A decade ago, the small South Pacific country of New Zealand’s signature within global culture was its sheep-to-human ratio. Most people could not pinpoint it on a map, and, to those who could, it was nothing more than Australia’s inferior cousin. But that’s all changing now. While farming – namely, dairy – remains integral to New Zealand’s economy, it has been surpassed in recent years by tourism as the country’s largest export industry. As of February 2009, according to the Ministry of Tourism, tourism accounted for 18.3 percent of New Zealand’s total export earnings, and employed nearly 10 percent of the country’s workforce[i].
Although interest in New Zealand as a destination has been increasing steadily over the years, the country was really thrust into the international spotlight when a hobbit named Frodo Baggins walked into frame on 5,700 movie screens worldwide on December 19, 2001[ii]. “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy, directed by New Zealand-native Peter Jackson and utilizing the country as a backdrop, acted as one of the largest advertisements for destination tourism ever.
The New Zealand government predicted the economic boost it would receive from the films, and latched onto them as a vehicle for tourism marketing before the films were even released. In 2001, then-prime minister Helen Clark said, “Set against the spectacular and diverse New Zealand landscape, ‘The Lord of the Rings’ trilogy has the potential to be a major tourist promotion and investment tool for years to come[iii].” She was right. Collector stamps and coins were minted, billboards were painted on the sides of Air New Zealand jets, and the government appointed a “Minister of the Rings” whose job it was to maximize the benefits from the trilogy[iv]. Tourism New Zealand launched a special tourism Web site for “The Lord of the Rings,” and coordinated part of their “100% Pure New Zealand” campaign to paint the country as “The Real Middle-Earth.”
Even though J.R.R. Tolkien originally wrote the books to serve as the mythology England was lacking, New Zealanders embraced the films as a cultural product of their own making. For the 2003 world premiere of “Return of the King,” the third and final installment in the trilogy, New Zealand’s capital city of Wellington was transformed into Middle-Earth. Gollum loomed over the airport, Ringwraiths and trolls clung to the sides of downtown buildings, and hundreds of thousands of residents and visitors lined the streets for a giant tickertape parade honoring the filmmakers and cast[v]. The eyes of the cinematic community were on New Zealand. And the country didn’t disappoint.
By the time “The Return of the King” won all eleven of the Oscars it was nominated for at the 2004 Academy Awards, New Zealand was already capitalizing on the increased international attention it was receiving. Specialized “Lord of the Rings” tour companies were popping up in all corners of the country, offering everything from themed 4-wheel Jeep rides and horseback treks to helicopter excursions and week-long journeys to view filming locations. In the years that have passed since New Zealand tourism companies first began using “The Lord of the Rings” as inspiration, one company has emerged as a frontrunner: Red Carpet Tours.
preface: red carpet tours
Founded in 2001 by retired school principal Vic James and his wife Raewyn, Red Carpet Tours offers small groups of devoted “Lord of the Rings” fans the chance to travel together through New Zealand – or Middle-Earth – for twelve days, while visiting filming sites and meeting individuals who were involved in the films. Highlights for tour members include scrambling into hobbit holes in Matamata, climbing Edoras in Canterbury, walking through the woods of Lothlorien in Featherston, charging across the Pelennor Fields in Twizel, and experiencing movie-making magic first-hand in Wellington.With their intimate, laid-back tours, Vic and Raewyn have turned Red Carpet Tours into the premiere “Lord of the Rings” tour company in New Zealand. But their success didn’t come without hard work. Vic, after retiring from education, began his foray into tourism with an airport shuttle company, and followed with a share in a high-end limo company. Eventually, he said he was ready for something different.
“I was looking for a niche market,” he said. “You know, something that was really specific; new; fresh. And, about that time, Peter Jackson was in the process of filming, and we saw lots of photographs of the different sets, and I just thought it would be a great idea to take people to those locations.”
Vic began researching the films, reading Tolkien’s novels, and contacting owners of property used in the trilogy. From there, Vic said, things started to fall into place. Since the first Red Carpet Tour in 2001, the company has been nurturing relationships with “Lord of the Rings” contacts and tweaking its tours to make them as tailored to the fans’ desires and expectations as possible.
“It’s all about the fans,” Vic said. “We do this for them.”
This dedication to enthusiastic “Lord of the Rings” fans from around the world who are seeking a true Middle-Earth experience is what sets Red Carpet Tours apart. Their numbers – roughly 100 customers per year – may not be as impressive as those of other, less-specific companies, but Vic and Raewyn’s passion and commitment are what draws fans – often multiple times – to Red Carpet Tours.
introduction
In the travel narrative that follows, I aimed to delve into the niche market of “Lord of the Rings” tourism in New Zealand, focusing on Red Carpet Tours and the people who are a part of them. Through travel writing, I strove to capture not only the beauty of New Zealand and charm of Red Carpet Tours, but also the unique characters of the people who travel halfway around the world in order to experience Middle-Earth.
It’s hard to believe that I have been having a mild love affair with “The Lord of the Rings” for more than seven years now. It seems like only yesterday that I was sitting in a movie theater not long after New Year’s, getting absorbed in a story about little people with hairy feet trying to destroy a piece of jewelry. Even harder to believe is the fact that I, a small-town girl from northeast Ohio, took that obsession seriously enough to make it all the way to New Zealand (home of Middle-Earth) more than three years ago, when I toured the country for two weeks.
But the hardest thing for me to believe is that my love of “Lord of the Rings” and, subsequently, New Zealand, led me to move 10,000 miles away from home to live there for five months. If someone would have told me after my first jaunt to Middle-Earth that I would be living there someday, I don’t know that I would have believed them. But, somehow, July 2008 found me packing my allotted two suitcases in preparation to move to Wellington, New Zealand.
Now that I’ve returned, I still have some difficulty comprehending how I ended up there to begin with. I guess the hobbit Bilbo Baggins knew what he was talking about when he said, “It’s a dangerous business going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no telling where you might be swept off to.”
It’s hard to believe that I have been having a mild love affair with “The Lord of the Rings” for more than seven years now. It seems like only yesterday that I was sitting in a movie theater not long after New Year’s, getting absorbed in a story about little people with hairy feet trying to destroy a piece of jewelry. Even harder to believe is the fact that I, a small-town girl from northeast Ohio, took that obsession seriously enough to make it all the way to New Zealand (home of Middle-Earth) more than three years ago, when I toured the country for two weeks.
But the hardest thing for me to believe is that my love of “Lord of the Rings” and, subsequently, New Zealand, led me to move 10,000 miles away from home to live there for five months. If someone would have told me after my first jaunt to Middle-Earth that I would be living there someday, I don’t know that I would have believed them. But, somehow, July 2008 found me packing my allotted two suitcases in preparation to move to Wellington, New Zealand.
Now that I’ve returned, I still have some difficulty comprehending how I ended up there to begin with. I guess the hobbit Bilbo Baggins knew what he was talking about when he said, “It’s a dangerous business going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no telling where you might be swept off to.”
above the clouds
The view out the small plane window was largely unremarkable as we reached cruising altitude above the foothills of the Wellington region, the southernmost reach of New Zealand’s north island. The aerial view of the Rimutaka Range, the low mountains that force the country’s capital city to hug the Pacific coastline, would likely have been stunning on that late winter morning. There may have been a few last traces of snow present on the first day of August, or perhaps the first hints of the prickly, yellow gorse bushes that would begin to cover the hillsides in spring. Both of these views – and any others in between – were made impossible, however, by the thick, low clouds that had settled right at the base of the Rimutakas. Crossing my fingers and hoping for clearer skies later, I settled for watching fat droplets of water condense outside the thick window pane as the New Zealand landscape slipped by beneath a soggy grey blanket.
Fortune must have been looking favorably upon me that morning, however, because the skies began to clear the further north we flew. By the time our Boeing 737 began its descent toward Auckland, dazzling rays of sunlight were piercing the wispy clouds, and the ground as far as I could see had been transformed into a rolling sea of green beneath our wings. It was hard to believe that less than an hour before I had been fighting for control of my umbrella with a strong Wellington southerly and its horizontal rain.
I craned my neck, straining to see if I could pick out the sheep that dotted the green hills or the coast that I knew couldn’t be very far away. We passed briefly through one last trace of a low cloud, and, bursting through the other side, were greeted by a stunning swath of deepest green stretching all the way to the sea. My mind immediately wandered to a line from Tolkien’s Fellowship of the Ring, describing when the hobbit Frodo first sees Valinor, the elves’ Undying Lands. Tolkien wrote that, “the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.” For a moment, I felt as if I, too, was looking upon some eternal green land; Middle-Earth.
Fortune must have been looking favorably upon me that morning, however, because the skies began to clear the further north we flew. By the time our Boeing 737 began its descent toward Auckland, dazzling rays of sunlight were piercing the wispy clouds, and the ground as far as I could see had been transformed into a rolling sea of green beneath our wings. It was hard to believe that less than an hour before I had been fighting for control of my umbrella with a strong Wellington southerly and its horizontal rain.
I craned my neck, straining to see if I could pick out the sheep that dotted the green hills or the coast that I knew couldn’t be very far away. We passed briefly through one last trace of a low cloud, and, bursting through the other side, were greeted by a stunning swath of deepest green stretching all the way to the sea. My mind immediately wandered to a line from Tolkien’s Fellowship of the Ring, describing when the hobbit Frodo first sees Valinor, the elves’ Undying Lands. Tolkien wrote that, “the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.” For a moment, I felt as if I, too, was looking upon some eternal green land; Middle-Earth.
arrival
Though the main motivation for the trip up to Auckland was to see New Zealand’s national rugby team, the All Blacks, take on the Australian Wallabies, a group of six international students – including me – from Massey University had also planned to take a day trip to Matamata, where the Hobbiton scenes in the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy were filmed.
As the six of us filed through the turnstile that marked our entrance into the small arrivals area of the Auckland Domestic Airport, we were immediately greeted by a grinning Vic James. Vic, co-owner and operator of Red Carpet Tours, would be our guide for the day.
“Good to see you again!” Without even waiting for a handshake, he promptly wrapped me in a big bear hug, his protruding belly limiting how close we could get. “How long has it been now? Two years?”
“Three,” I corrected him, smiling. “It’s good to be back.”
This wasn’t my first time in New Zealand, nor would it be my first time visiting the Hobbiton site. In 2005, following my high school graduation and after three years of saving my meager paychecks from my job at a movie theater, I joined a Red Carpet Tour in order to see New Zealand. I spent twelve days traversing the country with Vic, his wife and tourism partner Raewyn, and nine “Ringers” (code for “Lord of the Rings” fans) from around the world. Like most Red Carpet groups, we had gone to New Zealand an eclectic hodgepodge of strangers with nothing in common except our love for hobbits, elves, and all things Middle-Earth. But after traipsing through snow on the side of a volcano, fording mountain streams bare-legged in the dead of winter, and sharing more than a few laughs at our own expense, that one commonality was more than enough to break down the barriers of age, culture, and language, making way for friendships and lasting memories.
The situation that day in Auckland wasn’t so dissimilar. Though I knew Josh, Jen, Denise, Una, and Melinda from Massey orientation and shared university activities, this was the first time we were all travelling as a group. We were only going to spend a day in Middle-Earth together, but, standing in the arrivals area of the airport with our adventure just about to begin, I already felt as though we shared something unique.
I quickly introduced everyone in the group to Vic, rattling off where each of them was from: Iowa via California, Illinois, Vermont, North Carolina, and Germany. Vic enveloped each of their hands between both of his, grinning and welcoming them in turn to Auckland. There were a few “Cheers, mate”s thrown in, one or two from Vic and the others from Jen, Josh, and Una.
The Americans in our group, after living in New Zealand for a month, were already starting to pick up certain turns of phrase and slang words used by the locals. The current favorite seemed to be the word “cheers,” which is a sort of blanket term that can apply to anything from “Hello” to “Thank you.” I often felt awkward using it, partly because I didn’t think it sounded as sincere as a good old-fashioned “Thank you.” And I also knew I sounded dumb because, when used by us Yanks, “Cheers, mate” just lacks something – namely, the cool Kiwi accent.
As the six of us filed through the turnstile that marked our entrance into the small arrivals area of the Auckland Domestic Airport, we were immediately greeted by a grinning Vic James. Vic, co-owner and operator of Red Carpet Tours, would be our guide for the day.
“Good to see you again!” Without even waiting for a handshake, he promptly wrapped me in a big bear hug, his protruding belly limiting how close we could get. “How long has it been now? Two years?”
“Three,” I corrected him, smiling. “It’s good to be back.”
