En Zed

Back on the ground after a month in Polynesia. Hell, make that six months on the road. Left in November for a month in Fiji, then to the States for 6 weeks of travel and 6 weeks of work, then back to Dunners for a couple of weeks, then Polynesia. So back for a bit of a breather. Had planned to go to Wellington for June before my next housesit started up in July, but the expressions on the faces of my Advisors suggested that perhaps I have exhausted my store of grace. When the warm smiles give way to arched eyebrows, it is time to stick around the office for a bit.

Landing in Auckland produced a split decision. It was nice to no longer be the only human tromping about in hiking boots (flip flops and my feet do not agree on much; and given all the walking I did in Polynesia, and the dog attacks, I just wore my humongous hiking boots all the time. Made for a few free beers as I tried to explain). Also, Auckland has the best airport ramen restaurant ever. Taking account my several years of the ramen diet plan, I can appreciate a place that allows you to order extra meat, extra noodles, and jack up the spicy to “Bootsy” level.

But, wait for it……old man bitching time! The first damn thing I noticed off the plane was that a helluva lot of women in the Auckland airport dressed just terribly. Now a few caveats before my gametes end up in formalin. I have no clothes taste at all. I became a nurse so I could wear black scrubs ALL THE TIME. My idea of classy is a ‘goatse donuts’ t-shirt without too many non-ironic holes. Second, I have no problem with women dressing in a sexual/erotic/revealing/sensual/empowered/alluring/whatever fashion. I will watch with a certain amount of decorum, and thoroughly enjoy doing so. I realize this is not necessarily why they are dressing so. Once again, I have worked in a female dominated trade for ten years and share an office with four beautiful women. I thoroughly enjoy this. My lovely wife knows and understands. I stare at her too. So be it. Those caveats in place, ugggh. I don’t spend as much time looking at the guys, so perhaps they are just as bad. After a month in the islands, the Auckland airport looked like the traveling cast of a Flashdance musical revival jumped Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s merch table. Kind of an 80’s spastic hell.

The cold, oh, the lovely, lovely cold. I really like the cold. After Samoa, Auckland is cold. After Samoa, Death Valley would be cold.

Finally, the novelty of no longer being a novelty. In the islands, outside from the resorts, I occupied another plane. As a palangi, an outsider, the basic rules of society did not apply, aside from the most basic laws and social niceties. Walking down the streets you receive either exaggerated respect or half-hearted defiance, as if people really do not know where to place you. Apia had more hostility, Nuku’Alofa more curiosity. Either way, you are constantly reminded that your place is not here.

Maria, an Icelandic lady living in Apia, told me a story about this feeling. She volunteers in Apia, has been there for several months, and is a lovely mid-20’s Scandinavian. Every bit as blond and fair as the ads suggest. She became accustomed to the catcalls and yells she would receive walking the streets of Apia in the evening. One night, she heard yells and realized they were not for her, but for another Caucasian woman walking closer to the seawall. Looking at the woman she saw an older, not very pretty European heading for her hotel. As she processed this she felt anger growing as the realization dawned that she was not getting the unwanted attention because she was beautiful, she was getting it simply because she was white. She laughed when she told me how much it had hurt to realize that as unpleasant as it was, the yells were also pretty impersonal.

Back in EnZed, nobody gives a damn about my complexion. Nice. Nice to be faceless again, but there is that lingering bit of expat’s ego missing the extra attention, the service, all the nonsense that comes with being a rich man in a poor country, even if I am hardly rich. I am white.

Dunedin welcomed me back in its usual bedraggled glory. Feastock; 200 people in some guy's backyard with ten bands. One of the most singular festivals I have attended. Fun as hell. Lots of great music, but a special shout out to Made in China and their lead singer in his green tracksuit and yellow Richard Pryor shirt. Dude, you contorted like a madman on stage and sang with nothing held back. Nothing at all. In fact, due to the thin cotton track pants I know more about your dimensions than I ever anticipated. Luckily, your voice and swagger seem to be backed-up with sufficient artillery to make it all work. Well done.



Karen flew in for a month near the end of April, just in time for the airport to be closed due to a bomb scare (I blame the Otago Design Department, R.I.P.). Fortunately, she got to share the absurdity with John Mayall. Life is always better with 75 year old blues legends around sipping tea.

The next day as we tried to run a few errands we found the main road closed and a nightmarish traffic jam surrounding us. Apparently another bomb scare on Highway 1. Dunedin having bomb scares on consecutive days is like Milton hosting the World Cup. Theoretically possible, but incredibly unlikely. After fighting our way out of the mess and making a stop we attempted to take another road to complete our errands when we were blocked by traffic police so that heavily armed response cops could storm across the road. Heavily Armed New Zealand Cops. These are cops who are instructed to be advocates, not adversaries:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=POHg5ap_Z_g&feature=related

Rather than suggesting how best to cool pastries, these officers were storming the house of the Mongrel Mob, one of NZ's two major street gangs. How did they know it was their house? By the enormous Mongrel Mob design painted on the exterior fence. The same fence which gang members were required to lower due to a zoning complaint from a neighbor.

