Kingfishers and Chai Tea

Sunset in Raglan Harbour — Raglan, NZ

There is a soft lyricism this morning, crooning gently through my ears. I woke with a shadow of yesterday’s violent headache, and am listening to Jess Ray’s new “Matin: Love” album, paraphrasing the loving goodness of Psalm 91, I believe. I have been in Raglan for not even a week, and it has felt like nearly a month. In my typical hurrying hopes, I had wished that everything—job, house, friends, life—would be sorted by now and I would feel a pleasant type of peace. But it doesn’t work that way, does it?

Indefinite hostel living is not for the faint of heart, especially for introverts. There’s generally a lot of people, and trying to make and eat morning coffee and breakfast while staying out of others’ way is its own type of dance. At one point, while trying to call my parents searching for a spot to clarify their pixelated faces, I hopped in a low-hanging hammock, causing it to hit the ground, and then stumbled over a lime plant (ouch), before finally landing in the middle of the small green space with rooms all around me. Apparently the middle of courtyard, surrounded by surfboards, drying wetsuits, assorted shrubs, and decaying hammocks, was the best spot to get good signal.

Before coming to Raglan, and the North Island, I could say resolutely with Anne of Green Gables, “My life is a graveyard of buried hopes,” or something as equally poetically despairing as that. I had emailed countless places about jobs, submitted applications, posted on the community notice board, and received very little communication. My eyes have grown weary from constantly looking for a place to live or a place to work, so in the end, I decided to just come up here and see what I see. I had recently gotten a new car, and had begun making my way up north (This is story in and of itself, it involved looking at 4 cars, cementing a deal with one seller, only for that to fall through, waiting a week for one seller to be done using the car, and then running 10k and walking 5k and taking a bus and lots of trips back and forth to actually obtain the vehicle). I have to be here in a month for a housesit, anyway. But I arrived, and the town seems a bit like a washed-up version of Takaka—a lovely, hippy, coastal town in Golden Bay on the South Island.

This town is spread out in pockets, spanning the inlet’s mouth to the beginning of the sea, where surfers reign in Manu Bay. It is a small town, so like many other small towns, unless you have an in, it is difficult to get a feel for the community from the outside. I couldn’t really prepare to be in the community—I just had to get here. A housesit had fallen through, so I decided just to show up and see what happens. I had emailed a conservation project that had indicated that I could volunteer with them in predator control for a couple months. So I booked a hostel for a week, and drove to Raglan, honestly not having a clue how it would go.

Upon arriving at the hostel, I noticed a little piece of paper on the noticeboard posted two weeks ago, asking for people to help with mulch moving. I immediately messaged the owner, asking if she was still looking for anybody. She responded that she wasn’t, but she had a friend who needed some gardening work done. One thing led to another, and two days later, I am sitting across from Sonya at a café. Sonya wears a white puffy coat, is eighty-eight years old, and has a fantastic sense of humor. She buys me coffee, and we do discuss gardening, but mostly we discuss life. She tells me about her children and grandchildren, where they studied, where they are living now. And she tells me that she moved to Raglan eight years ago, bought beautiful land—you will love it, she says—built a house, and has loved it ever since. We strike up a deal, and in very Edna Mode fashion, when I say I will text her when I am on my way over, she says, “Oh, no need. Just show up sometime.” After this meeting, she only ever after calls me “Love.” It could be that she’s forgotten my name, but I really think she just refers as people she likes as “Love.” I am not complaining.

I arrive at her house on Friday. There are rolling hills on either side, filled with sheep and cows and vibrant hues of green. Mount Karioi is to the right, and, tucked in between two hills, lies the sea not far off. It is beautiful. Sonya shows me around her garden, and gratefully I realize that it will be a few days’ work. She informs me that morning tea will be at 10:30, just forty-five minutes away. I nod and get to work. I cannot describe how nice it is to get my hands in the dirt and work away in a garden. It feels so good. There are kingfishers skipping around, which surprises me. I have only seen this many of them in Nelson, on the South Island. They have a very distinct beak shape, and it is a wonderful surprise every time I catch them springing up in flight—their iridescent aqua-blue backs shimmer in the sun.

