Our Little Farm @ Arthurs Pass

Greymouth was simply bland to grey. It continued to piss until we reached Arthur’s Pass. The former definition of a New Zealand summer was: “When the breaks between the rain get longer”. In the meantime, even the New Zealand media have labelled this summer with all its floods as “extremely pissy”.

We simply can’t cope with the temporary lack of rain, so we quickly hike to Devil’s Punchhole. In the veil of the falls, summer feels like summer again. Without rain, we are starting to have real problems with our leisure activities. Out of sheer frustration, we take the piss out of Keas. Priceless fun, but probably also the source of their aggression towards all inorganic soft parts.

Uli’s foot is still sore almost two weeks after the Queen Charlotte Track. But with the new hiking boots from the specialist shop she trusts (“Hunting and Fishing”!), she at least manages a three-hour track out to Bealey’s Spur Hut at an altitude of around 1,500 metres. The views of Arthur’s Pass are stunning, even in the clouds, as is the climb through the forest, tussock pastures and waterlogged moorland.

The corrugated iron hut is an old summer shelter for shepherds on the high summer pastures dating back to 1929 and has been part of the national park since 1978. This year you can easily pay $54 a night for cabins on famous tracks. This one is much more rustic, wonderfully broken, old, free and all to ourselves. It takes some time to heat up the fire pit with the moss-covered rainforest of the alpine surroundings. But once the fire is burning, our gas cooker is heating the food and the plastic bottle shower has soaked up the sweat from the climb, we are simply happy on our little farm. Food. Fire crackling. Sleeping early.

But then six Israelis come up the mountain. They play Oktoberfest on our Bavarian farm. Loud music and Kletzmer crackling late into the night. They leave our beautifully heated hut open for too long as they climb into the beds, which are already too few. The ladies and gentlemen don’t mind with their -7° comfort temperature sleeping bags. Thanks to their ignorance, I freeze my bum off all night in my 400 g indoor sleeping bag.

That’s enough! I’m ditching this stupid German hereditary guilt here and now! I’m tired of having to judge every misdeed of some morons positively just because my grandfather kept quiet. Today I’m not German, I’m Palestinian. The Israelis are besieging my homeland. I deliberately stretch my feet far into Jewish territory. There are two Palestinians and six Israelis in this chamber. I take a deep breath. Tighten my stomach muscles. And let out a big fart from deep inside, fully aware of my political correctness. Good night, John boy!