A few photos from our weekend trips as fall settles in on South Island. These shots were taken by Ben Earwicker, who with his wife Michelle and as of yet unnamed soon-to-be Ms. Earwicker kept the Abbey crowd continuously amazed by their grace and good humor. They are gone now, and we are the poorer for it.

If, however, you are in the Boise area and need a damn good photographer who can also verbally bitchslap that annoying cousin of yours that thinks he knows everything about pre-Castro Cuba, then Ben is your man: http://www.garrisonphoto.org/. My guess is that Michelle is even better.


On Easter Sunday we decided to skip the processions of the cross this year and head up into the Otago wine country for a bit of the blood of the vine instead. Gorgeous day, fall in Otago has all the colors of a Rick Griffin poster without the two days of depressed confusion afterward.

Sam, Kyle, and Wiebke demonstrate the joy of wine and waffles. Kyle is the one channeling Hunter S. Thompson.

Just another average day in En Zed.

You can safely drink out of most of the rivers and creeks. I mean, how frickin' (in honor of Michelle) cool is that?

Two weeks later as Ben and Michelle prepared to leave we made one last trip together. Luckily the weather held, and we set off for tunnel beach, about 10 minutes south of Dunedin. The beach gets its name from a small tunnel and stairs cut into a fin of sandstone which was built to allow a local sheep magnate's daughters to have a private beach. The fact that one of those daughters promptly drowned on the beach shows that wish fulfillment can be a bit touchy.

Michelle, Raphaelle, moi, Emily, Wiebke, Sam and Kyle.

Another bloody typical New Zealand day.

You know, this place would be great except for all the crowds. Remember, this is the middle of a beautiful weekend day not ten minutes from a city of 120,000. And that is me.

Raphaelle gives us a bit of scale.

There are so many ways my life could suck more than it does, I have stopped keeping track.

The photographer in repose.

Notice the stairs next to Wiebke's head. Yes, stairs. Fishermen are worse than junkies.

This was, hands down, the best grass I have ever encountered. Thick, luxuriant, and even smelled nice.

I tell stories. It's just what I do.

A well deserved respite after a rigorous day.....

Thanks Ben and Michelle, you're damn good people.

And he rode a pale pig.....

Swine flu in the news. In the space of three days my research has gone from a pigeon-hole which will allow me to see the south pacific and perhaps improve my job prospects to the sexiest thing in Public Health. Forgive my cynicism, please. If this goes very bad then I will regret my flippancy here but roughly a week in since I first heard the rumblings out of Mexico the fatality number hasn't climbed much. Right now I think we are looking at 1968-1969 rather than 1918-1921.

That's not to say folks won't die, or that this might not go nuclear. But on an average year the US sees approximately 50,000 flu fatalities. 1968-69's Hong Kong flu saw an additional 20,000 above the norm, roughly. So chances are this won't be the grand ding-dong of doom that bad medical fiction writers have been postulating for so long. Yet even a mild outbreak which scares folks away from public places is going to do wonders for the recession. Matter of fact, the timing would have been difficult to make worse. Little signs of economic recovery have begun to appear but if Des Moines loses 800 to the Swine then all bets are off.

On the other had, this could be very bad. H1N1, our current porcine friend, is related to the great Spanish Flu. Whom I shall call Pedro. Pedro infected 20% of the Earth's population in 1918-1921, killing 25 million in 25 weeks (a total which it took AIDS 25 YEARS to match) and in the end killed somewhere between 50 and 100 million humans, 2.5-5% of the total population at the time. With current population numbers and Pedro's fatality rates we would be looking at losses (based on a rough figure of 7 billion total) of between 175 million and 350 million. Given the extreme shift of population since 1918 from relatively spacious rural areas to closely packed urban centers a much higher death toll is more likely than not, if the organism is similarly potent. Pedro's cousin could prove to be a very tough fellow.

But when Pedro dropped by the deaths started immediately. Granted, the first visit, starting in March of 1918, was nowhere near as deadly as the second coming, starting in August of that year. Nonetheless the deaths started right away. While the fatalities in Mexico are disturbing, thus far only 20 are confirmed. The cases detected in the US and overseas have not shown any fatalities. Whatever this bug is, it isn't as quick as Pedro, nor apparently as deadly. Here's hoping it stays that way.

So it is fascinating to watch, and contains that little shiver of foreboding for what might truly occur. Not scared yet, but deeply interested. Part of my mind tells me to get home, but the rest knows that there is really no point. If it gets so bad that I would be needed, I would be just as needed here. I do worry about my family and friends. That is what keeps the black side of my personality, the bit that loves apocalypse fiction, infectious disease and the collapse of societies, from rooting for the big one out of sheer interest. There aren't too many societies out there anymore that don't contain someone whose passing I would mourn.

