Wilderland

So not every wwoofing host shows you the hot tub upon arrival and breaks out the organic feijoa wine as a going-away celebration. Some of them don't even meet you at the door, and when they do in fact meet you, they just say, "Hello. See you tomorrow morning for work at 8:30am."
The un-intentional community of about 25 residents at the Wilderland Trust was in the latter category. The community seemed to have become tired of wwoofers. Funny, since they need them in order to get all the work done, but understandable since hundreds come through in all levels of willingness. We weren't expecting a welcome train, we just wanted to know where the toilets were. Fortunately, the other wwoofers there showed us the composting toilet (located a mere five-minute walk from our cabin), warned us about all the scary bacteria in the tap water, and told us to go to bed early so we'd fall asleep before the rats came out. We tried not to dream of the spa.
Things always look better in the morning, and now that I have left Wilderland, I can say that I am glad to have stayed there. I can forget the dirty tea towels, the friendly ceiling rats, and the brown water when I think of the terrific people that I met. Tim, a New Zealander who never used soap, was our saving grace - he got no orientation as a wwoofer when he arrived either, so he was quick to show us where the sheets and shower were, and shared his yummy bread and extensive knowledge of fishing with us. He was incredibly welcoming and even made me kawakawa (a native NZ plant) tea when I was struck with the evil tummy bug. We had great conversations with him about being vegan (although we still can't figure out why he eats honey), anarchy, and community.
Fiona, a New Zealander who is going to put a travel soap on the market soon, showed me how to use the really cool apple-peeling-slicing-and-coring machine for dehydrating. She is a self-taught artist with a wonderful rich laugh, and she taught us a really fantastic percussion rhythm with only a table and a cup as props. In her spare time, she gives palm readings.
Pete used to be a sound tech on the road with people like Rod Stewart. He gave us a complete definition of the word "eh," very common in New Zealand conversation:
eh: 1. what? (as in, "I didn't hear you.") 2. you know (as in, "I was down in Christ Church, eh") 3. I'd like for you to agree with me (as in, "That's a nice jersey, eh?")
Wilderland also gave us the opportunity to hitchhike for the first time in New Zealand. New Zealand, as you know, is one of the safest places to hitchhike. We waited only about 35 minutes on State Highway 25 outside the Wilderland Shop, and a tiny blue car with three men from India inside stopped. Kristin, Brian and I all piled in with the nice man in the back seat, and we were off to the bustling metropolis of Whitianga. Turns out the driver worked at an Indian restaurant, so after we walked a lovely tramp to Shakespeare Cliff over the water and got some ice cream, we stopped in for a quick Indian appetizer before dusk set. Two important rules of hitchhiking: 1. It's impossible to do it in the dark. 2. It's really helpful if you have a female in the group. The nice woman in a minivan who picked us up outside the New World supermarket said the only reason she stopped was that we were two females wearing dark clothing, and it was approaching nighttime. I'm not saying I would hitchhike again alone, but overall I would highly recommend the experience.
Now that I am a safe distance from the rat droppings in the kitchen, I can say that it was wonderful to wake up in our little (albeit pretty dilapidated) A-frame abode each morning and look out the window down the hill to the water and the mountains, straight into the sunrise. Oh, and did I mention that we had a lemon tree in the back yard? And that Kristin saw more avocados on the ground than she has ever seen at one time? Or how delicious fried oat cakes are?
As soon as we caught the bus out, we pulled out the sani-wipes.