Japan Invades Our Stomachs, Rugby, and Haggis Tapas

At the end of the week we cruised on out of Ranfurly right about 5pm for the 75 minute drive down the Pigroot into "town", hoping to grab dinner and catch a movie for our Friday night. As we cruised down the two lane, country road that passes for a state highway, the rolling, golden-brown mountains and blue, cloud scattered skies gave way to hills of green, farm filled valleys, and overcast skies with a light rain. It will never cease to amaze me the way how quickly the landscape in this country can change from bone-dry to something out of an Irish Spring commercial within minutes.

We were making great time until, just as it was getting dark, about 5 miles outside of Dunedin there was a 'highway closed' sign and a constable directing traffic to a side road. We followed the rest of the traffic - assuming we were heading in the same direction - as it crept through mostly residential areas up and over the last pass into the city. An hour late, famished, and dying for a beer we pulled up to the backpackers and checked in with the 17 year old German girl who seemed to be running the place.

'An izakaya (居酒屋) is a type of Japanese drinking establishment which also serves food to accompany the drinks. The food is usually more substantial than that offered in other types of drinking establishments in Japan such as bars or snack bars. They are popular, casual and relatively cheap places for after-work drinking'wikipedia.org

Izakayak Yuki, to be specific, is where we finally kicked off our weekend in Dunedin, and by the time we ducked out of the drizzle and through the curtains and low, sliding door of the back alley entrance it seemed like the perfect lively, bustling oasis we were hoping for. Some friends in Alexandra had recommended it as 'the Japanese place that serves tapas in the alley behind the Octagon'. We found the name in our guidebook - thanks Lonely Planet - otherwise we would also have no idea what it was called since it could only be identified by a small, red and black banner hanging outside the window.

We were lucky enough to find the two remaining seats in the joint, which sat side-by-side, diner style, such that on the other side of the counter we could watch the two cooks work furiously to prepare the constant flow of food that was moving through the kitchen door. From the grill came bacon wrapped asparagus, prawns, marinated chicken and beef. The deep fryer churned out tempura by the tray full and from the griddle came teppanyaki and a few assorted noodle dishes. On top of all this, they were preparing colorful plates of sashimi. With a couple Asahis a piece to wash it all down we were in gustatory heaven. Kampai!

We popped into another small bar in the downtown area for a nightcap and stumbled back up the hill to our accommodation at what seemed to be a fairly late hour - it was 11:30pm. We're getting old.

The backpackers was cozy enough, and after a good night's sleep I woke at the crack of half past 8 and went for a run round the city. I almost always go for a run on my first morning in an unfamiliar city. It's a great way to imprint the layout of the city in your mind and watching the city wake up as smoke is curling up out of the chimneys and the smells of cooking bacon and pancakes are wafting into the street warms the soul.

From New Zealand

Dunedin is hilly, green, rainy, Victorian in parts, and pleasantly walkable. It is a university town and about twenty percent of its 123,000 residents are students at the University of Otago, New Zealand's oldest university. Dunedin sits on the southeast coast of the South Island. It is the second largest city on the South Island and seventh largest municipality in the country. Back in the 1860's it was the largest city in New Zealand and the financial center, as it served as the hub of economic activity associated with the Central Otago goldrush during the same period.

These days, many of the old churches have been converted into bars, restaurants, and playhouses. For a city its size it is bursting with cultural opportunities, quality restaurants, and a thriving music scene. It is home to the Cadbury Chocolate Factory and the world's steepest street.

It had rained lightly all night and the sky was still overcast as we dodged puddles and stomped our way down the very steep streets and into the downtown area and toward the old railway station, where the farmer's market is held. We easily spotted the red, white, and yellow tops of the tent stalls from a few blocks away and our stomachs rumbled as the fragrance of what would soon be our breakfast caressed our nostrils.

The two easiest stalls to find early in the morning at a farmer's market are the coffee stall and the best breakfast place, just look for the crowd. We waded through the mass of salivating patrons gathered round a crepe stand and perused the menu board. They were making massive crepes of about twelve inches in diameter, and they would fill them with one of many varieties of sweet, jammy concoctions, or a more savory combination of eggs, bacon, ham, etc. A woman with a french accent took our order with a look of part disinterest and part contempt - how's that for authenticity? Minutes later I was cramming a crepe packed with eggs, ham, cheese, and a slaw-type mixture into my mouth. Ellen had a more dainty variation filled with plum and banana jam, which she devoured with identical enthusiasm. A waffle with sugar and lemon curd, and a apricot, date crumble, along with a nice cup of tea made up the rest of the morning's degustation.

From New Zealand

Your otherwise standard farmer's market wares were available, including heaps of colorful, fresh fruits and veg, rustic breads, meats, honey and sweets. A particularly gregarious cheesemaker pulled us aside and plied us with sample after sample creamy brie and tangy blue. He even gave us a free wedge of brie to take with us, since we are 'taxpayers'. We bought a hunk of blue, a 14lb loaf of fruit bread, and a few apples to take for a picnic the following day.