So instead I chat with Pedro like a trench coat freak writing Gacy. There is a great deal to be learned by understanding how he worked and what he did. In the case of a true epidemic knowing how to prevent rapid transmission will be much more important than a cure. I must admit that there is also that touch of vacuum that comes from walking with death. Gotta enjoy my work to be good at it, as per my high school guidance councillor. Plus there should be plenty of funding available the next few years for pandemic studies.....

Take care of yourselves, put a little extra food and water away, wash your hands frequently, avoid movies, plays, concerts, mobs, lynchings, orgies, PTA meetings, and other unnecessary public gatherings until we have a better handle on this thing. If you get sick, stay home. Eat well, take a multi-vitamin. Protect your mucous membranes by drinking lots of fluids, avoiding desiccants like caffeine and cigarettes, and don't pick your nose. Wash your hands again. Remember that people with the flu are infectious for a couple of days before they get sick and several days after symptoms abate. Use your common sense. If this is a pandemic you will probably get sick, the best we can hope for is that everyone won't get sick at once. If you stage it out correctly essential services stay functional and everybody does much better. Be nice to each other.

Actually, though this will probably burn out like SARS did and you won't need flu tips, that last paragraph is still the best general life advice I can offer. Especially about the PTA meetings.

Next post, back to New Zealand stuff, or the end of the world.

Peaceful nights in the student quarter as the Easter armistice winds down. As of the 9th of April the holiday had begun and students streamed out of town in their staggering thousands to exchange the boozy embrace of a government-funded Castle Street flat for what I assume is a slightly less boozy homestay, or perhaps a roadtrip before the winter takes the spotlight. Perhaps I am being too hard on my neighbors, only 1/3 of Otago's students receive government grants (and living off a NZ scholarship myself gives me very little room to sneer) but the streets have been oddly peaceful. You know most of the undergrads are gone when our geriatric guesthouse can throw the loudest party on Castle Street.

Easter here is taken very seriously. Not to say that people don't honor the resurrection by eating chocolate rabbits and marshmallow eggs, but the place shuts its doors for both Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Literally. In many parts of the country it is the law, and here in Dunedin nothing was open save for a few cafes. Which actually explains the absence of the student body, at least for those two days. No alcohol sales. With the dozen liquor stores within easy walking of the campus closed it is clearly high time to go home, let mom feed you, and raid dad's locked cabinet for some 12 year old home-made Kahlua. Beats those fancy Continental aperitifs anytime.

Come 12:01 in the morning the next days, however, the lines at the local quik-e-marts were pretty impressive.

But Easter. Once again I am surprised by the level of religiosity in this beautiful place. Where else locks up for Easter? Ireland, perhaps? There were three cross processions in the Dunedin area, not including the lost-looking undergrad knocking on the Abbey dining room window apparently looking for an open bar where he could park his cross. There were also the obligatory tire and electronics sales. Christ is risen, which means it is time to change your tires out for winter. The large oviparous rabbit with all the chocolate told me so. I'm really not sure what part of that is christian, what might be pagan, and what is simply mad. The cross processions even more so than the whole rabbit/chocolate/Cadbury thing. When I have a truly horrific experience, a day so terrible that I would gladly sleep with Morrisey in order to permanently purge it from my memory, the last damn thing in the world I would want is to have a bunch of folks re-enact it for me in all of its agony. Every year. As homage to me. Thanks for letting me get past it everybody.

But I suppose if nailing each other to crosses keeps them from thinking of reasons to nail me or mine to a piece of wood, I should just stay the hell away and mind my own business.

On the day itself several of us loaded up to drive to the Clyde wine festival. Gorgeous day, even if the 'musical entertainment' was a woman on a flatbed performing Karaoke (inflicting? oppressing? flinging? I never know which verb to use with that term) to the entire original soundtrack of "Grease". Great wine though, good food as well. The venison farm concept is one I am beginning to really appreciate. Best of all it was good people on a day that would make Van Gogh sing a happy little song. Days like that are a bit sacred, so it all came together. Thank you Easter Bunny.

Come Monday morning I was out the door for my own break, three days in the wooly south. The Catlins, the coast, and Fiordland. Nothing but sun, gorgeosity, mellow Kiwis, and sand flies. While I despise their vicious little essences, the little republican bastards do keep you reminded that the place isn't a dream. I have much to post regarding the vistas, but first a quick note on yet another reason why Kiwis are significantly more sane than yanks.