This wasn’t my first time in New Zealand, nor would it be my first time visiting the Hobbiton site. In 2005, following my high school graduation and after three years of saving my meager paychecks from my job at a movie theater, I joined a Red Carpet Tour in order to see New Zealand. I spent twelve days traversing the country with Vic, his wife and tourism partner Raewyn, and nine “Ringers” (code for “Lord of the Rings” fans) from around the world. Like most Red Carpet groups, we had gone to New Zealand an eclectic hodgepodge of strangers with nothing in common except our love for hobbits, elves, and all things Middle-Earth. But after traipsing through snow on the side of a volcano, fording mountain streams bare-legged in the dead of winter, and sharing more than a few laughs at our own expense, that one commonality was more than enough to break down the barriers of age, culture, and language, making way for friendships and lasting memories.
The situation that day in Auckland wasn’t so dissimilar. Though I knew Josh, Jen, Denise, Una, and Melinda from Massey orientation and shared university activities, this was the first time we were all travelling as a group. We were only going to spend a day in Middle-Earth together, but, standing in the arrivals area of the airport with our adventure just about to begin, I already felt as though we shared something unique.
I quickly introduced everyone in the group to Vic, rattling off where each of them was from: Iowa via California, Illinois, Vermont, North Carolina, and Germany. Vic enveloped each of their hands between both of his, grinning and welcoming them in turn to Auckland. There were a few “Cheers, mate”s thrown in, one or two from Vic and the others from Jen, Josh, and Una.
The Americans in our group, after living in New Zealand for a month, were already starting to pick up certain turns of phrase and slang words used by the locals. The current favorite seemed to be the word “cheers,” which is a sort of blanket term that can apply to anything from “Hello” to “Thank you.” I often felt awkward using it, partly because I didn’t think it sounded as sincere as a good old-fashioned “Thank you.” And I also knew I sounded dumb because, when used by us Yanks, “Cheers, mate” just lacks something – namely, the cool Kiwi accent.
the accent
If you’ve never heard a New Zealand accent before, it can sound like quite a garbled mess at first, so it probably deserves a brief explanation. There’s a good bit of Australian accent there (probably because the first settlers to New Zealand other than the Maori were seal hunters from Australia), but also a fair amount of British influence. Add in a slight Scottish lilt (especially in the south, where they still have a tendency to roll their “r”s), and perhaps you can begin to understand what a Kiwi (“Kiwi” here meaning a New Zealander, not a fuzzy fruit or flightless bird) sounds like. Or maybe not. It’s a lot to try and piece together, after all. But that’s exactly what a New Zealand dialect is – a conglomeration of all sorts of accents that, somehow, manage to form into a cohesive way of speaking – at least as far as New Zealanders are concerned. Personally, I’m still trying to make sense of it.
An “i” will usually turn into a “u,” an “a” can often transform into an “i,” and, when it comes to the letter “e,” good luck trying to predict how it will be pronounced. “R”s often disappear, only to be snuck back into sentences in places where they really don’t belong. So whereas we Americans might say, “Yes, I saw you ordered the fish and chips again,” a Kiwi would say, “Yis, I soar you orded the fush end chups ageen.”
Unlike some foreign accents, New Zealand’s doesn’t really vary drastically from region to region. Of course, North Islanders (mainly Aucklanders and Wellingtonians) will accuse South Islanders (especially those from Invercargill) of bumbling around their words (not unlike Ohioans poking fun at West Virginians for their dialect), but my experience is that most of it seems to be nothing more than island rivalry. I’ve been to Invercargill, and they still sounded like Kiwis to me.
An “i” will usually turn into a “u,” an “a” can often transform into an “i,” and, when it comes to the letter “e,” good luck trying to predict how it will be pronounced. “R”s often disappear, only to be snuck back into sentences in places where they really don’t belong. So whereas we Americans might say, “Yes, I saw you ordered the fish and chips again,” a Kiwi would say, “Yis, I soar you orded the fush end chups ageen.”
Unlike some foreign accents, New Zealand’s doesn’t really vary drastically from region to region. Of course, North Islanders (mainly Aucklanders and Wellingtonians) will accuse South Islanders (especially those from Invercargill) of bumbling around their words (not unlike Ohioans poking fun at West Virginians for their dialect), but my experience is that most of it seems to be nothing more than island rivalry. I’ve been to Invercargill, and they still sounded like Kiwis to me.
vic
I can tell you that Vic, being from the North Shore of Auckland, has a rather mild accent compared to most New Zealanders. It’s usually possible to distinguish his “bear” from his “beer,” and his “six” doesn’t tend to come out sounding like a dirty word. Perhaps it’s from having worked with children, and then foreign tourists for so long. Or perhaps it’s just a North Shore thing. Regardless of the reasons for his good diction, none of us had any trouble understanding our guide as he shepherded us outside the airport to where his twelve-seater Mercedes Sprinter was parked.
As he led us to the parking lot, I smiled, pleased to see that the past three years had failed to change him in the least. Vic looked the same as I remembered him. He was wearing a local rugby polo shirt and his signature bone Koru necklace – a spiraling Maori symbol carved like an unfurling fern to represent growth, strength, peace, and eternity – around a thick neck. He was plump and balding, but still walked with a spring in his step. Were he a bit younger (i.e. young enough to still have hair) and disinclined to sport footwear, he would be the epitome of Tolkien’s hobbit.
As it is, Vic lives up to quite a few of Tolkien’s key descriptors of hobbits, such as being round and short of stature, and having a beardless, “good-natured” face. Unlike a hobbit, however, Vic’s face, good-natured as it is, is set off by a slender, pointed nose and keen, dark eyes that always seem to harbor a hint of mischief in them. And, whereas Tolkien’s hobbits are averse to any sort of adventure or complex thinking, I think it’s safe to say that Vic is quite the opposite.
As he led us to the parking lot, I smiled, pleased to see that the past three years had failed to change him in the least. Vic looked the same as I remembered him. He was wearing a local rugby polo shirt and his signature bone Koru necklace – a spiraling Maori symbol carved like an unfurling fern to represent growth, strength, peace, and eternity – around a thick neck. He was plump and balding, but still walked with a spring in his step. Were he a bit younger (i.e. young enough to still have hair) and disinclined to sport footwear, he would be the epitome of Tolkien’s hobbit.
As it is, Vic lives up to quite a few of Tolkien’s key descriptors of hobbits, such as being round and short of stature, and having a beardless, “good-natured” face. Unlike a hobbit, however, Vic’s face, good-natured as it is, is set off by a slender, pointed nose and keen, dark eyes that always seem to harbor a hint of mischief in them. And, whereas Tolkien’s hobbits are averse to any sort of adventure or complex thinking, I think it’s safe to say that Vic is quite the opposite.
the drive
Before long, we were merging onto State Highway 1 south toward Hamilton. Vic guided the van though the downtown Auckland congestion, and crossed over the Waitemata Harbor via the eight-lane harbor bridge. The Auckland Sky Tower, standing four meters higher than Paris’ Eiffel Tower and therefore making it the most iconic structure New Zealand has to offer, was visible on the horizon as we made our way out of the city. Once out of city limits, we soon veered off onto State Highway 27, the smaller roadway that would take us all the way into the farming town of Matamata in New Zealand’s Waikato region.
The further south we drove, the more apparent it was that we were getting into the heart of New Zealand. The four-lane highway gave way to a meandering two-lane road that wove through the rolling green hills we had glimpsed from the plane that morning. Compared to some of the driving I’ve done on twisting coastal roads and narrow, unpaved mountain passes in New Zealand, the drive to Matamata was downright leisurely. Had it not been for the company and conversation, there’s probably a good chance that I would have dozed off.
Our journey through the Waikato region was peppered with a few bursts of rain, followed by some stunning rainbows. One of them spanned in full prismatic glory across the road in front of our windshield, a splash of color against a blue-grey sky. Una and Denise, seemingly permanently attached to their cameras, didn’t let their shutters take a break. And, as if driving into a rainbow weren’t picturesque enough, the scene was further enhanced by the pastoral beauty of the region.
The first of the season’s sheared sheep ambled along fence lines as we drove, scattering in all directions when the van trundled by. Others could be spotted clinging to the steep hillsides, which were slightly terraced from years of livestock use. Even though New Zealand was clinging to the tail-end of winter, the close-cropped grass in all the fields still managed to be an unusually brilliant shade of green. It was as if someone was holding a piece of green cellophane in front of the sunlight that was bathing the pastures. Perhaps that’s just what happens when there’s less ozone for it to filter through.
“They sure weren’t kidding about the sheep here.” Una had her eyes fixed on a relatively large flock all sporting red, spray-painted blotches on their backs. They were huddled together in a conspicuous group, their muddied wool coats proof of the wet weather the region was experiencing.
“Those ones are pregnant,” Vic said, following Una’s gaze to the tagged flock. “We’re right on the brink of lambing season now.”
“Aww, I wanna see baby sheep!” Una strained her neck, as if looking harder would reveal a lamb.
“Another week or so, and you will,” Vic told her.
The further south we drove, the more apparent it was that we were getting into the heart of New Zealand. The four-lane highway gave way to a meandering two-lane road that wove through the rolling green hills we had glimpsed from the plane that morning. Compared to some of the driving I’ve done on twisting coastal roads and narrow, unpaved mountain passes in New Zealand, the drive to Matamata was downright leisurely. Had it not been for the company and conversation, there’s probably a good chance that I would have dozed off.
Our journey through the Waikato region was peppered with a few bursts of rain, followed by some stunning rainbows. One of them spanned in full prismatic glory across the road in front of our windshield, a splash of color against a blue-grey sky. Una and Denise, seemingly permanently attached to their cameras, didn’t let their shutters take a break. And, as if driving into a rainbow weren’t picturesque enough, the scene was further enhanced by the pastoral beauty of the region.
The first of the season’s sheared sheep ambled along fence lines as we drove, scattering in all directions when the van trundled by. Others could be spotted clinging to the steep hillsides, which were slightly terraced from years of livestock use. Even though New Zealand was clinging to the tail-end of winter, the close-cropped grass in all the fields still managed to be an unusually brilliant shade of green. It was as if someone was holding a piece of green cellophane in front of the sunlight that was bathing the pastures. Perhaps that’s just what happens when there’s less ozone for it to filter through.“They sure weren’t kidding about the sheep here.” Una had her eyes fixed on a relatively large flock all sporting red, spray-painted blotches on their backs. They were huddled together in a conspicuous group, their muddied wool coats proof of the wet weather the region was experiencing.
“Those ones are pregnant,” Vic said, following Una’s gaze to the tagged flock. “We’re right on the brink of lambing season now.”
“Aww, I wanna see baby sheep!” Una strained her neck, as if looking harder would reveal a lamb.
“Another week or so, and you will,” Vic told her.
stories
As we drove through the undulating farm country, Vic kept us occupied with stories – stories of New Zealand, stories about how Red Carpet Tours came into being, and some of his favorite tour stories. He passed around Red Carpet Tours brochures, photos, and even a book a devoted Ringer made. When it comes to “Lord of the Rings” fans visiting Peter Jackson’s Middle-Earth, it seems as if nothing is too crazy or ridiculous.
“What’s the weirdest thing someone’s done on a tour?” Jen piped up from the back. She was still browsing through the book Vic had passed back to us, eyeing fans posing in full Rings attire – weapons often included – in various locations. From mountaintops to upscale hotel lobbies, it seems you can never go wrong wearing a pair of hobbit feet.
Vic thought about it for a moment, then started chuckling.
“There have been some really… unique individuals on our tours,” he began. “But, personally, I think the time I remember feeling strangest was during a tour we did with about 80 Japanese.” That tour, Vic went on to explain, entailed multiple tour buses, a translator, and a good majority of non-English-speaking tourists.
“We had arranged to have dinner with Craig Parker – the local Kiwi actor who played the elf Haldir in the films. Apparently he’s very popular in Asia, because when he walked into the room, the young Asian women started screaming, and then crying.”
“Like, actually crying?” Una asked, peeling her eye away from her camera’s viewfinder long enough for me to glimpse a look of mild horror on her face.
“Actually crying,” Vic said with a nod. “Yeah,” he mused, “that was certainly an interesting tour. I don’t know if I’ll ever forget the sight of 80 Japanese following me up the side of Mount Victoria, every one of them wearing a hobbit cloak.” We all began laughing, picturing cloak-clad Japanese women (Vic said there were only eight men on that tour) skirting the side of the mountain in downtown Wellington that we all knew so well. We had all climbed parts of it ourselves – though, admittedly, in much less theatrical garb.
“What’s the weirdest thing someone’s done on a tour?” Jen piped up from the back. She was still browsing through the book Vic had passed back to us, eyeing fans posing in full Rings attire – weapons often included – in various locations. From mountaintops to upscale hotel lobbies, it seems you can never go wrong wearing a pair of hobbit feet.
Vic thought about it for a moment, then started chuckling.
“There have been some really… unique individuals on our tours,” he began. “But, personally, I think the time I remember feeling strangest was during a tour we did with about 80 Japanese.” That tour, Vic went on to explain, entailed multiple tour buses, a translator, and a good majority of non-English-speaking tourists.