In great spirits, we set about to wander the city in search of places to occupy our interest. It was one of those chilly, overcast, 'will it rain?' kind of days that lent itself well to strolling the streets and slipping into shops or cafes whenever the mood struck.

Several blocks down the way was the Otago Museum, which combines a natural history collection with a smattering of modern science and wildlife exhibits. As with all public museums in New Zealand, entrance was free, which meant we didn't feel like we needed to spend the entire day looking at every last exhibit to get our money's worth.

They have an incredible exhibit on the cultures of the native people of the Pacific Islands, from New Guinea to Hawaii and Easter Island. The collection includes clubs, masks, shields, jewelry, and musical instruments from each island. Studying this exhibit I felt struck by my ignorance. I had not even known all of these places existed - Vanuatu, the Trobriands, New Caledonia - let alone their migration patterns and the differences in culture between them. Take out a world map and have a close look at the South Pacific. Those tiny islands dotting the vast blue ocean are full of people with fascinating traditions and varying histories of contact/exploitation by Europeans.

Feeling smaller and less significant in the world, we reacquainted ourselves with the damp chill of the outdoors and moved along down the street to a secondhand bookshop. This particular shop had the look and scent of the attic of a hoarding recluse. Books with yellowed pages were stacked floor to ceiling with small, hand-written labels vaguely indicating sections by subject. Despite its appearance, everything was quite well organized and I found a copy of A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson, with whom I am currently obsessed.

Weighed down with a sack of our farmer's market purchases in one hand and a bag of books in the other, we trudged on against what was becoming a more persistent wind. We stopped and had a late lunch of a tasty falafel and a lamb burger at a funky little cafe with a bathtub used as a fishtank and moved on.

With a few hours to kill before the rugby match - that's right, we were to attend our first rugby match tonight - we followed signs to an old mansion called 'Olveston'. They offered a guided tour for NZ$16 per person, which we thought was pretty steep, but since we had nothing better to do we decided to have a look.

From New Zealand

The whole place was quite impressive, built by a very successful, Jewish merchant and business owner just after the turn of the 20th century, it had electricity, indoor plumbing, and central heating well before the rest of the city. The family had done quite a lot of traveling and the walls displayed artwork from far and wide, including Chinese and Japanese porcelain, Dutch and French painted plates and platters, stained glass from England, and paintings from Europe. There were servants quarters on the third level and an enormous billiards table in a second floor man-cave. These people were filthy rich, the professional athletes of the early 1900's.

It was early evening by the end of the tour, so we ran off to the backpackers to pile on additional layers of clothes and headed toward the stadium. The walk was quite a distance, so much so that we found it necessary to revive ourselves with a pint of Fullers at a warm and comfy English establishment on the way.

We had heard that the local pro rugby team, the Highlanders, were not very popular these days, since they had not been very good for a long time, so we didn't anticipate things to be too rowdy. The crowd outside the stadium looked promising. There were lines at each entrance and everybody was decked out in their blue and gold Highlanders gear. Kids even had their faces painted. Unfortunately, what seemed to be a large crowd outside only managed to fill about one third of the stadium. It looked a bit sad, really. The fans that were there did seem into the game, however. And it did help that each person could buy four beers at a time.

From New Zealand

After kickoff, we set about trying to figure out what the hell we were watching. Rugby kind of looks like a faster paced, much less organized version of American football. Most plays resemble the classic highlight from the 1982 Cal-Stanford game, with players pitching the ball back and forth as they try to evade defenders and move down the field. There are three notable exceptions. No one wears pads, there is no band on the field, and there is no such thing as 'down'. As a player is tackled, and subsequently piled upon by several large men, there is no whistle blown. Instead, the suffocating player at the bottom of the pile somehow births the ball from his behind into the waiting hands of his teammate, who immediately starts the whole process all over again, hoping he will not be crushed and forced to pass an oblong ball from his backside. Touchdowns are scored, field goals are kicked, more or less.

The Highlanders lost, but it was a close game. We made the long journey back downtown and settled down at a bar for a drink and a bite - the only thing we could find to eat at the game were chips (fries), which were hot and tasty, but not all that filling at this point. This bar advertised itself as serving 'tapas', but maybe they should reconsider their focus. Ellen ordered patatas bravas that were more like some fried potato pieces smothered in canned salsa and grilled prawns in chili sauce that sounded a lot better than they looked or tasted. I, on the other hand, had the haggis and oatcakes, the most traditional of tapas. For those unfamiliar, Haggis is a dish containing sheep's 'pluck' (heart, liver and lungs), minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock, and traditionally simmered in the animal's stomach for approximately three hours.wikipedia.org - and it was my first time consuming the substance. It was delicious smeared on crunchy oatcakes.

All in all a delightful end to our busy Saturday.