"The same fence which gang members were required to lower due to a zoning complaint from a neighbor."

I love this country. I guess this time the Mob didn't sort their recycling properly. I did not stop to ask the officers, who seemed to be having a grand time playing LAPD.

After Karen's welcome back to South Island we busted out of dodge for some road time. Through the Catlins and Southland, then up to Manapouri. Maintaining radio silence allowed us to pass through a biblical flood without noticing, until we caught the panicked announcements at Manapouri regarding road closures and tourist evacuations. Fortunately, we were headed out on Doubtful Sound for an overnight cruise, and on Doubtful the more rain the better.

Doubtful earns its reputation as one of the most stunning places in a country overflowing with beauty. Milford sees more tourists, yet Doubtful seals the deal. When we passed through the heaviest rains in 10 years progressed up the coast, leaving landslides and exploding waterfalls in its wake. Sublime, and beyond capture with mere photos.


Waterfalls everywhere.



The view from Wilmot Pass into the Sound itself.



The first day involved kayaking about the narrow channels, enormous eating, and jumping off the ship into the sea. Nothing compared to the Polar Bear Swim in Nome, but cold enough to remind me of my nipples.

The next day dawned much clearer, allowing for some incredible views on the way back in.





With this rainbow the Lord promised that as long as we all blow on our pies, there will be no more off one shoulder sweater-dresses made. Ever.


Then, just to change the pace from our rigorous, regimented lifestyle, we went wine tasting. Just so you know, Chard Farms offers the best tasting in New Zealand. Not necessarily the best wine, though all their stuff is top notch and the whites are stupendous, but the best Pinot Noir I have ever had is still Bald Hills in Bannockburn. Chard, though, Chard takes care of ya.


Home. This time I will really get back to work. After I get set up in my new housesit in Warrington. The one with the goat, and the beach. At least until we hike the Heaphy track at the end of the month. Yep, time to get to work.

First, however, is a completely random Dunedin homage to the very funny, and unfortunately very obscure, SciFi great by Bradley Denton: Buddy Holly is Alive and Well on Ganymede. Soon to be made into a movie, staring the dude from Napoleon Dynamite. I shit you not. Go read it, and when this next bit of geekish gloriousness comes out you can proudly slap your friends about with your amazing nerdowledge.


mahalo.

Savai'i and home....

Apia really wasn’t my bag. I found myself longing for Tonga, it having been friendlier, significantly more quiet, and beautiful in a way that cities just can’t swing. Apia is on Upolu, one of the two large islands in Samoa. Upolu has more than three quarters of the population and most of the infrastructure. Therefore, I arranged a car and a ferry to the other island; Savai’i.

While waiting for the ferry one of those moments swung past that really test your ability to be a neutral observer. Among all the cars lined up waiting for the boat to open was a truck with perhaps ten workers piled in the back. Lunchtime had just passed and they had purchased food from the small local stalls, wrapped in lots of Styrofoam, plastic, and paper. When they were done the youngest looking member of the group piled all of the garbage in his arms and walked across the street, throwing it into the high grass without hesitation or self-consciousness, and got back in the bed of the truck. I was appalled, but apparently no one else cared.

Now this dude was not lopping off limbs west African style. He did not behead anyone. No violence at all took place, to man or beast. He just threw an armload of garbage into the jungle. If he had whacked his four-year-old son upside the head or offered the services of his fourteen year old sister I would have turned away and avoided the situation, chalking up my cowardice to cultural sensitivity. Yet his littering left me shocked speechless and deeply angry. What the hell? I know that some of it is how deeply we have absorbed the message in the States about not littering, the ads start on us as children and continue to the present day. Yes, I know, lots of trogs still throw their White Castle grease rags out the window of their Monte Carlo but it tends to be a private thing, done with a bit of glancing over your shoulder. If I saw some guy doing that at a rest stop in AK I’d be up in his face in a minute. Ten guys, well……..

In the context of overseas travel, however, I have to wonder my anger isn’t simply the progressive rage version of why cops beat up hippies. Because bikers have guns. I can ignore all the truly awful things I see but don’t get involved in, but allow myself to rage internally over littering since it is too minor for me to break my ‘cultural sensitivity’ over. If I got angry every time a Samoan mother belted her kid I’d spend half the trip angry and eventually do something stupid. The littering I can allow to anger me safe in the knowledge that I will just sit in my nice rental car and stew. I suppose Hunter S. Thompson would have climbed out and confronted them all. Hunter also carried mace for just these occasions.

So the trip to Savai’i started well.