“We had arranged to have dinner with Craig Parker – the local Kiwi actor who played the elf Haldir in the films. Apparently he’s very popular in Asia, because when he walked into the room, the young Asian women started screaming, and then crying.”
“Like, actually crying?” Una asked, peeling her eye away from her camera’s viewfinder long enough for me to glimpse a look of mild horror on her face.
“Actually crying,” Vic said with a nod. “Yeah,” he mused, “that was certainly an interesting tour. I don’t know if I’ll ever forget the sight of 80 Japanese following me up the side of Mount Victoria, every one of them wearing a hobbit cloak.” We all began laughing, picturing cloak-clad Japanese women (Vic said there were only eight men on that tour) skirting the side of the mountain in downtown Wellington that we all knew so well. We had all climbed parts of it ourselves – though, admittedly, in much less theatrical garb.
the background
As we neared Matamata, Vic began telling us a little of the background of the filming location. Located on a sheep and cattle farm owned by the Alexander family, the Hobbiton site, as it appears today, is a bit of an accident – or, perhaps to us fans, a bit of really good luck.
It all began, Vic explained, back in 1998 when helicopter scouts started combing New Zealand for possible filming locations for Peter Jackson’s massive cinematic project. The particular scout that discovered the Alexander farm had been given the task of finding a suitable location for the hobbits’ party scene, meaning he needed to find a lake or pond with a field and large tree on its shore. Fran Walsh, co-writer of the script, suggested Matamata because she remembered visiting the area as a child.
The story goes that the scout spotted the perfect site from the air, landed on the farm, and then made his way to the Alexander house to discuss filming possibilities with the owners. Ian Alexander, however, was in the middle of watching a rugby match on TV, and told the scout to “come back later.”
“Typical Kiwi,” Vic said. “A lot of us are like that though: put rugby before most things – everything if we’re playing the Aussies.” He simply shrugged his shoulders as we laughed.
“But luckily,” Vic continued, “the scout listened.”
The Alexander farm ended up being used for the whole of Hobbiton, and not just the party scene as originally intended. The fronts of the hobbit homes (in the form of hole-like dwellings) were built into the hillsides above the pond. A mill was erected on the edge of the water, gardens were planted, and an artificial tree – complete with hundreds of thousands of fake, sewn-on leaves – was placed on top of the Baggins’ home, Bag End, in accordance with the description of Bilbo’s abode from Tolkien’s books.
Perhaps inevitably, once filming began, life as usual on the Alexander farm took a turn toward the unusual. First there was the road the New Zealand Army built to make it possible for trucks and trailers to get to the site. Then came the trailers, tents, animals, props, actors, and extras. Most of it was taken care of by New Line Cinema, the production and distribution company for the films, though, and the Alexanders were able to continue operating their farm. New Line was in charge of all the building, and was also supposed to be responsible for demolition of the site after filming ended.
“But here’s where things get really interesting,” Vic said.
New Line sent a bulldozer to tear down the hobbit holes, but a particularly wet season made it impossible to reach the seventeen holes built higher in the hillsides. The driver said he would come back once the ground firmed up. Six months passed, however, and the now-bare hobbit holes remained. Ian Alexander finally rescheduled the demolition, but, less than twenty-four hours before another bulldozer was set to arrive, a rather hobbit-like man showed up on the farm: Vic James.
“Back then, no one knew that any of the holes were still standing. We all assumed they’d been destroyed,” Vic explained. “So, imagine my surprise when I took a walk down to the site to find seventeen in-tact hobbit holes!”
Vic had visited the farm in early 2001, when plans for his tour company were newly under way. He had expected to simply approach the Alexander family about bringing tour groups to the farm, but, instead, ended up playing an integral role in saving the hobbit holes from destruction, which included getting the okay from New Line itself.
“Like a lot of the private land owners we deal with, we also have a good relationship with the Alexanders,” Vic said. “We’re the only private tour company allowed to operate on the farm. Everyone else has to go through the farm tours that leave from town.”
“What about filming for ‘The Hobbit?’” Jen interjected, referring to the “Lord of the Rings” prequel film that is currently in pre-production in Wellington. “If they use this same farm again, will they still run tours?”
“Well.” Vic paused, allowing a small smile to creep into his features. “Don’t go spreading this around yet, but rumor has it they will be using the Alexander farm again for ‘The Hobbit.’ And Red Carpet Tours has been given exclusive access to the site during the rebuilding process.”
“Wow. What I wouldn’t give to be here during that!”
It all began, Vic explained, back in 1998 when helicopter scouts started combing New Zealand for possible filming locations for Peter Jackson’s massive cinematic project. The particular scout that discovered the Alexander farm had been given the task of finding a suitable location for the hobbits’ party scene, meaning he needed to find a lake or pond with a field and large tree on its shore. Fran Walsh, co-writer of the script, suggested Matamata because she remembered visiting the area as a child.
The story goes that the scout spotted the perfect site from the air, landed on the farm, and then made his way to the Alexander house to discuss filming possibilities with the owners. Ian Alexander, however, was in the middle of watching a rugby match on TV, and told the scout to “come back later.”“Typical Kiwi,” Vic said. “A lot of us are like that though: put rugby before most things – everything if we’re playing the Aussies.” He simply shrugged his shoulders as we laughed.
“But luckily,” Vic continued, “the scout listened.”
The Alexander farm ended up being used for the whole of Hobbiton, and not just the party scene as originally intended. The fronts of the hobbit homes (in the form of hole-like dwellings) were built into the hillsides above the pond. A mill was erected on the edge of the water, gardens were planted, and an artificial tree – complete with hundreds of thousands of fake, sewn-on leaves – was placed on top of the Baggins’ home, Bag End, in accordance with the description of Bilbo’s abode from Tolkien’s books.
Perhaps inevitably, once filming began, life as usual on the Alexander farm took a turn toward the unusual. First there was the road the New Zealand Army built to make it possible for trucks and trailers to get to the site. Then came the trailers, tents, animals, props, actors, and extras. Most of it was taken care of by New Line Cinema, the production and distribution company for the films, though, and the Alexanders were able to continue operating their farm. New Line was in charge of all the building, and was also supposed to be responsible for demolition of the site after filming ended.
“But here’s where things get really interesting,” Vic said.
New Line sent a bulldozer to tear down the hobbit holes, but a particularly wet season made it impossible to reach the seventeen holes built higher in the hillsides. The driver said he would come back once the ground firmed up. Six months passed, however, and the now-bare hobbit holes remained. Ian Alexander finally rescheduled the demolition, but, less than twenty-four hours before another bulldozer was set to arrive, a rather hobbit-like man showed up on the farm: Vic James.
“Back then, no one knew that any of the holes were still standing. We all assumed they’d been destroyed,” Vic explained. “So, imagine my surprise when I took a walk down to the site to find seventeen in-tact hobbit holes!”
Vic had visited the farm in early 2001, when plans for his tour company were newly under way. He had expected to simply approach the Alexander family about bringing tour groups to the farm, but, instead, ended up playing an integral role in saving the hobbit holes from destruction, which included getting the okay from New Line itself.
“Like a lot of the private land owners we deal with, we also have a good relationship with the Alexanders,” Vic said. “We’re the only private tour company allowed to operate on the farm. Everyone else has to go through the farm tours that leave from town.”
“What about filming for ‘The Hobbit?’” Jen interjected, referring to the “Lord of the Rings” prequel film that is currently in pre-production in Wellington. “If they use this same farm again, will they still run tours?”
“Well.” Vic paused, allowing a small smile to creep into his features. “Don’t go spreading this around yet, but rumor has it they will be using the Alexander farm again for ‘The Hobbit.’ And Red Carpet Tours has been given exclusive access to the site during the rebuilding process.”
“Wow. What I wouldn’t give to be here during that!”
getting there
We eventually turned onto Buckland Road – a complete coincidence, Vic assured us, even though Buckland happens to be the name of a region of Tolkien’s Shire – and began a winding drive onto the Alexander property. Vic popped in a homemade CD with music from Howard Shore’s “The Lord of the Rings” soundtracks on it to set the mood, and I remembered back to a similar CD he had played three years earlier during this same twisting drive. The fiddle refrain of the Shire theme rose and fell as the green hills around us swelled and dipped, almost as if the music had been composed for this very purpose. The CD wasn’t exactly as I remembered it – it has, in the past three years, been supplemented with newly released extended soundtracks and bonus songs – but the emotions I felt were the same.“I think I’m going to cry,” Melinda said quietly from the back of the van, her German accent making her words sound thick and heavy. Glancing around, I had a feeling Melinda wasn’t the only one.
As the last strains of a pan flute solo faded away, we pulled up to the Shire’s Rest, the departure point for all Hobbiton tours. The small, two-story building – consisting of a conference room, small gift shop, café, and toilets – sits right next to a shearing shed on the edge of a shallow, fenced-in valley dotted with sheep and twisted pine trees. The Shire’s Rest represents the perfect marriage of modern and rustic design, with the café and conference room portion of the building looking polished and new, while the toilets are made to look like a weathered hobbit hole, right down to the doorknobs in the middle of the doors.Inside the second-story gift shop, we met Alec, our farm guide for the morning. Dressed in a long black Hobbiton coat and a black Hobbiton cap that only partially kept his flyaway grey hair at bay, Alec was the epitome of a rural New Zealand man. His skin was permanently tanned and leathery, he spoke in a low, mumbling drawl thick with Kiwi accent, and I’m not one hundred percent certain that he had all of his teeth.
After passing out brochures and repeating the history of Hobbiton that Vic had shared with us on the drive in, Alec joined us in the van, and we headed for the set. Getting to the location required driving deeper into the farm, with frequent stops to unlatch and re-latch rickety gates to keep the farm’s four-legged inhabitants contained. One or two brave sheep approached the van curiously as we stopped, only to scatter nervously as we rolled on by.
When he wasn’t hopping out of the van to open and close a gate, Alec entertained us with anecdotes about filming. Judging from his stories, Alec didn’t seem to be aware of Vic’s personal involvement in preserving Hobbiton, but I got the feeling that Vic preferred it that way.
improvisation
The original plan was to drive down to the lowest point of the set, and then make our way up the hill to end our tour at Bag End. However, a downed tree – no doubt a result of the strong wind that had sprung up since we’d arrived – impeded our progress.
“No worries,” Vic assured us, utilizing another favorite New Zealand phrase. He began backing up the way we had come. “And you think driving on the left is hard,” laughed Vic. “Try driving backwards on the left!” I didn’t really want to try it; driving normally in New Zealand (on the wrong side of the car on the wrong side of the road) was difficult enough. You don’t realize how programmed you are when it comes to turn signals and windshield wipers until they’re suddenly on opposite sides of your steering wheel.
As Vic got us turned around, Alec made a quick phone call to the Shire’s Rest to let one of the Alexanders know about the downed tree. We could get to the site from another direction, but the farm van that was already parked at the bottom of the hill would have a much more difficult time getting back out with giant tree roots blocking the gravel roadway.
“No worries,” Vic assured us, utilizing another favorite New Zealand phrase. He began backing up the way we had come. “And you think driving on the left is hard,” laughed Vic. “Try driving backwards on the left!” I didn’t really want to try it; driving normally in New Zealand (on the wrong side of the car on the wrong side of the road) was difficult enough. You don’t realize how programmed you are when it comes to turn signals and windshield wipers until they’re suddenly on opposite sides of your steering wheel.
As Vic got us turned around, Alec made a quick phone call to the Shire’s Rest to let one of the Alexanders know about the downed tree. We could get to the site from another direction, but the farm van that was already parked at the bottom of the hill would have a much more difficult time getting back out with giant tree roots blocking the gravel roadway.
the shire
“I’m doing this the right way,” Josh, our Californicated classmate, announced in the midst of peeling off one of his socks five minutes later, after we hopped out of the van. He straightened, socks in hand, and tossed his California-sun-bleached hair, flashing a straight-toothed smile that would have put the stars of the Crest White Strips commercials to shame. Vic just chuckled, eyeing Josh’s bare feet.
“Your feet don’t have enough hair,” Melinda observed, pointing at one of Josh’s relatively hair-free feet.
“He may after today,” Vic said, chuckling again as he zipped his coat up to his chin, making him look rather like a turtle peeking out of its shell. I didn’t blame him. Already, the biting wind was tearing straight through my scarf and jacket. Looking around at the other girls as they shrunk down in their winter coats and donned their wooly gloves, I could tell they were feeling the same way.
After ensuring that we were all bundled up accordingly, we began following Vic and Alec down the slick side of a hill, trying our best not to slip. Josh squished along through the mud and sheep droppings alike, perhaps slightly more at risk than the rest of us as the glop oozed up between his toes.