This is a hole in the ground. It cannot possibly be a cave. Why? Because it has a modest little sign pointing to it on a back road. It has a little map next to it with a brief note that if it rains heavily while you are inside it may flood and you will die, so you probably should reconsider entry if it is raining. There are not large, iron-bound doors like something out of a bad RPG. There are no sensors, no gates, no threats to trespassers. There are cute little stepladders to help you over the stock fencing. I did not have to sign a release. I did not have to verify gear or file a plan. I did not need a license of any kind. Living in a place where lawyers are not in charge is so exciting to me it is becoming vaguely sexual.

This is, indeed, a cave, Clifden Cave to be exact. I was not looking for it, I just happened to see it on one of a half dozen small signs on a rural signpost. No billboards and no concession stands. So a kilometer up one side road, a backtrack and a kilometer up another and there it is. Middle of the day, Easter break, and no one around. I did mention just how incredibly refreshing this is, right? Liability lawyers are like underwear. You have no idea how irritating they are until you give them up.

As a prophylactic measure may I say, yes, I went into an unknown cave on some back road in a foreign country alone and without telling anyone. Right. I have caught grief from about half a dozen folks for this thus far. So Mom, Karen already chewed my posterior for this. I recognize the foolhardy nature of my actions, and promise not to encourage the younger siblings or the next generation to engage in such behaviors. To anyone besides my mom that has a problem with it, if you'd come and visit I would have had someone with me, right? So keep that in mind next time I do something hazardous. Your fault.

So I grabbed my headlight, my mag light, and my bag of essential goods and jumped into a hole in the ground.

Clifden is a limestone cave with all the features you'd hope for, flowstone, floor and ceiling formations, small tunnels going off in random directions. Your path is marked by occasional pieces of reflective tape and there is no lighting (and not a damned piece of colored highlighting in the whole place. It isn't even electrified, god forfend). The glow worms give out a bit of light so you can locate them when you turn out your headlight.

The passage itself is generally pretty easy, though there were a few interesting squeezes, drops, and near-stomach crawls. You do have to look about for the reflector strips at times, and the whole path takes 1.5-2 hours.

This was the most interesting (read as oops) portion. On the very rough map of the cave at the entrance there is a formation near the exit marked 'swimming pool'. I still do not have a full grasp yet of the dry literalism of the Kiwi for I simply assumed that this was the name of a feature or a room. Nope.

This was a pool filling the entire passage to a significant depth. Apparently when the water level is low there is a ledge you can squeeze by on and only get your feet wet. The water was not particularly low. After some time pondering my options I threw my bag with all of my electronics/camera gear across figuring the drop damage was less than the certain immersion damage. I then took off my headlight (as I did not want an electrical source strapped to my forehead as I swam in cave water of unknown depth) and tried to throw it directly across. I then swam in the dark. It wasn't far, but it was cold. Try as I might I could not find the Ring, either.

Here lies the exit, even less prepossessing than the entrance. After a few 7-10 meter ladders bolted to strategic bits of the cave wall I emerged. Dripping, scratched, dirty, but with a dry bag and a big smile. Then had to walk back to the car. Showing my excellent sense of direction I walked a kilometer the wrong way to begin, but that did give me a chance to burn off the bliss.

Needless to say, it was not all pristine. Areas near the exits have been hit hard by idiots/kids/idiot kids/kids of idiots. This bit above charmed me, however. Nothing like crawling through a cave and discovering that Vlad had been here before you. For all you know he is still there.....

So 6 weeks in and what grand inspirations have I summoned?

New Zealand is a poor country relative to the States. Not desperately poor, but the 1/3 lower GDP than neighboring Australia does show through. Buildings are old, fixtures are old, the vehicle fleet is pretty old. Plumbing is very old. People keep and maintain items much more than in the non-Mexican parts of Norte Americano. Living is not cheap and wages are relatively low.

Yet the absence of wealth has inspired a definite DIY mania. Everybody has a shed with some secret project brewing. Perhaps a panel-beater rig, maybe a pipebender, maybe they brew beer or slaughter stock in their spare time. Everybody has a second skill, or at least the parts of the south island I have seen reflect this.

Items are reused to a great extent as well. Trademe.co.nz has items that would never appear on ebay, things not worth the postage but still up for grabs. The usage of trademe is huge as well, a very healthy segment of the population uses the program to maintain a national near-freecycling program. You can take used soda bottles to the brewery and have them filled up from a tap on the wall. Granted, you can do that in the States but you have to have the fancy growler bottles Can you imagine the look at some upper-class brewpub when you bring in an old plastic Sprite bottle for a couple of liters of oatmeal stout? Wine can be purchased this way as well. Not good wine, but wine.

Kiwis are not generally dog people. Considering the extent to which they identify with Britain this surprised me, since the poms are dog fanatics. But between the risk to stock (sheep) and the damage dogs and cats have done to the indigenous wildlife the culture just doesn't seem too keen on them. Makes for cleaner sidewalks.

They drink like Russians. With tans.

