The Munich Surfers

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Image: wikimedia

Image: wikimedia

Nestled in the heart of Bavaria, Munich is synonymous with Oktoberfest and Lederhosen. Located over 600km from the nearest beach, most residents have never even seen the sea, let alone surfed in it. Yet in the midst of the city’s English garden a group of wetsuit clad rebels defy all expectations and city swimming regulations. Kitted out with top end boards, they pose atop the crest before clambering up the banks to ride their artificial wave again and again. They do so in full view of the ‘Swimming Is Forbidden’ sign, an irony for Germany where signs are to be obeyed. This is the Eisbach wave.

This river wave has the kind of cult following that just keeps people coming back. Created by a weir as water flows under the bridge, the 1m high wall of water resembles a river rapid. The wave has attracted surfers since the early 1970s, but in 2000 several planks of wood were suspended underwater in order to make the wave more consistent. These days it is surfed day and night, giving riders ample time to perfect their tricks. Surfers as young as 13 strut their stuff, manouevering their boards back and forth across the turbulent surface and posing for the tourist paparazzi.

Wolfrick Fischer has been surfing the Munich wave since the 1970s. He started coming as a 15 year old, mentored by older surfers and now, after a long break, is back to do the same. The river is like a magnet, attracting surfers at all hours throughout the year, and he has succumbed to its pull.

Fischer sees river surfing as more closely related to skateboarding and snowboarding than its more natural partner, ocean surfing. With limited space, surfers must plan with the precision of choreographers, deciding advance what moves they will try out. Often ocean surfers are surprised by the complexity of surfing this wave, a phenomenon professional surfer Yoyo Terhorst knows all too well. A local, Terhorst always wanted to surf and as a child he saved all his pocket money to buy a board. Now, after many hours of practice on the Eisbach wave, he surfs internationally alongside such names as Paul Grey and Kelly Slater. Slater himself has visited the river surfing community and tried out the Germans’ pride and joy.

Terhorst always warns his friends that river surfing is in 3D, while ocean surfing is in 4D: Here on the Eisbach the wave stays still and you move, while in the sea you move but also have the fluid wave to contend with, adding another dimension. The hidden rocks below the surface and shallow water also add a dimension of danger to the river, one that never fails to get Terhorst’s adrenaline pumping. Although no surfers have ever died, several kneecaps and spines have succumbed to the underwater hazards.

While the Eisbach is the most famous surfing spot in the city, there are actually two other rivers in Munich where surfers congregate. The Floßlände wave is much smaller than the Eisbach specimen, making it popular with beginners, while the Wittelsbacherbrücke is only surfable after heavy rain. With over 700 people now involved in the sport in the city, it is not uncommon to see someone boarding the underground wearing a wetsuit, surfboard in tow. Chances are they are not one of the many young Brits in Munich for a stag party, but a serious sportsman off to partake in some fluid meditation. It turns out there really is more to Munich than beer and Lederhosen after all.

Image: wikimedia

Image: wikimedia

The Eisbach wave is near Haus der Kunst in the English Gardens. Take tram 17 to the Nationalmuseum and walk to the bridge.

 

 

A Funny Looking Sheep…

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llama back

As far as mountain ranges go, the Kaikoura ranges do not really compare to the massive Andes of South America when it comes to height or scale. When it comes to long-necked furry mammals though, it is another story. Last weekend we headed north to explore the coast and to experience the new tourist phenomenon that is llama trekking.

First up, a clarification: ‘You Do Not Ride Llama!’ as the brochure loudly exclaims. Instead, you walk alongside the animal, gazing into its large black eyes and hoping that it doesn’t decide to spit in your general direction. First, though, you need to pen the creatures so they can be haltered up. That was an interesting way to start the morning, chasing llamas round a muddy paddock. Since moving down here I have invested in a pair of good quality gumboots, and in this situation they really came into their own.

Next it was time to get to know our charges, and for them to get to know us. Each llama has a distinct personality, which was evident from the outset. Just like the seven dwarves, there was the slow one, the grumpy one, the eager one. Carlos and Rocky were the best of friends, so naturally they had to walk side by side. We took them by the halter, and headed off for the grassy verge of the highway, into the late morning light.

Being llama novices, we opted for a flat and easy hour-long taster rather than a half-day trek or an overnight mission. As it turned out, they were very pleasant exercise companions, stopping for a chomp of grass every now and then, but otherwise peering quite happily over our shoulders at the mountainous terrain and posing for the obligatory llama selfies. While riding is out, you can put any important documents in the satchel bags on the animals’ flanks to get ‘llaminated’ (this is a great activity for families, because the opportunities for ‘dad jokes’ are endless).