Thanks to the downed tree, our entrance into Hobbiton took place from above, rather than from below, as is usually the case. We were all slightly taken aback when, suddenly, we crested the hill to find Hobbiton sprawled out at our feet. Tucked into the hillsides below us were seventeen white-washed facades with perfectly round holes cut into them where windows and doors would have been on normal house fronts. They would have undoubtedly looked curious to someone unfamiliar with Frodo and his quest to destroy the One Ring, but the six of us at the top of the hill, steeped in Tolkien lore as we were, knew exactly what they were: hobbit holes.
Beyond the hobbit holes, 1,250 acres of rolling farmland stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted here and there with gnarled, non-native pines and waddling wooly sheep.
Despite Alec’s urging for us to hurry down the hill so we could start our tour at the bottom, our progress was sluggish due to the amount of photos being taken. Una, with her bulky camera slung around her neck and her fiery-red hair whipping around in the brisk wind, was moving two steps per minute, at most. The rest of the Hobbiton first-timers weren’t much further ahead of her.
I sidled up alongside Denise once we had made our way halfway down the hill. She was crouched down in the muck, framing a photo of Bag End – Bilbo and Frodo’s home – as it loomed above us from its perch on the highest point of the hill.
“What do you think?”
“There are, basically, no words,” she said in her characteristic Valley-Girl-from-Vermont vernacular. She stood to examine the digital picture she’d just snapped, grinning, her cheeks and ears rosy from the wind. “I’m so jazzed right now; I kind of can’t believe I’m here!”
We followed Vic and Alec down the winding gravel path that led through the center of Hobbiton, pausing to peer into a darkened doorway every now and then. The doors don’t actually lead anywhere – the hobbit holes are nothing more than flat wooden facades pressed into the grass, after all – but that didn’t stop us from imagining round hallways with soft dirt floors leading off under the hills.
Alec stopped us just shy of the end of the gravel path, in front of a small, bare hill.
“You may not be able to recognize it now,” he said, indicating the hill in front of us, “but this is where Sam and Rosie’s hole sat at the end of ‘Return of the King.’ It was the last hobbit hole you saw in the trilogy.” A few people snapped photos. Later, I found myself wondering if they would feel silly explaining those photos of a bare hill to family and friends back home. But, in that moment, taking a photo of a bare hill seemed to make perfect sense.
“That’s what it looked like during filming,” Alec said, pointing to a photo board standing conveniently behind us. On it was a large picture of the hobbit hole complete with red door, garden and grassy roof – an image familiar to every one of us. The picture, we were told, along with about a dozen others, was given to the Alexanders by New Line as a gift after filming. During principal filming, cameras (other than the cinematic sort, of course) were forbidden on the property. Consequently, these behind-the-scenes photos are some of the only ones in existence that fans ever get the chance to see. Again, flashes went off.
“The owners are actually petitioning New Line to allow us to rebuild this hobbit hole, since they let us refurbish all the others,” Alec continued, referring to the new white-washed wood adorning all seventeen hobbit holes. “Though, if the rumors are true, they may be back here rebuilding it themselves soon enough.” He didn’t say any more, but six sets of eyes glanced over at Vic and six sets of lips curved up in knowing smiles.
“Your feet don’t have enough hair,” Melinda observed, pointing at one of Josh’s relatively hair-free feet.
“He may after today,” Vic said, chuckling again as he zipped his coat up to his chin, making him look rather like a turtle peeking out of its shell. I didn’t blame him. Already, the biting wind was tearing straight through my scarf and jacket. Looking around at the other girls as they shrunk down in their winter coats and donned their wooly gloves, I could tell they were feeling the same way.
After ensuring that we were all bundled up accordingly, we began following Vic and Alec down the slick side of a hill, trying our best not to slip. Josh squished along through the mud and sheep droppings alike, perhaps slightly more at risk than the rest of us as the glop oozed up between his toes.Thanks to the downed tree, our entrance into Hobbiton took place from above, rather than from below, as is usually the case. We were all slightly taken aback when, suddenly, we crested the hill to find Hobbiton sprawled out at our feet. Tucked into the hillsides below us were seventeen white-washed facades with perfectly round holes cut into them where windows and doors would have been on normal house fronts. They would have undoubtedly looked curious to someone unfamiliar with Frodo and his quest to destroy the One Ring, but the six of us at the top of the hill, steeped in Tolkien lore as we were, knew exactly what they were: hobbit holes.
Beyond the hobbit holes, 1,250 acres of rolling farmland stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted here and there with gnarled, non-native pines and waddling wooly sheep.Despite Alec’s urging for us to hurry down the hill so we could start our tour at the bottom, our progress was sluggish due to the amount of photos being taken. Una, with her bulky camera slung around her neck and her fiery-red hair whipping around in the brisk wind, was moving two steps per minute, at most. The rest of the Hobbiton first-timers weren’t much further ahead of her.
I sidled up alongside Denise once we had made our way halfway down the hill. She was crouched down in the muck, framing a photo of Bag End – Bilbo and Frodo’s home – as it loomed above us from its perch on the highest point of the hill.“What do you think?”
“There are, basically, no words,” she said in her characteristic Valley-Girl-from-Vermont vernacular. She stood to examine the digital picture she’d just snapped, grinning, her cheeks and ears rosy from the wind. “I’m so jazzed right now; I kind of can’t believe I’m here!”
We followed Vic and Alec down the winding gravel path that led through the center of Hobbiton, pausing to peer into a darkened doorway every now and then. The doors don’t actually lead anywhere – the hobbit holes are nothing more than flat wooden facades pressed into the grass, after all – but that didn’t stop us from imagining round hallways with soft dirt floors leading off under the hills.
Alec stopped us just shy of the end of the gravel path, in front of a small, bare hill.
“You may not be able to recognize it now,” he said, indicating the hill in front of us, “but this is where Sam and Rosie’s hole sat at the end of ‘Return of the King.’ It was the last hobbit hole you saw in the trilogy.” A few people snapped photos. Later, I found myself wondering if they would feel silly explaining those photos of a bare hill to family and friends back home. But, in that moment, taking a photo of a bare hill seemed to make perfect sense.
“That’s what it looked like during filming,” Alec said, pointing to a photo board standing conveniently behind us. On it was a large picture of the hobbit hole complete with red door, garden and grassy roof – an image familiar to every one of us. The picture, we were told, along with about a dozen others, was given to the Alexanders by New Line as a gift after filming. During principal filming, cameras (other than the cinematic sort, of course) were forbidden on the property. Consequently, these behind-the-scenes photos are some of the only ones in existence that fans ever get the chance to see. Again, flashes went off.
“The owners are actually petitioning New Line to allow us to rebuild this hobbit hole, since they let us refurbish all the others,” Alec continued, referring to the new white-washed wood adorning all seventeen hobbit holes. “Though, if the rumors are true, they may be back here rebuilding it themselves soon enough.” He didn’t say any more, but six sets of eyes glanced over at Vic and six sets of lips curved up in knowing smiles.
frolicking
We continued down the path until we stood beneath a towering pine tree on the edge of a small pond. The tree, tall and old with branches placed just right to form a rounded outline, commanded our full attention. Its needles rustled faintly as a particularly cold blast of wind whipped against our cheeks and foreheads.“I probably don’t have to tell you where you are right now, eh?” Alec said as he gestured to the scene before us. And, indeed, he didn’t.
“The Party Field!” four of us said at once.
Before Alec could rattle off how many hobbit ears or bottles of specially-brewed hobbit ale were used to film the party scene in “Fellowship of the Ring,” the six of us were grasping hands in a circle on the field beneath the Party Tree. The tree, a non-native pine, is roughly 120 years old, and was standing at its post beside the pond long before the Alexanders bought the farm in 1978, and longer still before it became famous in Tolkien circles as the Party Tree. But, regardless of where it came from and when, it will have only one identity from now on: the centerpiece of New Zealand’s Shire.
“Are you ready?” Josh asked the group as a whole with a toss of his hair. We nodded, bending our knees and shifting our weight in preparation.
“One, two, three, frolic!” Jen called out, tugging us all in a clockwise direction.
There were no further words or dancing instructions – just broad smiles and gleeful laughter. We spun until we were dizzy and out of breath, then took a break and did it again. We frolicked into a soggy patch of field, splashing cool mud up our jeans, and, in Josh’s case, legs. But it didn’t really seem to matter. In that moment, we weren’t exchange students; we weren’t tourists; we weren’t even strangers. We were simply frolicking.A brief rain shower, borne in on the brisk wind, interrupted us, and we took refuge under the large, gnarled boughs of the Party Tree. The tree’s long needles were fairly unsuccessful in protecting us from the cold, stinging rain, but we didn’t care.
“My face hurts from smiling so much,” Jen whispered to me as we all caught our breaths.
“Are you sure it’s not the wind?” I joked, knowing full well that it wasn’t – at least not entirely.
“Yeah, I’d say I’m about 99 percent sure.” She shot me a full-toothed grin before recruiting Josh to take a picture of her hanging off one of the tree’s thick branches.
Once the shower passed, the clouds parted to allow an unhindered sun to illuminate the close-cropped grass and white hobbit holes once more. The bright sun lent the whole area an after-rain sheen that made it even more breathtaking than before. The grass was somehow greener, and the air somehow fresher. Even the blue of the sky seemed half a shade brighter. Despite it being my second trip to Hobbiton, it was like I was seeing it for the first time. I wondered if that feeling had worn off yet for Vic, who makes this day-trip to Hobbiton three or four times a week.“You know,” he said as we climbed up the hill to Bag End, “this is one of the sites I never tire of visiting, no matter how many times I’m here.” Looking out over the lush green fields of Middle-Earth, it wasn’t hard to understand why.
bag end
I soon found myself standing on the stone doorstep of Bilbo’s home, looking out over the sprawling farm as the wind whistled past my ears and lifted my hair off the back of my neck. It was easy to see why this place was chosen as Hobbiton. From that elevated vantage point, there’s nothing but green as far as the eye can see; no skyscrapers or paved roads interrupt the view – it’s just grass and sheep for miles.“Over 165,000 people have seen this here view,” Alec said.
He allowed us to stand in silence for another moment, and then motioned for us to pile into Bag End. While the other sixteen hobbit holes on the property are simply wooden fronts, the Bag End exterior actually extends roughly five feet into the hill behind it. The floor – smoother and cleaner than I remembered it from three years before – and the wooden walls were illuminated by a bare bulb hanging above our heads.
“They of course didn’t film inside of this,” Alec said. “All of that was done inside a studio in Wellington.”“But at least now we can say we’ve been inside Bag End,” Josh said, stooping to peer out one of the small, rounded windows. Denise leaned over his shoulder, poising her camera to snap a picture of the Party Tree, using the round window as a frame.
“It’s like a postcard,” she said, reviewing the photo she’d just taken on her digital camera. “Only better.”a meal fit for a hobbit
We were all slightly reluctant to go back to the van. But the quickly-gathering rain clouds in the distance and our grumbling stomachs urged us on. “Better try to wipe those off before you get back in,” Vic said as we reached the van, motioning to Josh’s brown feet. “I don’t want to find any surprises on my floor mats.”
We returned to the Shire’s Rest just as the clouds opened up in a proper downpour, which we watched from the cozy interior where we had a hobbit-inspired meal: sandwich triangles, miniature oranges, and small meat pies. There was even SobeRing Thought beer for sale, the nearly non-alcoholic beer brewed specifically by Harrington’s Breweries in Christchurch for the films. For the party scene in Hobbiton in “The Fellowship of the Ring,” the production crew needed an authentic-looking beer that wouldn’t get the actors drunk after multiple takes. The result was SobeRing Thought (a clever – or perhaps painful – pun by the manufacturer), which is made with only 1 percent alcohol. Today, it’s predominantly a novelty beer that only a fan of the trilogy would be likely to seek out.“How is it?” Josh asked, turning a bottle of the brew in his hands and glancing skeptically over at Vic.
“Not bad,” Vic said. “Though, coming from a Kiwi, I’m not sure how much weight that holds with you Americans.” “Americans” of course came out “Ameericans,” and Josh laughed, but I don’t think it was because of Vic’s accent.
Josh decided against the $3 hobbit beer, and replaced it in the cooler he’d plucked it from. As he returned to his seat, Jen cleared her throat.
“I propose a toast,” Jen announced, holding up her small water glass. “To new friends and great adventures. To our fellowship.”
back to reality
The ride back to Auckland that afternoon was quiet and sleepy, with many of us dozing off periodically in the back of the van. I, too, felt my eyelids growing heavy, and had to fight to keep them open as we cruised through the sea of green hills on our way back to the city. Grey-white clouds slunk back into the sky as we put distance between ourselves and the Shire. By the time the Auckland Sky Tower came back into view through our windshield, thin, wraith-like clouds threatened to shroud its top.I shivered involuntarily as I climbed out of the van fifteen minutes later. Without the sun, there was a chill in the evening air, and I wasn’t wearing enough layers. I gave Vic a big hug after he finished unloading our bags from the back of the van.
“Thanks for everything, Vic,” I said. “It was just as great the second time around.”
