Misadventures in Kiwi Land

I'm sick.  I've been sick for almost a week now and am feeling quite sorry for myself.  However, whenever I'm sick and throwing a personal pity party, I make myself remember that, even though I'm sick, at least I'm not New Zealand sick.

New Zealand sick looks like this

When I was 19, I had the opportunity to travel to New Zealand for a month and call it school work.  My parents had planned the trip and invited me to tag along, so I wrote up a proposal for one of my professors stating that I would be conducting a gender study on the Maori people's matrilineal society.  Needless to say, I remember nothing about said gender study, but I assume that I completed it.


New Zealand is incredibly cool.  During our first two weeks, we went on amazing hikes, rafted down rapids, met wonderful people, saw beautiful scenery (and a bazillion sheep), and camped on a beach.  The misadventure portion of my travels, however, began at the Maori marae - a meeting area for Maori people, and the venue for my alleged gender study.

Our arrival at the marae was very interesting.  I got to interview the marae elders and hear all about their history, ancestors, and the current state of Maori culture throughout New Zealand.  We watched a traditional Maori war dance, ate dinner, and then talked until nightfall, when it dawned on me that the plan was for all of us to sleep communally inside the marae.  I'm not sure where my dad had scampered off to; all I remember is my mother and me watching several very large Maori men, and a few Maori women, staking out pieces of floor and going to sleep.  So we did the same...well, except for the sleeping part.

Imagine about fifty people all snuggled together on that floor

My mom and I both suffer from insomnia, the floor was very hard, and we were surrounded by strangers, so clearly we weren't able to fall asleep right away.  After about twenty minutes or so of lying in the dark, someone started snoring.  Then came another snore.  Then another.  And these weren't sweet, peaceful snores; they were more like a jackhammer mating with a chainsaw in the back of a dump truck.  Within about ten minutes, it seemed as though everyone in the marae was snoring.


And then the farts and burps began.  Before we knew it, my mother and I were enveloped in a cacophony of bodily eruptions, including our own bursts of giggling whenever a particularly obscene blast echoed through the marae.  This went on all night.  I slept for maybe 11 minutes.

I don't think anyone peed or barfed, but otherwise this just about covers it.

The next morning, I definitely felt a little off.  Of course I hadn't slept, but there seemed to be something else awry.  I tried to ignore that feeling as I packed up my things, said goodbye to all of the kind people we'd met, and headed out.

The plan for the rest of our time in New Zealand was to take a ferry to the South Island and drive around for several days, exploring the land and seeing the sights.  We got to the South Island without incident, drove for a few hours, checked into a motel, and ordered a pizza for dinner.  This may seem like superfluous information, but it was actually quite significant for two reasons:

1. The pizza was the grossest thing ever.  It had a thick, doughy, undercooked crust, nasty, gluey, tasteless cheese, and baked beans instead of tomato sauce.  Blech!
2. That pizza was the last meal I ate for ten days.

The next morning, I felt worse than "off."  About two hours into our drive that day, I became a turbocharged barfing machine.  I don't want to be too graphic, but suffice it to say that I was in the backseat of a rental car with only a towel to aid me.  The heaving seemed never ending, and unfortunately, whenever I thought back on my last meal (the Pizza From Hell), I would just barf again.


My parents didn't know what to do.  We were already several hours into our drive around the perimeter of the island.  My dad tried to drive as fast as he could to our next destination, while my mom, with much concern, watched me barf into a towel for eight hours.  Of course, the majority of the drive that day took place on curvy, mountain roads.  Oy.

If we'd seen any of these signs on our drive, I would've been screwed

A couple of days later, my condition hadn't changed, and my mom decided I was going to see a doctor.  She took me to a quaint, small-town clinic with an old man who definitely looked like a doctor, and he also behaved like a doctor in that he determined he had no idea what was wrong with me.  He took some blood and said he would send the results to a clinic that was further along on our trajectory.  I continued barfing.


[Note to self:  never again do a Google Image search for "barfing."  Yuck!  What the hell was I thinking?]


Not eating for several days is a pretty trippy experience.  In fact, my most poignant memory from the South Island is of me playing in a cribbage tournament with giant, pink squirrels on a mountaintop.  Soon after that cribbage victory, I had my second doctor visit.  It was much like the first.  He told me that he had no idea what was wrong with me and that I might have a virus, or perhaps a parasite.

We're your new friends!

So that was helpful and encouraging.


Nothing changed within the next few days, and my parents were officially really, really worried.  I hadn't eaten anything besides crackers for six or seven days, so worrying was beyond my energy level.  I remember taking a shower, in a vain attempt to make myself feel normal, and rushing out of the bathroom afterwards because I felt lightheaded and didn't want to pass out on the tile.  I was only wearing my underwear as I emerged from the bathroom, and when my dad saw my pale, skeletal frame and distended belly, he remarked, and I quote, "Blech." 

Then I felt like this.

My mom decided to take me to the emergency room.  After a short wait, we were ushered into a room and met a doctor who beared an uncanny resemblance to this guy:

He asked me a series of questions.  After I informed him that I'd had my period about two weeks ago, hadn't engaged in sexual activity since I'd been traveling with my parents for the past month, and wasn't experiencing morning sickness - I was just sick all day - he came to the conclusion that I was pregnant.  I tried to explain to him that there was no way I was pregnant, but he was still certain that I was and would not consider any other possible reason for my symptoms.  As he attempted to convince me that I was in fact pregnant, my mom and I just kept looking at each other quizzically, wondering if there was any way we could back quietly out of the room and end this awkward scene.  


The "doctor" gave me a pregnancy test and then left the room.  My mom and I sat in stunned silence, occasionally peppered by brief comments like, "Uh..." and, "This is weird."  After a few minutes, he came back into the room looking visibly disappointed.  


He stated, "The test is negative.  You're not pregnant."  


I replied, "I know."  And that was that; he had nothing else to offer.  He had a nurse take a blood sample and then sent us on our way.  The upshot of the whole ordeal was that the emergency room experience, including the pregnancy test and blood work, cost $20.


A couple of days later, we arrived in Christchurch.  I woke up and realized that I didn't have to throw up.  I informed my parents that I felt well enough to eat something and go outside.  My mom walked me out of the motel and into this beautiful scene:

As I sat and stared at the lovely river, I was so relieved and happy that I hardly cared about the ludicrous and slightly horrific scene that was occurring behind me.  You see, apparently two street fairs had been booked for that day, so the participants had decided to merge into one giant, bizarre jubilee.  I will always remember that the day I finally emerged from the darkness of my illness into the light of recovery, the world greeted me with a festival of Hare Krishnas and clowns.