-present vibrating hum of the engine I knew so well. A movement in the waves caught my eye.
Dolphins! They were jumping out of the sea and having what looked like a lot of fun. Finally, I had seen some sealife. The only sealife I'd seen previously had been one smashed flying fish that had zigged when he should have zagged, ending up crushed like a bug by the swimming pool.
The party was canceled when our arrival at Melbourne coincided with party time. A rather anti-climatic end to my freighter voyage, but the city skyline, behind the cranes and freighters of the shipyard, was dramatic enough. Some of us went up to "Monkey Island," the flying bridge, and watched our ship draw closer and closer to the city that appeared to rise out of the waves.
Melbourne
"It's like the Emerald City," I told Oleg, who had materialized on Monkey Island for a rare night off.
He looked at me blankly.
"Don't you have The Wizard of Oz in Russia?" I asked incredulously.
"No," he said. "But we have something similar, a book called The Magic of Oz, and it has a green palace in it. There is a girl and a little dog, and a metal man who wants a heart, and a lion."
I couldn't help laughing. He laughed a little, not sure what I found so funny.
Marie and Oleg up on Monkey Island
February 3
The other passengers left for their day in Melbourne. They were all continuing on with the Direct Kiwi and had to be back on the ship by midnight. I straggled behind to finish packing, and a minibus came to fetch me at ten.
I hugged the Captain and shook my cabin steward's hand. The cook gave me his phone number in Estonia in case my trip took my to Tallinn. Oleg informed me that for weeks the crew had been referring to me as "Masha," the Russian version of Marie. They hadn't done it charitably -- it was so they could talk about me without my noticing. "There goes Masha." "Masha is wearing the green shorts." "Masha is losing at ping-pong again." I couldn't blame them for not telling me earlier, but nevertheless, I was pleased to have a Russian name.
I took a few snapshots and loaded my monstrous backpack into the minibus. I looked up at the Direct Kiwi. Everyone was at his station working.
My plan of attack was simple: take the minibus to the front gate. There, I'd call a taxi. I had no Australian currency to pay the fare, so I'd have to ask the taxi to first drive me to an ATM, and then to the Flinders Street commuter train station to store my bag in a locker while I hunted for accommodation.
My original thought had been to go to Spencer Street Station, the big long-distance train station. The long-distance station would have a better chance of containing lockers. But then Terry, one of the other passengers, told me that Flinders Street Station had lockers as well. I decided to go there - it was closer to most of the hotels.
The minibus driver, perhaps feeling charitable or perhaps having been asked to treat me well by the Captain, took it upon himself to drive me all the way to the Spencer Street train station. For free.
"We take very important passengers to their destinations. Will you settle for the Spencer Street Station? It's closer."
Of course I settled, and later found out that there were barely any lockers at Flinders Street. There was even an ATM that accepted my Citibank card.
It was an auspicious beginning to a day-long good luck streak.
After storing my bag, I picked up some hotel brochures. The first few hotels I called (picked out of my guidebook) were full, and I started to get a little apprehensive. Perhaps showing up in Melbourne on a weekend in mid-summer was not the most clever thing I had done. Might I have to pay a mid-range price because all the budget accommodations were chock full of students and backpackers?
One of the brochures was for the Kingsgate Hotel, a mid-range hotel located a block away. I walked over, passing the "Stella Maris Seafarer's Centre" on the way.
Could that be the legendary seamen's club? I wasn't sure. What else could it be, I thought. But Melbourne is not a small town -- it's a city of 3 million, so the odds of my stumbling onto the seamen's club during my first ten minutes in town were pretty slim.
The Direct Kiwi crew usually makes their trip to the seamen's club in the evening, after dinner. I'd check back then.
The Kingsgate was full, but they had a few budget rooms left. For forty Australian dollars (22 USD), I could have a private room with a shared bathroom. It was a hot little room, but was clean and safe. I paid for two nights and went out for my first taste of Australia.
Melbourne
Melbourne is a clean city, with well-ordered streets and a lot of trees. I spent the day in the downtown Central Business District, taking refuge in the many shopping malls whenever the unforgiving summer sun got too intolerable. The entire city seemed to close at five, so I tracked down dinner and timidly went to the Stella Maris Centre.
"May I help you?" asked the man at the door. I didn't look much like a seaman.
I told him that I'd just been a passenger on the Direct Kiwi.
"Your crew just got here. C'mon in."
I took great pleasure in watching the crew's faces as they registered that Masha had just bounded up the stairs.
The center was one entire floor of a building. In the front were telephone booths for making international calls, and a small store. On one side, a hallway led to the accommodations. The back room featured a bar, dining area, six computer terminals, and lounges. The rec room contained ping-pong tables and pool tables.
Vole and Evgeny and I had our "party," but it wasn't much of one. They had some beer and played pool, and then left me giving e-mail lessons to three of the four engineering officers. Everyone signed up for Hotmail, and e-mailed each other, then walking over to the other's computer terminal to make sure the e-mail had come through.
The Stella Maris staff welcomed me like I was a full crew member. They invited me to stay in one of the simple but modern rooms they rent to sailors. Bathrooms were en suite. Unfortunately, I had already paid the Kingsgate. The staff also suggested that I could go to other Stella Maris centers in Australia, as long as I mentioned I'd just been on the Direct Kiwi. I wondered if I'd have the nerve.
The crew disbanded, as the Captain and Chief Engineer returned to the ship, and the others split between going to the Melbourne Casino and staying with me. Oleg helped the Junior Engineer with his internet tasks, and then we too headed towards the "Crown," the area of Melbourne that featured a pleasant waterfront, stores, and restaurants, and the aforementioned casino. I ordered some Japanese takeaway food for both of us, and we ate it by the river. It felt like I was back in the States, on a first date. As long as I didn't think too much about tomorrow, that is, when I'd be all alone and my limited Russian vocabulary would become useless.
NEXT: Melbourne, Adelaide, Survival in the Outback, and some really long bus rides.