“No worries; anytime,” he said, hugging me back. “Hopefully we’ll see you again soon.”
I hoped so, too. Because, looking up at the dreary sky, and down congested Queen Street, I found myself already missing the Shire. Standing on the gum-stained pavement in the fading light, we seemed so far from the pristine green of Middle-Earth. For the time being, at least, we were back to reality.
wellington
As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait very long to return to Middle-Earth. Two weeks after my sojourn to the Shire, I received an e-mail from Vic’s wife, Raewyn, inviting me to join the August Red Carpet Tour group for the Wellington portion of their 12-day adventure.
By mid-August, I had been living in Wellington for more than a month. Even though it was a bigger city than any I’d ever lived in, I was comfortable there on my own. I spent many long afternoons allowing myself to get lost downtown in order to discover the quirks that make Wellington the city that it is.
Unlike the small towns I’ve lived in in Ohio, Wellington seems to be designed with the curious pedestrian in mind. A sunny afternoon in the city offers itself up for a stroll down Taranaki Street to Lambton Harbor, where active Wellingtonians can be found paddling bright yellow kayaks and rigging up small sailboats in the deep blue South Pacific water.
Continue on along the shore to Oriental Bay on a spring weekend, and you’re bound to see dogs ambling along with rollerblading owners in tow, children licking away at towering cones of brightly colored gelato, and lanky teens playing games of pick-up rugby in the pearl-white sand.
Even on the not-so-nice days (of which there are more than enough in “windy Wellington”), there’s plenty to do. My favorite place to go in my free time was Cuba Street, the center of all things culturally eclectic in Wellington. There are restaurants representing an array of nationalities – including The Matterhorn, which was named the best restaurant in New Zealand by Cuisine magazine – pubs, art galleries, fresh fruit stands, and a variety of stores ranging from the $2 Shop to boutique fashion establishments.
A stroll down a few Cuba blocks yields an entire sensory experience. There’s the smell of the Sushi Takeaway restaurant at the corner of Cuba and Vivian, followed by the bright orange posters and adverts of EFF-JAYS Adult Shop. Street performers often lay their open guitar cases outside of Farmer’s clothing store, strains of their strumming mingling with the tip-tap of women’s boot heels and the repetitive “thu-thump” of skateboard wheels rolling over the bricks that line the street.
But the aspect of Cuba Street that really makes it a prime destination on any day is the people found there. There are teens in school uniforms exchanging text messages; bohemian college students looking tragically artistic in their skinny jeans and Converse tennis shoes; international travelers toting overstuffed backpacks and clutching city maps; and business men and women rushing to catch the next bus. One afternoon, I was accosted by a young, long-haired, long-skirted Hindu woman trying to get me to make a donation in order to get a “free” copy of the Bhagavad Gita. Another afternoon, volunteers armed with orange smiley-face balloons and clipboards offered to register me to vote in the upcoming national election. They were, perhaps unsurprisingly, disappointed to find out that I wasn’t even a citizen. On another memorable evening, a likely homeless, possibly drunk man named Pete with flowing black hair and very few teeth offered to buy me a drink.
And, though the sights and smells and sounds of the city enchanted me, I found it was the even smaller details that gave Wellington its charm. Being a “Lord of the Rings” fan in the city where director Peter Jackson lives and works, I found delight in noticing the veiled – and often not-so-veiled – references to the city’s involvement with the films. They often appeared in unexpected places, which made it that much more fun to spot them. There’s the “Mordor” pizza you can order off the Hell Pizza menu, in case the “Lust,” “Mayhem,” or any other themed pizzas don’t appeal to you. There are the few yellow “Go Wellington” buses with phrases like “Go win an Oscar” and “Go film a trilogy” emblazoned on their sides. One day, I even came across a sign outside a beauty parlor that said, “We wax everything, including hobbits!”
It seems that, for many proud Wellingtonians, “Lord of the Rings” has become a part of their everyday lives. Immersed as the city is in New Zealand’s cinematic past, present and future, it is therefore rife with “Lord of the Rings” filming locations, production studios, and people who were involved in the trilogy. And, for the sort of fans that can be found on Vic and Raewyn’s Red Carpet Tours, this makes Wellington a trip highlight.
By mid-August, I had been living in Wellington for more than a month. Even though it was a bigger city than any I’d ever lived in, I was comfortable there on my own. I spent many long afternoons allowing myself to get lost downtown in order to discover the quirks that make Wellington the city that it is.
Unlike the small towns I’ve lived in in Ohio, Wellington seems to be designed with the curious pedestrian in mind. A sunny afternoon in the city offers itself up for a stroll down Taranaki Street to Lambton Harbor, where active Wellingtonians can be found paddling bright yellow kayaks and rigging up small sailboats in the deep blue South Pacific water. 
Continue on along the shore to Oriental Bay on a spring weekend, and you’re bound to see dogs ambling along with rollerblading owners in tow, children licking away at towering cones of brightly colored gelato, and lanky teens playing games of pick-up rugby in the pearl-white sand.Even on the not-so-nice days (of which there are more than enough in “windy Wellington”), there’s plenty to do. My favorite place to go in my free time was Cuba Street, the center of all things culturally eclectic in Wellington. There are restaurants representing an array of nationalities – including The Matterhorn, which was named the best restaurant in New Zealand by Cuisine magazine – pubs, art galleries, fresh fruit stands, and a variety of stores ranging from the $2 Shop to boutique fashion establishments.
A stroll down a few Cuba blocks yields an entire sensory experience. There’s the smell of the Sushi Takeaway restaurant at the corner of Cuba and Vivian, followed by the bright orange posters and adverts of EFF-JAYS Adult Shop. Street performers often lay their open guitar cases outside of Farmer’s clothing store, strains of their strumming mingling with the tip-tap of women’s boot heels and the repetitive “thu-thump” of skateboard wheels rolling over the bricks that line the street.
But the aspect of Cuba Street that really makes it a prime destination on any day is the people found there. There are teens in school uniforms exchanging text messages; bohemian college students looking tragically artistic in their skinny jeans and Converse tennis shoes; international travelers toting overstuffed backpacks and clutching city maps; and business men and women rushing to catch the next bus. One afternoon, I was accosted by a young, long-haired, long-skirted Hindu woman trying to get me to make a donation in order to get a “free” copy of the Bhagavad Gita. Another afternoon, volunteers armed with orange smiley-face balloons and clipboards offered to register me to vote in the upcoming national election. They were, perhaps unsurprisingly, disappointed to find out that I wasn’t even a citizen. On another memorable evening, a likely homeless, possibly drunk man named Pete with flowing black hair and very few teeth offered to buy me a drink.
And, though the sights and smells and sounds of the city enchanted me, I found it was the even smaller details that gave Wellington its charm. Being a “Lord of the Rings” fan in the city where director Peter Jackson lives and works, I found delight in noticing the veiled – and often not-so-veiled – references to the city’s involvement with the films. They often appeared in unexpected places, which made it that much more fun to spot them. There’s the “Mordor” pizza you can order off the Hell Pizza menu, in case the “Lust,” “Mayhem,” or any other themed pizzas don’t appeal to you. There are the few yellow “Go Wellington” buses with phrases like “Go win an Oscar” and “Go film a trilogy” emblazoned on their sides. One day, I even came across a sign outside a beauty parlor that said, “We wax everything, including hobbits!” It seems that, for many proud Wellingtonians, “Lord of the Rings” has become a part of their everyday lives. Immersed as the city is in New Zealand’s cinematic past, present and future, it is therefore rife with “Lord of the Rings” filming locations, production studios, and people who were involved in the trilogy. And, for the sort of fans that can be found on Vic and Raewyn’s Red Carpet Tours, this makes Wellington a trip highlight.
the august fellowship
I met the “August Fellowship” (as they would come to call themselves) on a rainy Thursday evening. I sloshed my way down Taranaki Street to the Green Parrot restaurant, where I met the group for dinner. They arrived minutes before I did, and the small eatery was nothing but a flourish of winter coats when I walked through the door. I made my way over to the long table that had been set up for us, and ran into Vic first. Wearing his usual rugby polo, Koru necklace, and warm smile, he gave me a slightly damp hug.
“Wellington weather,” he said with a chuckle. “This is why I live in Auckland.”
Before I could reply, a delighted “Oh!!” caught my attention, and I soon found myself in Raewyn’s embrace.
“It’s so lovely to see you! I’m so glad you could make it. You found it all right?” Vic’s similarly plump and jolly wife Raewyn didn’t even wait for me to respond, but instead took me by the elbow and led me over to the large table. “Come, come, let me introduce you.”
One person at the table needed no introduction, however. As soon as she spotted me with Raewyn, Josephine was out of her seat and beckoning me into my third hug of the evening. Josephine, a small Taiwanese woman with a big love for all things “Lord of the Rings,” had been one of my tourmates three years previously. Still bundled in her red, puffy down jacket and floppy knit hat, she looked exactly as I remembered her.
“She is part of my fellowship,” Josephine explained to the rest of the group, who had, by that point, taken notice of me.
“Yes, that’s right!” Raewyn said, just remembering herself. “Josephine and Amanda were both on our July 2005 tour. Isn’t that lovely?”
“And now Amanda’s studying here in Wellington,” Vic chimed in from the other end of the long table. Everyone greeted me, and began introducing themselves.
“We’ve heard all about you,” Dulce said as she gently shook my hand.
“I’ve heard about you, too,” I told her, indicating her and her new English husband, Anthony. The couple had met on a Red Carpet Tour in 2006, and kept in contact when they returned home to Portugal and England, respectively. After Dulce divorced her first husband, her relationship with Anthony grew stronger. The couple were married in July 2008, and they chose a second Red Carpet Tour for their honeymoon. Raewyn calls it one of RCT’s “sweetest stories.”
After shaking a quiet Anthony’s hand, as well, I was introduced to Mary and Susi. Both American expatriates, Mary (now from Germany) and Susi (now from Italy) were the oldest, most seasoned members of the tour, and referred to themselves as “veterans.” This would mark their third journey through Middle-Earth with Vic and Raewyn.
“I just can’t help myself.” Susi shrugged, pausing to brush a strand of long, grey hair behind her ear. “I can’t stay away.” Susi now helps Vic and Raewyn promote Red Carpet Tours overseas, and at various conventions.
And though Raewyn said there has been a trend recently toward “reunion tours,” the August group did have three fresh faces, each of them eager to experience Middle-Earth for the first time.
There was Charlotte from Germany, who was planning to remain in New Zealand for six months following the tour in order to work. There was Lisa, a California grad student who had been visiting a friend in Auckland and stumbled upon Red Carpet Tours accidentally three days before this particular tour left.
“Talk about last minute,” she laughed.
And there was Echo, a Disney employee with a very precise way of speaking. The group, true to Red Carpet form, was diverse in every way possible. But, here, things like age and nationality were secondary attributes. The only feature that really matters in Red Carpet Tour members is their passion for “Lord of the Rings.” And, with the majority of the August Fellowship embarking on their second and third tours, their passion was certainly not in question.
Dinner progressed amicably, with me mostly listening to the conversation going on around me and sneaking quick peeks at the large mural on the wall at my back. The Green Parrot is traditionally the first stop upon arrival in Wellington for Red Carpet groups partially because of this mural. Along with everyday kiwis and a few political figure heads, the mural also depicts director Peter Jackson, the hobbit Samwise Gamgee, the elven princess Arwen, and Viggo Mortensen, the actor who portrayed Aragorn in the films. It’s said that the Green Parrot was Mortensen’s favorite Wellington eatery, and so that automatically makes it worth going to for a “Lord of the Rings” fan.
“I thought maybe they change it,” Josephine said when she noticed me looking back at the mural. “But I’m glad they don’t.”
Halfway through our meal, Raewyn came down to my end of the table with another guest in tow. Erica Challis, a Wellington native, had also joined the group for dinner. Erica is a journalist and founder of the fan Web site theonering.net, and provided Vic with suggestions on possible tour locations and contacts with land owners during the development process of Red Carpet Tours. She caught Vic’s attention during the early filming of the trilogy when she was served a trespass notice by New Line Cinema for trying to get onto a site.
“I knew she was exactly the person we wanted to be working with,” Vic said. “Someone willing to go that far to find out what was going on.”
Raewyn and Erica planted themselves opposite me.
“I thought we’d come down here to have a chat to you,” Raewyn said. “That end of the table –” she motioned to Vic, “is a bit boring anyway.” She then laughed her high, tinkling laugh that I remember loving so much, and introduced me to Erica.
Erica Challis, upon first glance, doesn’t at all strike you as a hard-hitting journalist. Certainly not the type of journalist who would let herself get into trouble in order to get a story. Erica is soft-spoken and a little nervous in groups. She has twitchy habits like playing with her hair and letting her eyes dart around the room. But she’s friendly and passionate, and we talked briefly about Massey University (where she got her degree, and where I was currently studying) and its journalism program.