Sonya’s house is a close cousin to Edna Mode’s house (if you don’t know—look it up), with black and white and red accents coloring the walls, minimal and industrial at once, overlooking the ocean. She is making whip cream when I go inside for tea. When she asks where I am staying for the next month before my housesit, and I reply—likely a campsite—she says, “Well, just stay here. No one is using the garage.” This is no ordinary garage—it has carpet, a queen size bed, an attached bathroom. She reiterates this offer when I head off for the day, looking me squarely in the face and saying, “Now, do not sleep in your car. Not only is it cold, it is dangerous.” I didn’t tell her that I’ve slept many times in my car, and it hasn’t been an issue. Well, okay, sometimes it is cold. I thanked her again and told her I would absolutely consider it.

The following day, I wake up with a raging headache, so gardening is canceled for the day. I stay in bed most of the day, my only errand to meet with the people I am house sitting for in a month. I walk up the hill in Raglan, which is ostensibly quite steeper than I remembered driving up it, but eventually I get to their house, even as I pray that it won’t be entirely cluttered. There are about three driveways, that’s the first thing I notice. A woman at the door greets me, about five foot nothing, blonde dreads, forest green wool jumper, and colorful knitted headband. And, as soon as she opens her mouth, I hear she is delightfully Scottish as well. Lucy brings me round the house and down the garden, after I have met her two dogs, toward the Bach at the back of the yard. She explains that it was built for when her parents visit from overseas and asks if it’s alright if I stay there. It looks like a castle to me. There’s a kitchenette, a bathroom, a bedroom, and a small living room. If I was good at measuring square feet, I would tell you, but I am not, so just envision a tiny house. We stand in the center of the living room and dicuss details, when she asks what my plans are while being in Raglan. I say that I am looking for gardening work, and she goes, “Oh, my friend just broke her arm, and she’s a gardener, I could ask about that!” This generous offer is trumped by another one a couple minutes later when she also hears that my accommodation is up in the air for the next month: “Oh, just stay here! Yes, not a problem, it’d be free, the only expectation is that you would look after it.” In the span of a little over 24 hours, I have just been offered two separate and free places to stay. I am baffled.

In the span of less than a week, I have been given a home (and one that I don’t have to move from for two months!), a three-day job, and made some connections in the community. I am incredibly grateful. It doesn’t quite feel like home, but it’s getting there. Despite trying to be prepared by looking and for jobs and housing in Raglan ahead of time, nothing happened. It was only when I was out of options that the opportunities began opening up. Things have begun to fall into place.

I have had conversations with Sonya and my parents about how lack of resources leads you to be incredibly creative. It can be absolutely exhausting and a little hopeless at times, for sure. But if I wasn’t so desperate about finding a job, I wouldn’t have met Sonya. If I wasn’t looking for ways to save money on accommodation, I wouldn’t have met Lucy, or been so generously blessed by her and her family. I wouldn’t have the multiple connections I have around town now. I don’t enjoy constantly moving around and dropping in on new communities all the time, and so I can feel my time in New Zealand starting to come to a close. But I am so grateful for this one last community to really get to know and participate in.

On Friday night, I went with a friend to the weekly grower’s market in the town hall. It was a heavily anticipated event, highly packed with people adorned in dreads, jumpers of every color and size, and piercings. Really just a very hip place to be. I got roasted macadamia nuts, greens, and falafel from local growers and chefs. There was a communal jug of handmade chai tea sitting near the doorway, asking for a koha (a gift or donation). The spicy warmth filled my stomach and brought a homeyness that relaxed me. It was beautiful. After the market, dodging skirts and sweaters, my friend from the hostel and I went to Raglan’s film festival, which consisted mostly of kids entries—entirely entertaining. These events are not what most of my evenings consist of, but they are part of it. And perhaps if I can have enough imagination and patience and openness, there could be great good here for the next two months. Maybe I could mirror the generosity I’ve been offered. Maybe I could be a part of this community, maybe I could love it well. I’ll raise a cup of chai tea to that.