Llamas in Auckland are about as rare as lapdogs at the Brown Pub, so the opportunity to make friends with what looks like a long-necked sheep was rather novel, and not to be passed up. In fact it was a friend from the city who tipped me off the activity in the first place. Of course I booked right away. In short, we paid good money to take someone else’s llamas for their daily exercise. And we had a lovely time.

A Taste of the South

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Repres - Antarctic

What does Antarctica taste like? Well, literally it is cold and icy, and tastes best in the midst of a good single malt. For those of us who spend our lives in lower latitudes, there is still a way to enjoy a taste of the South without investing in schemes to tow icebergs up into the Sydney Harbour first. Instead, we can turn to the rations boxes of early explorers and flick through their recipes from the comfort of our own homes. Penguin and seal may be off the menu these days, but it is still possible to give your tastebuds a southern sensation akin to that enjoyed by Scott and Shackleton some 100 years ago.

These days those who work at Antarctic research stations enjoy the same diet as those of us back home, bar the ‘freshies’ such as fruit and milk, which come in frozen or powdered forms…

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Aussie Aussie Aussie, Sheep Sheep Sheep

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shrek

We recently had an Australian couch surfer come to stay on our lounge suite. He came for the snow and a small taste of the rural, but in light of the gale force winds he was starved of the former and gorged at a buffet of small town NZ until he was full to bursting.

First up, we took him for a pint at The Blue. On a Wednesday night, the pub was not its usual bustling self, but we assured our guest that on special occasions, like the speed shearing competition, both our local landmarks pack out. The mention of sheep shearing was innocent enough, but apparently the trend has yet to hit the hip new nightclubs of Brisbane. Eyebrows were raised.

The next day I sent him off for a wander through the town, marking such highlights as ‘The Garden of Harmony’ and the ploughing sculpture on a map. They were nice enough, but it was the sheep in our neighbour’s garden that had him raving. ‘It’s a pet,’ I explained, ‘until it becomes dinner.’ Living in an apartment 12 stories up, a hamster was the best our visitor could manage back home, and his hamster was definitely not named ‘snack’.

Next it was time to get outdoors for a stretch and some scenery with a gradient. On our hike up Awa Awa Rata our Aussie was initially cautious as I strode ahead. ‘Back home you’d definitely be on the look out for snakes in this terrain’ he told me. Not here, though. The wasps of summer were nowhere to be seen, and the dearth of venomous creepy crawlies made all manner of cross-country manoeuvres possible. He started to relax. ‘I could get used to this’ he told me as we descended towards the car park. Then, as we drove past paddocks of livestock and over the RDR, he snapped a few photos and offered to make dinner. 

Post meal, when I asked our Aussie about his impressions of Mid Canterbury he went quiet for a moment before offering his response: ‘I never thought that all the sheep clichés were true before I came here.’ In light of his reply, I’m not quite sure what to make of the fact that he cooked us a lamb curry for dinner that evening…

The next day our guest departed Methven, bound for Queenstown, culture, and the slopes of the south. Or so he thought. What he’ll make of the Shrek museum in Tarras is anyone’s guess…

Originally Published in The Ashburton Guardian

On Socks and Togs

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Mum recently came down from Auckland for a winter holiday, suitcase of thermals in tow. Following her frigid experience over Christmas, and having equated pictures of the ski field with out back yard, she was prepared for a real polar blast.  There were skivvies and long johns galore, gloves, slippers and a possum hat – and one pair of socks.

Small and unassuming, those monogamous stalwarts of the wardrobe are often overlooked. Not to worry, a visit to the store soon turned up a pair of magnificently fluffy socks, ‘complete with a tog rating of 2.5’. A tog rating? Yes, tog – the garish label was most insistent. Despite our initial incredulity about this supposed SI unit, we were sold on entertainment value alone.

As for the validity of the claim, our Scottish friend was quick to put us right: tog is a measure of thermal insulation, often used to indicate how well a duvet retains the warmth. In Scotland, where insulation is not a foreign concept, people pay attention to such details.  (They also double glaze their windows and shy away from building single ply weatherboard houses, but that’s another story…) This new definition of ‘tog’ was duly filed away for future trivia nights.

We had a different take on the ‘tog’: up in the North Island, where even July is balmy, togs are for swimming. We did stop off at the hot pools to give our swimsuits their moment in the limelight, but it was the newly discovered type of tog that had us in its grip. There was only one thing for it – we had to pay a visit to the sock factory in Ashburton to find out more. To get any closer to the source of the knitted footwear that graces stores throughout New Zealand, you’d have to head out into the paddock and tackle a sheep.