We were interrupted, however, when the large Maori group at the table next to us broke out a ukulele and began singing “Happy Birthday.”
“One of them’s an MP – Member of Parliament,” Erica said, indicating a weathered-looking man two seats down from the ukulele.
“Oh, how lovely!” Raewyn exclaimed, and began clapping along with the song. Susi, down at the other end of the table, even joined in on singing “Happy Birthday.” Once the song was finished, the Maori table cheered, and our table burst into giggles.
“I love New Zealand,” Lisa said.
“Wellington weather,” he said with a chuckle. “This is why I live in Auckland.”
Before I could reply, a delighted “Oh!!” caught my attention, and I soon found myself in Raewyn’s embrace.
“It’s so lovely to see you! I’m so glad you could make it. You found it all right?” Vic’s similarly plump and jolly wife Raewyn didn’t even wait for me to respond, but instead took me by the elbow and led me over to the large table. “Come, come, let me introduce you.”
One person at the table needed no introduction, however. As soon as she spotted me with Raewyn, Josephine was out of her seat and beckoning me into my third hug of the evening. Josephine, a small Taiwanese woman with a big love for all things “Lord of the Rings,” had been one of my tourmates three years previously. Still bundled in her red, puffy down jacket and floppy knit hat, she looked exactly as I remembered her.
“She is part of my fellowship,” Josephine explained to the rest of the group, who had, by that point, taken notice of me.
“Yes, that’s right!” Raewyn said, just remembering herself. “Josephine and Amanda were both on our July 2005 tour. Isn’t that lovely?”
“And now Amanda’s studying here in Wellington,” Vic chimed in from the other end of the long table. Everyone greeted me, and began introducing themselves.
“We’ve heard all about you,” Dulce said as she gently shook my hand.
“I’ve heard about you, too,” I told her, indicating her and her new English husband, Anthony. The couple had met on a Red Carpet Tour in 2006, and kept in contact when they returned home to Portugal and England, respectively. After Dulce divorced her first husband, her relationship with Anthony grew stronger. The couple were married in July 2008, and they chose a second Red Carpet Tour for their honeymoon. Raewyn calls it one of RCT’s “sweetest stories.”
After shaking a quiet Anthony’s hand, as well, I was introduced to Mary and Susi. Both American expatriates, Mary (now from Germany) and Susi (now from Italy) were the oldest, most seasoned members of the tour, and referred to themselves as “veterans.” This would mark their third journey through Middle-Earth with Vic and Raewyn.
“I just can’t help myself.” Susi shrugged, pausing to brush a strand of long, grey hair behind her ear. “I can’t stay away.” Susi now helps Vic and Raewyn promote Red Carpet Tours overseas, and at various conventions.
And though Raewyn said there has been a trend recently toward “reunion tours,” the August group did have three fresh faces, each of them eager to experience Middle-Earth for the first time.
There was Charlotte from Germany, who was planning to remain in New Zealand for six months following the tour in order to work. There was Lisa, a California grad student who had been visiting a friend in Auckland and stumbled upon Red Carpet Tours accidentally three days before this particular tour left.
“Talk about last minute,” she laughed.
And there was Echo, a Disney employee with a very precise way of speaking. The group, true to Red Carpet form, was diverse in every way possible. But, here, things like age and nationality were secondary attributes. The only feature that really matters in Red Carpet Tour members is their passion for “Lord of the Rings.” And, with the majority of the August Fellowship embarking on their second and third tours, their passion was certainly not in question.
Dinner progressed amicably, with me mostly listening to the conversation going on around me and sneaking quick peeks at the large mural on the wall at my back. The Green Parrot is traditionally the first stop upon arrival in Wellington for Red Carpet groups partially because of this mural. Along with everyday kiwis and a few political figure heads, the mural also depicts director Peter Jackson, the hobbit Samwise Gamgee, the elven princess Arwen, and Viggo Mortensen, the actor who portrayed Aragorn in the films. It’s said that the Green Parrot was Mortensen’s favorite Wellington eatery, and so that automatically makes it worth going to for a “Lord of the Rings” fan.
“I thought maybe they change it,” Josephine said when she noticed me looking back at the mural. “But I’m glad they don’t.”Halfway through our meal, Raewyn came down to my end of the table with another guest in tow. Erica Challis, a Wellington native, had also joined the group for dinner. Erica is a journalist and founder of the fan Web site theonering.net, and provided Vic with suggestions on possible tour locations and contacts with land owners during the development process of Red Carpet Tours. She caught Vic’s attention during the early filming of the trilogy when she was served a trespass notice by New Line Cinema for trying to get onto a site.
“I knew she was exactly the person we wanted to be working with,” Vic said. “Someone willing to go that far to find out what was going on.”
Raewyn and Erica planted themselves opposite me.“I thought we’d come down here to have a chat to you,” Raewyn said. “That end of the table –” she motioned to Vic, “is a bit boring anyway.” She then laughed her high, tinkling laugh that I remember loving so much, and introduced me to Erica.
Erica Challis, upon first glance, doesn’t at all strike you as a hard-hitting journalist. Certainly not the type of journalist who would let herself get into trouble in order to get a story. Erica is soft-spoken and a little nervous in groups. She has twitchy habits like playing with her hair and letting her eyes dart around the room. But she’s friendly and passionate, and we talked briefly about Massey University (where she got her degree, and where I was currently studying) and its journalism program.
We were interrupted, however, when the large Maori group at the table next to us broke out a ukulele and began singing “Happy Birthday.”
“One of them’s an MP – Member of Parliament,” Erica said, indicating a weathered-looking man two seats down from the ukulele.
“Oh, how lovely!” Raewyn exclaimed, and began clapping along with the song. Susi, down at the other end of the table, even joined in on singing “Happy Birthday.” Once the song was finished, the Maori table cheered, and our table burst into giggles.
“I love New Zealand,” Lisa said.
the day begins
It rained overnight and into the early morning hours. When I woke on Friday to make my way to the Copthorne Oriental Bay Hotel where the Red Carpet group was staying, the streets and sidewalks bore evidence of the showers in the form of sporadic, shallow puddles. I did my best to avoid them – along with the dripping awnings along Taranaki Street and Courtenay Place – during my twenty-five-minute walk down to the bay. It was a windy and slightly chilly morning in the city, but at least the clouds overhead seemed all rained out.
Navigating my way to the Pencarrow Conference Room, I entered just as calligrapher and mapmaker Daniel Reeve was finishing up his breakfast session with the August Fellowship. When I walked in, the “Lord of the Rings” artist was holding up a hand-drawn map of Middle-Earth and explaining the techniques he used to make it look aged. The August group, seated around a large conference table in front of Daniel, all had their cameras pointed at him and the map. The table itself was piled high with more maps, sketches, watercolors, and pages of calligraphy of all different styles. Quite a few items in the top layer of parchment were familiar – a map of the Shire, a page written in Dwarvish, and the cover page of Bilbo Baggins’ “Red Book” emblazoned with “A Hobbit’s Tale” in a scrawling script – all of which appeared on screen in the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy. I remembered most of them from a similar session three years earlier, though a few “Chronicles of Narnia” and “Pirates of the Caribbean” items were new, since Daniel had worked on those films since 2005.
Daniel, with his T-shirt, jeans, and casual smile, is the type of unlikely person that can captivate without even trying. His artistic talents and amusing anecdotes had the August Fellowship enthralled, and Raewyn was the only one who noticed me come in.
“What perfect timing!” she whispered as I sidled over to her at one end of the table. “Daniel’s just finishing up here.” We had planned it out so that I would join the group at the end of his session. But, even though his show-and-tell officially ended minutes after I came in, we remained in the conference room for at least half an hour more. Daniel was taking special quote requests (for a mere $20, he would personalize a quote in any Middle-Earth script) and posing for plenty of photos. Susi, her long grey hair pulled back in a low ponytail, seemed intent on photographing everyone and everything in the room at least twice. She even took my picture in front of the large windows overlooking Oriental Bay, where the sun was struggling to break through the clouds.
“Okay,” Vic eventually piped up, clasping his hands together in a signal of finality. “We need to get moving. They’re expecting us at Weta, and we can’t be late.”
“Oh, yes, yes! Don’t want to be late for Weta!” Raewyn chimed in. I had to smile at the Jameses. Vic, in his mild-mannered tones, and Raewyn, with her complete enthusiasm for everything, made the perfect guiding couple. They weren’t the archetypal patronizing tour guides, but nor were they disorganized or lackadaisical in their handling of the day-to-day tasks associated with running group tours. Somehow, with them, everything just flowed.
Navigating my way to the Pencarrow Conference Room, I entered just as calligrapher and mapmaker Daniel Reeve was finishing up his breakfast session with the August Fellowship. When I walked in, the “Lord of the Rings” artist was holding up a hand-drawn map of Middle-Earth and explaining the techniques he used to make it look aged. The August group, seated around a large conference table in front of Daniel, all had their cameras pointed at him and the map. The table itself was piled high with more maps, sketches, watercolors, and pages of calligraphy of all different styles. Quite a few items in the top layer of parchment were familiar – a map of the Shire, a page written in Dwarvish, and the cover page of Bilbo Baggins’ “Red Book” emblazoned with “A Hobbit’s Tale” in a scrawling script – all of which appeared on screen in the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy. I remembered most of them from a similar session three years earlier, though a few “Chronicles of Narnia” and “Pirates of the Caribbean” items were new, since Daniel had worked on those films since 2005.
Daniel, with his T-shirt, jeans, and casual smile, is the type of unlikely person that can captivate without even trying. His artistic talents and amusing anecdotes had the August Fellowship enthralled, and Raewyn was the only one who noticed me come in.
“What perfect timing!” she whispered as I sidled over to her at one end of the table. “Daniel’s just finishing up here.” We had planned it out so that I would join the group at the end of his session. But, even though his show-and-tell officially ended minutes after I came in, we remained in the conference room for at least half an hour more. Daniel was taking special quote requests (for a mere $20, he would personalize a quote in any Middle-Earth script) and posing for plenty of photos. Susi, her long grey hair pulled back in a low ponytail, seemed intent on photographing everyone and everything in the room at least twice. She even took my picture in front of the large windows overlooking Oriental Bay, where the sun was struggling to break through the clouds.
“Okay,” Vic eventually piped up, clasping his hands together in a signal of finality. “We need to get moving. They’re expecting us at Weta, and we can’t be late.”
“Oh, yes, yes! Don’t want to be late for Weta!” Raewyn chimed in. I had to smile at the Jameses. Vic, in his mild-mannered tones, and Raewyn, with her complete enthusiasm for everything, made the perfect guiding couple. They weren’t the archetypal patronizing tour guides, but nor were they disorganized or lackadaisical in their handling of the day-to-day tasks associated with running group tours. Somehow, with them, everything just flowed.
to miramar
Soon we were squeezing into Vic’s silver Sprinter, which, this time around, was nearly full to capacity. I wedged between Susi and Mary for the ride to Miramar, a suburb on the southeast side of Wellington. Miramar has been dubbed “Wellywood” by many New Zealanders, and – thanks to Peter Jackson and his team of artisans – is currently the center of the country’s film industry.
Getting to Miramar consisted of following State Highway 1 through the outskirts of downtown Wellington, and passing through the Mount Victoria Tunnel. As we entered the dim, fluorescent-lit cement tube, Vic began sounding the van’s horn.
“It’s tradition,” he said. “Ideally, they’re supposed to honk back.” He was referring to the other drivers in the tunnel, most of whom seemed to be ignoring this “tradition.” It wasn’t until Vic’s fourth and final attempt that he got a response – two, in fact – from oncoming motorists. Everyone in the van cheered, and Vic chuckled. “Was worried there for a second,” he admitted.
Soon after we exited the tunnel, the near side of Evan’s Bay came into view. On the far bank of the wind-swept water sat a decrepit-looking, rusted-out ship, tethered to a similarly dilapidated dock. Vic pointed it out through the windshield (or “windscreen” to the Kiwis) as we rounded the head of the bay.
“If you’ve seen ‘King Kong,’ that boat may look familiar,” he said, referring to another of Peter Jackson’s ambitious cinematic projects. “They used that for the Venture in a few scenes.” Camera shutters flickered as we drove by.
“Just like one from last time,” Josephine commented as she reviewed the digital photo on her all-purpose phone. “Why do they just leave it sit there?” No one seemed to have an answer, but I wondered if it wasn’t for curious tourists like ourselves who occasionally rolled into Miramar in search of a taste of Hollywood.
Getting to Miramar consisted of following State Highway 1 through the outskirts of downtown Wellington, and passing through the Mount Victoria Tunnel. As we entered the dim, fluorescent-lit cement tube, Vic began sounding the van’s horn.
“It’s tradition,” he said. “Ideally, they’re supposed to honk back.” He was referring to the other drivers in the tunnel, most of whom seemed to be ignoring this “tradition.” It wasn’t until Vic’s fourth and final attempt that he got a response – two, in fact – from oncoming motorists. Everyone in the van cheered, and Vic chuckled. “Was worried there for a second,” he admitted.