The cops are amazingly tolerant. While most countries in the West have a stronger tradition of tolerating street protest than the States, the Kiwi police's ability to tolerate general street drunkenness never ceases to bewilder me. Apparently they don't care much for public micturation, however. Consider yourself warned.

They aren't Australians. There is enough in this topic alone for a future post.

For a place that produces some of the best dairy products (cheese) in the world, the stuff is damnedably expensive. Since most is exported the local prices match world prices. With the weak Kiwi dollar, that makes for very unhappy French students used to their daily frommage fix. It makes me a sad, or poor, boy as well.

The sense of the land in the people I have met is wonderfully strong. Most Kiwis seem to realize what a beautiful place they live in. Not that there aren't drunken assholes breaking trees or irresponsible jack-bastards dumping garbage at campsites, but as a whole the environment is seen as worthy of protection. It is treated like family. Not always well, but still something you protect.

The people are accepting, good natured, tolerant, reasonably industrious, and family oriented. Reminds me a bit of Utah, at least on Utah's good days. The folks are curious about what you think of NZ as well. Want to make them beam, compliment the place right off. Not that this is difficult.

Finally, the roads. Dear god, the roads. Gravel roads heading everywhere, frequently sign-free one lane vertiginous wonders leading off into glorious, glacier carved pocket universes. You can get almost anywhere in the country on them, and traffic is a minimal concern. Nothing beats turning off on to a random trail and ending up at some isolated beach or river, knowing no one else is likely to show up and that this is in none of the guidebooks. Personal paradise for the cost of a few litres of diesel.

I am lonely, stressed, flailing, and occasional bored. But no regrets yet. This place is worthy of exploration, and I am lucky to be doing it.

Now off to Milford Sound and the Southern Alps.

It seems my entries are a bit widely spaced these days. Forgive, por favor. I have finally returned to the academic swing o' things and am busier than AIG's PR drones.

In past posts the religious origin of Dunedin was mentioned, as well as the prominence of churches in local architecture. With the profusion of local churches and the lack of multi-story buildings most skylines are dominated by a steeple of some sort or flavor. Yet actual attendance is minimal and many only stand for the tourist trade, by all appearances. During a recent stop in Christchurch I went to the cathedral, appropriately grand for a town named thusly, and watched people walk their dogs through the building while a band set up for a performance. The only staffed area of the building was the visitor center/gift shop.

Not that this bothers me unduly, but after being raised in a town with lots of highly utilized churches, seeing the use these grand old brickpiles receive here is disconcerting. The locals seem to follow the British mold in things religious: As long as the buildings are around and a man in a funny dress can officiate at hospital openings, all is well. Perhaps they are right. I haven't seen the Kiwis involved in holy wars with anyone besides underhanded Aussies.

A few of the deity dwellings in my immediate environs:

Some of our congregations are amazingly specialized. I would like to meet Chris. I share his sense of self.


Others have a breadth which is impressive in its sheer audacity. I'm not sure if this group worships the Chinese or serves Chinese of any faith. Either way, they have a demographic to make any cable exec's tie curl.


Baptist Sunday School now serving as a travel agency. One day when I wandered past they had a big sign in the window advertising the WORLD'S FIRST ALL-GAY CRUISE LINE!!!! Bet Jimmy Swaggart is involved somehow.


The Fortune Theatre. This beautiful old church is now a very cosy performance space right off the main tourist drag. I went to see a show there called Hot Pink Bits, a one-woman show about the humorous side of the sex industry. She actually seemed a bit nervous about doing her show in a former church, but it did not stop her from admiring my 'porn voice' and inviting me to the stage to act out a (fully clothed) bad '70's porn film. Given that I haven't seen my wife in months and I was standing in profile relative to the audience I found myself thinking more intensely about baseball than in any other time of my adult life.


Academy Cinema. Local art-house cinema in a restored church. Shows Blue Mouse/Tower Theatre fare but you don't need to carry a stick to kill the rats with. I am hoping they will do Rocky Horror. In a church. Tres cool.

Finally we come to the Monkey Bar. First you have the former church named after the Scopes Monkey Trial (well, likely not, but one can hope, eh?). Then you have the bar in the foyer and the dance floor in the chapel. Then the DJ booth in the vestry. But the coup de main, the final nail in the coffin, the reason this is the only godawful drum n bass college meat market nightclub I will venture into, is the Jagermeister banner hanging above the altar as an object of veneration. If by veneration you mean mixing the sacrament with Red Bull and Chicken Chips until you hurl all over the loo. High culture indeed.

Thanks for taking our tour! Please don't forget to drop your headphones in the recycling bin by the door and pick up something for the folks back home at the Gift Shop. And Ma'am? Your dog is widdling on the altarpiece.