The local sock factory is something special. Socks of all colours and styles abound, from brightly coloured technical ski socks through to premium dress socks that would look at home on the red carpet of a world premiere – and they were all toasty warm. Mum’s frosty feet had never had so much choice. Neither had Santa Claus – my sisters don’t know it yet, but St Nick is now well stocked up, and their stockings are likely to be filled with stockings for years to come. As for us, we all headed out to the Sunday night quiz togged up in our glad rags and sporting brand new snuggly socks.

For socks that have walked right the way across Spain and carried Ironman racers over the finish line, the trip back to Auckland safely stowed away in the hand luggage compartment must have seemed quite tame. Still, mum’s new socks can bask in the knowledge that not only are they providing a valuable heat retaining service for the extremities, but the story that led to their purchase might one day mean the difference between 3rd and 4th place in a local pub quiz. That’s some power, alright.

Originally Published in The Ashburton Guardian

Big Things a Small Town Thing

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Screen shot 2014-07-19 at 12.29.04 PM

Let’s face it – anyone who claims ‘size doesn’t matter’ has never been on a tour of New Zealand’s small towns or taken the time to appreciate the presence that a 10m high fish can bestow on the gateway to a district. NZ has a penchant for oversize sculptures; there is even a Wikipedia page dedicated ever so eloquently to ‘New Zealand’s Big Things.’ This week’s unveiling of the new NZ Post stamp collection confirms this obsession, with said sculptures taking pride of place in the ‘Legendary Landmarks’ collection. Mid Canterbury has not been forgotten, as the Rakaia Salmon enjoys pride of place on an 80c stamp.

The salmon is indeed a well-known symbol of Rakaia – perhaps the most well known, even. Forget any other logistical claims to fame (longest bridge, anyone?) – the fish is photogenic, and in an age governed by the law of ‘pics or it didn’t happen,’ posing is paramount. As far as giant sculptures go, a jumping salmon is actually a pretty good choice of subject; it’s difficult to imbue a statue of a carrot or a gumboot with dynamic energy. A fish in motion, however, makes for hilarious holiday snapshots as everyone piles out of the car and tries to emulate the aquatic leap.

As well as advertising the local specialty or claim to fame, these sculptures announce that we are, without a doubt, in New Zealand. In fact, large sculptures in small towns are so ubiquitous here that I can actually trace my heritage by them: Mum and Dad met in the vicinity of the L&P bottle in Paeroa, and Grandad’s clan are from the vicinity of the Cromwell peach. They permeate the geography of my childhood too; there is Tirau, where the giant sheep and sheep dog combination (aka the information centre) was a favourite stop, while my sisters and I used to talk about the time we went to the town with the big kumara (more commonly referred to as Dargaville). Since moving down South, the trend has continued. Road trips have been punctuated with stops to admire giant horses, donuts, and of course the nemesis of the Rakaia Salmon, the Trout of Gore.

Salmon trumped trout this time around in the ‘iconic’ stakes, and NZ Post’s ‘Legendary Landmarks’ collection will see the symbol of Rakaia posted all over the globe. The stamps will act as “little postcards”, taking a big part of a small town out into the world at large – Auckland included. Sure, my hometown has tall towers and a sprawling scale, but when it comes to super-sized sculptures the city is sorely lacking. It seems that ‘big things’ are a small town thing, after all.

Originally Published in The Ashburton Guardian

A Winter’s Tale

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Winter but where is the snow

The weather forecast may not have received the memo, but according to the calendar, winter is now upon us. Usually such a season would be heralded by bone chilling temperatures and soul warming Mid Winter dinners to celebrate the solstice. In Methven there is another way to tell the season, without resorting to a thermometer or the date. The amount of gaudy Gore-Tex on display is a prime indicator of the highly scientific ‘ski index’ – the more saturated the town is in Burton snow clothing, the surer you can be that it must be winter.

Methven is a seasonal town, and that’s one of the things that makes it stand out for me as something different. Auckland is a clock city, where the days tick by and collect into months and years without any major milestones to mark the seasons. Sure, it rains more in winter, but as for snow… well, the one occasion when a flurry of flakes almost landed on the CBD is now related in the hushed tones of myth.