Soon after we exited the tunnel, the near side of Evan’s Bay came into view. On the far bank of the wind-swept water sat a decrepit-looking, rusted-out ship, tethered to a similarly dilapidated dock. Vic pointed it out through the windshield (or “windscreen” to the Kiwis) as we rounded the head of the bay.“If you’ve seen ‘King Kong,’ that boat may look familiar,” he said, referring to another of Peter Jackson’s ambitious cinematic projects. “They used that for the Venture in a few scenes.” Camera shutters flickered as we drove by.
“Just like one from last time,” Josephine commented as she reviewed the digital photo on her all-purpose phone. “Why do they just leave it sit there?” No one seemed to have an answer, but I wondered if it wasn’t for curious tourists like ourselves who occasionally rolled into Miramar in search of a taste of Hollywood.
in the cave
Our first stop was the newly-opened Weta Cave on Camperdown Road. Just a few buildings down from Weta Workshop – the facility that churned out hundreds of weapons, props, costumes, creatures, and miniatures for “The Lord of the Rings” – the Cave is essentially Weta’s retail outlet. Visitors can watch a 20-minute video in a dark, cave-like room that showcases Weta Workshop’s and sister company Weta Digital’s skills, incorporating short clips from films they’ve worked on and special behind-the-scenes footage. 
Afterwards, curious fans can peruse the Weta shop. With weapons, costumes and props from movies like “The Lord of the Rings,” “The Chronicles of Narnia” and “Hellboy” on display in glass cases, and everything from T-shirts to sword replicas to stone busts of favorite characters for sale, a film fan could conceivably spend hours – and large sums of money – in the small, faux-stone-lined shop.But our group was on a strict schedule. It was in and out, with only enough time to view the video and browse through the store for about 15 minutes afterward. Even in the short time we spent there, though, I noticed a steady trickle of visitors into the Cave. As I was waiting for the cashier to ring up my two key chains, I asked him how many visitors the site saw on an average day.
“On a day like today?” he asked, pausing briefly to think about it. “Probably between 50 and 100. But that’s a slow day.”“And what’s a not-so-slow-day like?”
“I’d say maybe 250 to 500 people come through here when we’re really busy.” I was impressed. For such a small shop with relatively expensive things for sale, that seemed like pretty decent business. But, then again, I suppose if you’re the sole store connected to an industry giant like Weta, you’re bound to garner a good bit of attention.
There were a few groans as we were eventually ushered out the door by Vic and Raewyn.
“Don’t worry,” Raewyn said in what I guessed was an attempt to assuage any mutinous tendencies brewing within the group. “This next bit will be worth it.”
“I didn’t even get to look at all the ‘Narnia’ stuff,” Echo mumbled, glancing back rather longingly over her shoulder. “Then again,” she murmured, turning to Lisa, “it’s probably a good thing. I may have bought them out.”
behind the scenes
But Raewyn was right – what followed was definitely worth a shortened visit to the Cave. After walking roughly half a block down the quiet residential street, we climbed a set of unassuming stairs and entered the offices of Weta Workshop. We were greeted by a short, blonde woman named Anita who quickly distributed pens and sheets of official-looking paper.“What are these?” Charlotte asked, skimming over the form in front of her.
“Confidentiality agreements,” Anita responded, double checking that everyone got one. “Oh, you don’t need them,” she said, snatching a copy back from Vic and Raewyn. “We’ve probably got a handful on file for you already.” Raewyn just laughed.
“Yes, I suppose we’re familiar faces by now.”
After we signed and dated the forms, Anita filed them away and led us down a dimly-lit hallway, followed by a narrow staircase. Around some corners and through a few doorways, and we were all sufficiently turned around. I don’t think that was the point; I think that’s just the way Weta is laid out. But, regardless, we were glad when we finally came to a stop in a relatively large, open room. The room was filled with costumed mannequins, many of them sporting armor, chainmail, and tunics recognizable from some of our favorite Weta-related films. There was also a life-size replica of a familiar large, hairy ape that Anita informed us took two costumers two months to stitch with individual hairs. I could tell that more than a few members of the group – me included – were itching to sneak a quick photo.
Anita then guided us through the bowels of Weta, pointing out unique artwork, miniatures, and staff members as we passed them. We ended up at the “Wall of Weapons,” which, contrary to its name, is actually more of a hallway. I won’t go into detail, since I’ve most certainly already breached my confidentiality agreement, but I’m sure you can imagine what we saw there.
After some time admiring the bows of elves and swords of kings, Anita led us back the way we came. As we passed through the offices, I caught a glimpse of Richard Taylor and Tania Rodger, the heads of Weta, reclining in a glass-paned office. Their faces are almost as recognizable to a Ringer as those of Peter Jackson and Elijah Wood. My heart skipped a beat as I realized that this – getting behind the scenes at Weta – was a big deal.
Depositing us in a small boardroom plastered with news clippings and autographed cast photos, Anita then played us another Weta video. This one was a “show reel,” which highlighted more of their work. They’ve worked on bits and pieces of more films than I think we realized, including a train explosion scene in “The Legend of Zorro,” weapons for “The Last Samurai,” and a naval battle sequence in “Master and Commander,” among others.
Once the DVD was over, we thought it was our cue to leave. Josephine began bundling back up in her down jacket and droopy knit hat, and Lisa wound her bright red scarf twice around her neck.
Just then Anita returned with a little gold key.
the unexpected
“I think I need to be pinched,” Charlotte whispered a minute later as she reached out with both hands to take one of the glittering golden statues being passed to her. She curled her thin fingers tightly around it, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth as Susi – now free from the conditions of the confidentiality agreements – snapped a photo. Similar camera flashes lit up the boardroom as the five identical statues made their rounds.
The little gold key, it turned out, fit perfectly in the small silver lock fastened to the glass case containing Weta Workshop’s five Academy Awards, all won for work done on the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy. Thanks to Vic and Raewyn’s positive relationship with Weta, we had the unique pleasure of getting up close and personal with Oscar himself. If our visit to Weta had been a big deal before, this definitely turned it into a momentous occasion.“So heavy!” Josephine exclaimed, pretending to be weighed down by two statues, one in each hand. “How do Peter Jackson hold four of them up?” she asked in her broken English, sounding slightly bewildered at the thought.
As the five Academy Awards made their way from one set of eager, outstretched hands to the next, bewilderment and awe seemed to be a common reaction.
“I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Get a picture; I may not believe it myself tomorrow.”
“Seriously, somebody pinch me.”
Amidst the camera flashes and exclamations of disbelief, no one in the group seemed to notice a tall, bespectacled figure slip into the room. I was in the midst of posing for a photo with Josephine and an Oscar when I glanced toward the doorway, only to see Richard Taylor himself backlit by sunshine in front of the glass. It was – excuse the cliché and horrible pun – like something straight out of a movie.“Sorry I’m late,” he said, flashing a playful, slightly crooked grin.
An awed silence fell as the group took notice of Richard. Charlotte and Dulce froze where they were, Oscars in hand, and even Susi’s shutter was still. But the silence didn’t last. It was broken by an outburst of greetings, tumbling from every mouth and jumbling together in an indecipherable clump of syllables. Richard just laughed before thanking us for stopping by.
“I wish I had more time,” he said, “but I’ve got America waiting on the phone.”
“Would you have time for a photo?” Raewyn asked as Anita began collecting up the Oscars that had suddenly become second-rate compared to the slightly goofy-looking man before us. Richard eyed the group hesitantly.
“No, no, not with each one of us,” Susi interjected. “Maybe we could just get one of you? How about over by Lurtz.” The last part was more of a command, and Susi indicated the life-size statue of Lurtz the Uruk-Hai (a monstrous creature from “The Lord of the Rings”) that stood out in the reception area.
“That, I can do.”
As ten flashes went off – Raewyn’s included – I took note of the wide smiles illuminated on every face in the room. The group had suddenly transformed; we were no longer ordinary tourists looking at swords and drooling over golden statues. Standing inside Weta, conversing with Richard Taylor while he put America on hold for us, everything was suddenly very real. Instead of simply being spectators to the “Lord of the Rings,” we were a part of it.still in awe
“How often does that happen?” Lisa asked once we were back in the van. She was eyeing the signed “Narnia” book Richard had given to Dulce and Anthony as a wedding gift just before returning to his conference call. I gathered she was referring to the whole experience – touring Weta, holding Oscars, and meeting Richard.
“Well, we try for it on every tour,” Vic said, “but it doesn’t always work out.”
“We only got to look through glass last time,” Josephine said, referring to our tour three years earlier. Mary nodded, agreeing.
“Yeah, I’ve been here twice before, and this is the first time for the Oscars and Richard for me. Third time’s the charm, I guess!”
“Yes, sometimes Weta can’t take us,” Raewyn added. “And Richard is a very busy man. Though, he does try very hard to pop in if he’s around.”
“What a sweetheart,” Susi said. She was reviewing the digital photos she’d taken of Richard on her camera, a smile on her face.
“He likes to let the fans know how appreciative he is of the time and money they sacrifice to come all the way to New Zealand because of these films,” Raewyn said.
“Well, we try for it on every tour,” Vic said, “but it doesn’t always work out.”
“We only got to look through glass last time,” Josephine said, referring to our tour three years earlier. Mary nodded, agreeing.
“Yeah, I’ve been here twice before, and this is the first time for the Oscars and Richard for me. Third time’s the charm, I guess!”
“Yes, sometimes Weta can’t take us,” Raewyn added. “And Richard is a very busy man. Though, he does try very hard to pop in if he’s around.”
“What a sweetheart,” Susi said. She was reviewing the digital photos she’d taken of Richard on her camera, a smile on her face.
“He likes to let the fans know how appreciative he is of the time and money they sacrifice to come all the way to New Zealand because of these films,” Raewyn said.
filling our bellies
It was in understandably good moods that we trundled through Miramar on our way to lunch. Seemingly in tune with our high spirits, the day was clearing up to reveal the bright blue sky and cheery sunshine that I loved about Wellington.
Our destination for lunch was the new Chocolate Fish Café. The old establishment used to be located in a bright teal building at Scorching Bay, where servers would brave oncoming traffic to deliver pancakes and ice cream to patrons seated at hand-painted tables and chairs across the street from the café. That location used to be a favorite haunt of Peter Jackson and select members of the “Lord of the Rings” cast. I can remember being introduced to chocolate fish and hokey pokey ice cream there on my first visit.Chocolate fish aren’t nearly as exciting as they sound – they’re just chocolate-covered marshmallows cut in the shape of fish. But they’re a New Zealand specialty, along with hokey pokey ice cream. Hokey pokey is a vanilla ice cream containing chunks of either honeycomb or solid toffee, and is a good example of what New Zealanders classify as “Kiwiana” – items or icons unique to the country that have been integrated into its culture and national identity. Other examples of Kiwiana are the All Blacks rugby team, jandals (flip-flops to us Americans), pavlova (a popular meringue dessert), the kiwi bird, kiwifruit, gumboots (or “Wellies”), and the silver fern plant. And while some examples of Kiwiana are taken more seriously – such as hei-tiki, or Maori neck pendants – much of it is regarded as kitsch (like the plastic hei-tiki mass produced for tourists). But, in a small country where tourism is the number-one export, I guess mild exploitation of the culture would be difficult to avoid.
The old Chocolate Fish Café could have probably been considered Wellingtonian Kiwiana, with its sweet treats, hand-painted furniture, traffic-dodging staff, and unique Kiwi atmosphere. But the Café at Scorching Bay closed a little over a year ago. It then migrated to Miramar, where it’s now attached to a garden center. It’s definitely lost some of its charm (and all of its “Waiter Crossing” signage), but the hand-painted furniture and a touch of the café’s quirky atmosphere successfully made the move, so Vic and Raewyn like to keep the tradition going.After ordering my sandwich, I sat down in a chair painted with cartoon frogs at a table with Charlotte, Josephine, and Lisa. Josephine was digging into a salad, while Lisa was eyeing a thick, yellow-orange soup sitting in front of her.
“Have you tried this stuff?” she asked me, sniffing at a spoonful.
“Pumpkin?”
“Yeah. I thought it sounded interesting.”
“I’ve tried it, but it’s not really my thing.” I’d had my first taste of pumpkin soup during my second week in New Zealand, and immediately decided that pumpkin belongs in pies, not in soup. One of my Kiwi flatmates disagreed with me, but since she’d never tasted pumpkin pie, I didn’t give her argument much credence.
“I think I like it,” Lisa said after downing a few spoonfuls.
“Like what?” Echo asked as she carried her toasted sandwich (a “toastie” to the Kiwis) past our table.
“The pumpkin soup,” Charlotte replied, pointing to Lisa’s bowl. “Apparently you Americans don’t have it.”
“Nope.” Echo shook her head. “We also don’t serve this much lamb.” She waved a hand in the direction of the menu, where a few lamb items were listed. I was about to tell her to take a look at Subway’s menu sometime – which, in New Zealand, also includes lamb – but was interrupted by Vic, who came to inform us that we would have to rush lunch a bit.
“We’re running behind schedule, and we have to get Echo and Mary back across town for their appointment at Roger’s.”
getting inked
Roger Ingerton is a Wellington tattoo artist. His shop, Roger’s TattooArt, has been located at 198 Cuba Street since 1977 – long before any “Lord of the Rings” fan would even dream of connecting Middle-Earth and New Zealand. Roger specializes in sprawling, detailed tattoos that cover large swaths of skin. The walls of his tattoo parlor are covered with photos of bare-bottomed men who are covered, shoulder-to-knee, in intricate tribal designs and mythical scenes. Many of these tattoos are Ta Moko, or traditional tattoos depicting Maori family history and legend. But today, Roger’s small, cramped tattoo parlor draws a second type of crowd, too – the slightly geeky, often shy type seeking to mar their unblemished skin for the first time in the name of fandom.
Back in late 1999 or early 2000, after filming for the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy wrapped, the actors who were part of the cinematic Fellowship decided to commemorate their journey and friendships with a unique tattoo. The tattoo was the number nine – representing the nine members of the Fellowship – written out in Elvish characters. And Roger Ingerton was the man who branded it onto the shoulders, hips, feet, and arms of the likes of Orlando Bloom, Elijah Wood, Viggo Mortensen, and Sir Ian McKellen.
Each month, Raewyn coordinates appointments at Roger’s for any Red Carpet Tour members who wish to take home a permanent souvenir from their time spent in Middle-Earth.
Out of the August Fellowship, only two – Echo and Mary – were going under the needle. Echo was getting an intricate tattoo of a horse’s head, with a mane that tapered down and twisted into a Celtic knot. The tattoo was inspired by Tolkien’s horse people of Rohan, and Daniel Reeve designed it. Mary was getting her third tattoo from Roger – three tattoos for three trips to Middle-Earth. Appropriately, this one said “ME3” in Elvish characters.
On the ride back into the city, as I helped Vic navigate to Cuba Street (as much to my own surprise as his, I think, to find that I knew the city so well), I asked Raewyn how many tour members usually sought out tattoos.
“Oh, it depends,” she said. “We usually always have at least one, but sometimes we have up to five or six!”
Even though we only had two brave, about-to-be-inked souls among us, we decided to turn the event into a group outing anyway. Since Vic and Raewyn didn’t have anything planned for the rest of the afternoon, Charlotte, Lisa, Josephine, Susi, and I accompanied Echo and Mary to Roger’s.
When you walk into Roger’s TattooArt, it is clear that Roger has been practicing his craft for decades. Every wall – of which there are many, thanks to the various, slightly unnecessary partitions that make the space feel even smaller than it is – is covered with photos of tattooed people of all shapes, sizes, and ages. The surfaces not covered in examples of Roger’s work are obscured by bric-a-brac, including a horned mask hanging over the arched doorway that lends an odd western flair to the space.
Lisa and I were peering at a photo of a particularly intricate full-body tattoo that consisted of a lot of solid black in the rear-region when Echo and Mary slipped behind the counter to get ready for their tattoos.
“Aren’t these just gorgeous?” Susi asked, pointing to another full-body tattoo photo.
“What, the tattoo, or his butt?” Lisa asked. Susi let out a hearty laugh, and Lisa just shrugged. “Hey, I can’t help it if I find Kiwi guys ridiculously attractive.”
“How do you know he’s a Kiwi?” Charlotte asked, nudging up between Lisa and me to peer at the wall. “You’re only seeing him from behind. He could be old, fat, and German.” This only made Susi laugh harder.
“Oh, to be young again!” With that, Susi slipped behind the counter, too, to join Mary in the back room where Roger himself would be working on Mary’s hip. Echo, meanwhile, was conferencing with the other tattooist working at Roger’s – a short, mustachioed man named Tom. Tom was resizing Echo’s design to fit on her lower leg.
“Do you think it’s too big?” Echo asked, coming out from behind the counter, one pant leg rolled up, to examine the outline near her ankle. We all leaned in.
“I think it looks good.”
“A bit big for me.”
“I hate needles, so way too big for me.”
Echo decided to have the design shrunk a bit more, and then was finally satisfied with the result. Tom had her lay down on a low table in the front room as he got his equipment ready. And then the tattoo gun started to whir.
“Ow! Bugger, bugger, bugger! I should’ve taken a shot before this!”
Suddenly, Echo’s normally animated, good spirits were doused. Within minutes, she laid curled up on the table, eyes scrunched shut, face red, and knuckles white as she squeezed Charlotte’s hand over the counter. The only sounds coming from her mouth were associated with pain, and her free hand was clenched into a tight fist to prevent it from shaking.
As Echo contorted her features into an especially grotesque grimace, Susi emerged from the back room. The older woman leaned over the younger one, her long hair swishing past her hip as she did, and placed a feathery kiss on Echo’s forehead.
“Don’t worry,” she said, squeezing Echo’s arm. “After this, we’ll go get drunk.” Echo smiled momentarily, and Susi returned to the back room. But as Tom made his way closer to her ankle bone, Echo’s courage failed, and she let out a whimper.
“This is so much worse than my last tattoo,” she said through clenched teeth. Charlotte renewed her grip on Echo’s hand as Lisa snapped a photo with her pink camera.
“Gotta document this,” she said with a small, crooked smile. I would have laughed, but I didn’t out of respect for Echo’s pain.
“Is he done yet?” Echo discarded her glasses, and buried her face in the crook of her arm without waiting for an answer.
“If I lie, will it make it better?” Josephine asked. She was kneeling on an old leather couch on the other side of one of the shop’s partitions. She had her camera pressed up against the glass that separated her from Tom’s workspace, and therefore was able to clearly see that Tom had barely even started.
Roughly twenty minutes into the tattoo, a group of teens crowded into the shop. Clad in a lot of black and a few chains and piercings, they huddled in a corner, whispering.
“This place looks sketchy as,” a girl with a streak of pink in her blonde hair finally said, and the group filed back out the door. I cringed at her use of “sketchy as.” Kiwis – especially younger ones – gravitate towards similar phrases, where “as” is used for emphasis after a descriptor. Something really cool is “sweet as,” a girl wearing skimpy clothing is “trashy as”… you get the picture. Perhaps it’s the English major in me, but this drove me nuts. When some of the other American students started picking up “sweet as,” I got into the habit of responding with, “as what?” I got the impression that it annoyed them right back, which was fine with me.
No one else seemed to care about the group of teens or their open-ended similes, however, so I turned my attention back to the table. I was in the midst of trying to come up with something witty and encouraging to say when Susi re-emerged from the back room.
“Mary’s almost done,” she told us. “If you girls want to go, I can stay with Echo.”
“Yeah, go, go,” Echo said, her face still hidden. “You don’t have to sit here and watch.”
Back in late 1999 or early 2000, after filming for the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy wrapped, the actors who were part of the cinematic Fellowship decided to commemorate their journey and friendships with a unique tattoo. The tattoo was the number nine – representing the nine members of the Fellowship – written out in Elvish characters. And Roger Ingerton was the man who branded it onto the shoulders, hips, feet, and arms of the likes of Orlando Bloom, Elijah Wood, Viggo Mortensen, and Sir Ian McKellen.
Each month, Raewyn coordinates appointments at Roger’s for any Red Carpet Tour members who wish to take home a permanent souvenir from their time spent in Middle-Earth.
Out of the August Fellowship, only two – Echo and Mary – were going under the needle. Echo was getting an intricate tattoo of a horse’s head, with a mane that tapered down and twisted into a Celtic knot. The tattoo was inspired by Tolkien’s horse people of Rohan, and Daniel Reeve designed it. Mary was getting her third tattoo from Roger – three tattoos for three trips to Middle-Earth. Appropriately, this one said “ME3” in Elvish characters.
On the ride back into the city, as I helped Vic navigate to Cuba Street (as much to my own surprise as his, I think, to find that I knew the city so well), I asked Raewyn how many tour members usually sought out tattoos.
“Oh, it depends,” she said. “We usually always have at least one, but sometimes we have up to five or six!”
Even though we only had two brave, about-to-be-inked souls among us, we decided to turn the event into a group outing anyway. Since Vic and Raewyn didn’t have anything planned for the rest of the afternoon, Charlotte, Lisa, Josephine, Susi, and I accompanied Echo and Mary to Roger’s.
When you walk into Roger’s TattooArt, it is clear that Roger has been practicing his craft for decades. Every wall – of which there are many, thanks to the various, slightly unnecessary partitions that make the space feel even smaller than it is – is covered with photos of tattooed people of all shapes, sizes, and ages. The surfaces not covered in examples of Roger’s work are obscured by bric-a-brac, including a horned mask hanging over the arched doorway that lends an odd western flair to the space.
Lisa and I were peering at a photo of a particularly intricate full-body tattoo that consisted of a lot of solid black in the rear-region when Echo and Mary slipped behind the counter to get ready for their tattoos.
“Aren’t these just gorgeous?” Susi asked, pointing to another full-body tattoo photo.
“What, the tattoo, or his butt?” Lisa asked. Susi let out a hearty laugh, and Lisa just shrugged. “Hey, I can’t help it if I find Kiwi guys ridiculously attractive.”
“How do you know he’s a Kiwi?” Charlotte asked, nudging up between Lisa and me to peer at the wall. “You’re only seeing him from behind. He could be old, fat, and German.” This only made Susi laugh harder.
“Oh, to be young again!” With that, Susi slipped behind the counter, too, to join Mary in the back room where Roger himself would be working on Mary’s hip. Echo, meanwhile, was conferencing with the other tattooist working at Roger’s – a short, mustachioed man named Tom. Tom was resizing Echo’s design to fit on her lower leg.
“Do you think it’s too big?” Echo asked, coming out from behind the counter, one pant leg rolled up, to examine the outline near her ankle. We all leaned in.
“I think it looks good.”
“A bit big for me.”
“I hate needles, so way too big for me.”
Echo decided to have the design shrunk a bit more, and then was finally satisfied with the result. Tom had her lay down on a low table in the front room as he got his equipment ready. And then the tattoo gun started to whir.
“Ow! Bugger, bugger, bugger! I should’ve taken a shot before this!”
Suddenly, Echo’s normally animated, good spirits were doused. Within minutes, she laid curled up on the table, eyes scrunched shut, face red, and knuckles white as she squeezed Charlotte’s hand over the counter. The only sounds coming from her mouth were associated with pain, and her free hand was clenched into a tight fist to prevent it from shaking.
As Echo contorted her features into an especially grotesque grimace, Susi emerged from the back room. The older woman leaned over the younger one, her long hair swishing past her hip as she did, and placed a feathery kiss on Echo’s forehead.
“Don’t worry,” she said, squeezing Echo’s arm. “After this, we’ll go get drunk.” Echo smiled momentarily, and Susi returned to the back room. But as Tom made his way closer to her ankle bone, Echo’s courage failed, and she let out a whimper.
“This is so much worse than my last tattoo,” she said through clenched teeth. Charlotte renewed her grip on Echo’s hand as Lisa snapped a photo with her pink camera.
“Gotta document this,” she said with a small, crooked smile. I would have laughed, but I didn’t out of respect for Echo’s pain.
“Is he done yet?” Echo discarded her glasses, and buried her face in the crook of her arm without waiting for an answer.
“If I lie, will it make it better?” Josephine asked. She was kneeling on an old leather couch on the other side of one of the shop’s partitions. She had her camera pressed up against the glass that separated her from Tom’s workspace, and therefore was able to clearly see that Tom had barely even started.
Roughly twenty minutes into the tattoo, a group of teens crowded into the shop. Clad in a lot of black and a few chains and piercings, they huddled in a corner, whispering.
“This place looks sketchy as,” a girl with a streak of pink in her blonde hair finally said, and the group filed back out the door. I cringed at her use of “sketchy as.” Kiwis – especially younger ones – gravitate towards similar phrases, where “as” is used for emphasis after a descriptor. Something really cool is “sweet as,” a girl wearing skimpy clothing is “trashy as”… you get the picture. Perhaps it’s the English major in me, but this drove me nuts. When some of the other American students started picking up “sweet as,” I got into the habit of responding with, “as what?” I got the impression that it annoyed them right back, which was fine with me.
No one else seemed to care about the group of teens or their open-ended similes, however, so I turned my attention back to the table. I was in the midst of trying to come up with something witty and encouraging to say when Susi re-emerged from the back room.
“Mary’s almost done,” she told us. “If you girls want to go, I can stay with Echo.”
“Yeah, go, go,” Echo said, her face still hidden. “You don’t have to sit here and watch.”
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