Here, snow is the lifeblood. When people talk about ‘the mountain’ no one needs to clarify which peak is in question. The first time we visited Methven, we arrived in the midst of the winter bustle. There were people on the streets, the takeaway joints were open until 8:30 at night, and the locals were grumpy. They had to queue for their groceries and were not guaranteed a park right outside the shop. Coming from Auckland, we didn’t know what the fuss was about. Having to wait behind 2 people at Supervalue was nothing compared to rush hour at any inner city supermarket.

This year, I think I finally understand. Having over-summered in Methven, I am more attuned to the seasonal changes in the town. As the days grow shorter, the queues do grow longer, and the cosmopolitan mix of the region becomes more audible. Visitors bring their skis and enthusiasm, but also their own cultural expectations, and it can take a while to adjust. For the first time I was alert to the moment when dress codes shift, and wearing gumboots to the pub (even if they are fancy, styled, neoprene gumboots) puts you in the minority. People in fluffy huts and ski jackets start trickling in one by one, until one Thursday the balance is tipped in favour of neon parkas. From there, if you’ll forgive the pun, things just snowball.

Don’t get me wrong, as soon as those Antarctic blasts start playing ball and deliver some fresh powder to the hills I’ll be up there with the best of the beanie wearers. Still, it’s been interesting to watch a seasonal town wake up as it ramps up towards the snow. Now all we need is for the white stuff to take heed of the ‘ski index’, and then there will be no question that winter is indeed upon us, once and for all.

Originally Published in The Ashburton Guardian

Give a Dog A Bone

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mya

The other day a friend mentioned that he had a bone for our dog. Like most pooches, our pup enjoys a good chew on cartilage and canon bones every now and then. Last time we were up in Auckland we stopped by the butcher to grab a few off-cuts, and the fist-sized chunks kept pup busy all holiday. We smiled, said thank you for the offer, and were on our merry way.

By the time we arrived home, our friend was nowhere to be seen, but he’d left a calling card that was hard to miss: one dead cow in the middle of the lawn. The carcass was midway between the dog run and the washing line, positioned like a garden sculpture, which, had it actually been more avant garde, would no doubt have been entitled ‘Lady Gaga’s Coat Hanger.’

If Carrie Bradshaw wannabes in the big smoke are said to desire a walk in wardrobe in which to store their hundreds of pairs of business stilettos, this was the canine equivalent. The cavernous ribs dwarfed the dog for whom it was intended, and she could walk in alright. In fact, once she’d done so we didn’t see her for another three days. This was actually the closest she’d ever come to anything that moos – usually she’s off in the other direction at the slightest whiff of a cowpat – but she more than made up for lost time.

The arrival of the cow also turned out to be a great lesson in anatomy for pup, but not in the scholarly vein. Instead, she slowly learnt that her eyes are bigger than her stomach – slow being the operative word. In the end we had to relegate the cow to inside the dog run and the dog to outside, in the interests of stopping our pet’s tum from ballooning out any further. One bite more and we would’ve been in real danger of losing her as she drifted up into the wide blue of a Canterbury sky.

Coming from the city, Methven remains the only place I know where a friend dropping off a ‘dog treat’ means you come home to find a dead cow in the garden. It is also one of the few places where such behaviour is considered socially acceptable. Up in Auckland, carcasses stay firmly out of sight. Dog treats come from New World and are no longer associated with the original animal, nor with the cuts of meat the beast provided for human consumers. Down here things are much more open, for better or for worse. One may question whether all this talk of death might be a bit much for a vegetarian ex-Aucklander to stomach, but I’m still leaning towards the former. The cow was definitely fresh, and we’ll not be needing any more dog bones for a good while yet.

Originally published in The Ashburton Guardian

Wish Upon Antarctica

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Once upon Gondwanaland
Where glossopteris grew and dinosaurs roamed
Your wish-upon-a star was born

Or rather, became visible to the naked eye
As the gentle rhythm of day and night
Rocked loose the plates so far below

Southward bound, as we are today
They travelled to the edge of place
And the longest day, where time stood still

All wishes here are put on ice
And Peter Pan grows wrinkles too
From squinting at the frozen glare

And making out the leaves that freeze
Their memory into ancient stones
Alongside ores that don’t belong.

***

Once upon Antarctica
Where ice sheets grow and scientists roam
Your wish-upon-a star was found

Still stars rain down from far above
Scarring the ice with blackened heat
As interlopers on this white plateau

Traverse the ice to find a sign
About the universe’s once-upon-a-time
In rocks that lie so far from home

At season’s end the sun dips low
And dormant skies are seen once more
As shadows lengthen on the snow

And constellations emerge unchanged
While meteorites and fossil trees
Share shelf space behind polished glass