Arrival put paid to any doubts. Gone is the grim hostility of downtown Apia, gone is the traffic (and, for the most part, the road), gone are the damned dogs. This place feels good. It is gorgeous, as a matter of fact. The drive is gorgeous. The flowers and trees are gorgeous. The people are gorgeous. Everybody waves. People are riding horses; there are chickens and pigs in the streets. Everything slows. If you are going to be this godawfully hot and humid all the time, being this pretty cushions the blow. Savai’i is a garden.

Not everything is paradise. The kids have learned two English words, money and bye. They greet you with both of them in quick succession. Actually, several of them throw in “nigga’” for good measure. Since I am the most pale human in miles, I take no offense. Still, a constant chorus of “bye, bye, money? Bye, money? Nigga? Money nigga bye bye bye money?” is just a little too Usher for me. Hell, what can I do, it is still better than dog attacks.

All told, Savai’i is next to ‘Eua on my list of Polynesian paradises. One ring road and an untouched interior (as far as anyone can tell, the jungle grows back so quickly that dozer tracks disappear in months) with a few tourists based out of the north shore. It is traditional, mellow, and unimpressed with the outside world. Kind of like Utah, but without Republicans. Which is all I ever really wanted. Well, that and a pony.

As in everywhere else in Polynesia, the churches are where the money is:


The context, though, has a leg up on most churchyards.


These pools were created in every village along the coastline. This one is for the men. The women have their own, usually a bit smaller. The women also have to wash the food, clothing, plates, and children in their pool. The guys making these rules seem to have taken gender studies at a Saudi university.


Nearly all homes have these open patios in front. Why? Because the locals have adopted the western-style home in respect for the missionaries. Accepting the idea of a western-style home does not make the ovens such homes turn into in this climate any more comfortable. Thus, build a reasonable place where you can sleep in front of the house where you can store your stuff.


Beach houses (fales) are common in most villages as well. The original Samoan home, now used as a rental or vacation spot.


My home on the beach:


And my first introduction to the wonders of beach rugby.


The fales themselves are quite simple and very basic. The walls are linked mats that can be raised or lowered to catch the winds or keep out rain. The bed is a mattress on the floor. My first location had a horrific red ant problem, which when I noted they dealt with by grabbing a huge can of neuro-toxic bug spray and soaking down the interior of my fale, including my bedding. I moved the next night.


The resorts on the north side were nice. Actually, they were better than nice. Between getting wrapped up in a party hosted by the local Hash House Harriers ("An International Drinking Club with a Running Problem"), finding myself the master of ceremonies and on-site medic for a Peace Corps venting night, and getting hijacked by some locals so they could teach me Tokelauan language 'games' I found more to do than I should have. Still, I was here to see the place, not just lead the festivities. So I found another young American lad who wanted to explore and we headed up the 10 kilometer jaw-busting road to Da Cr8terman.


This is the best part of the road.


Da Cr8terman is a local who is either brilliant or insane. Not both, there is a definite line here, I am just not quite sure where he stands. He has some sort of control of the land leading up to a beautiful, jungle filled crater on the north side of the island; a remnant of one of the frequent volcanic explosions.

Da Cr8terman built the road (or semblance thereof) and then started on an epic series of signs in his own patois. The signs celebrate first visitors from different countries, famous visitors, or just the random person that strikes his fancy.


At the top of the road is a scramble for a couple of klicks up to the edge of the crater.



The view is worth the tribulations.


As are the signs.


Later that day I made it to a remote forest preserve on the west end of the island. The locals, with Kiwi help, have built a viewing/sleeping platform far up an ancient Banyan tree. For whatever reason many of the best things that happened to me in Polynesia happened around Banyans. Perhaps I should pay more attention to such trends.

The climb was a bit daunting.



I couldn't use the bridge as 'it was too dangerous', but the ladders up were still fair game according to my trusty and well experienced guides:


The bridge was soon left behind.


Jungle canopy, as far as the eye could see. With prior arrangement you can sleep up here. No shelter, but one beast of a view.


Then down again....


Tsunamis aren't the natural disaster of choice on Savai'i. Much of the island is covered in recent volcanic flows. This Catholic church was the last remnant of a village lost fairly recently, with significant loss of life. Life might be slow here, but it is occasionally very brutal.

Westernmost point on Savai'i, and according to the locals the last place on Earth to see the sun in a given day. Actually, some of the Aleutians probably beat Savai'i for this, but who the hell wants to be on the Aleutians?
Feeling particularly hard on myself after an unnecessarily (horrifically) long night with the Scandinavians (see the end of this post), I decided to do some bush-bashing. The Pulemelei Pyramid is the largest man-made structure in ancient Polynesia. A gigantic pile of lava stone, it featured dozens of ceremonial sites. It also at one point featured a six kilometer trail through the maze of inland Savai'i. All of these items have long since been swallowed by the jungle. My generic tequila morning-after punishment? Hike to the damn thing in the heat and humidity of mid-day, alone.


Yeah, it was worth it.


The blowholes of Savai'i dwarf those of Tonga. The English of Savai'i rivals that of the tea-baggers.



Necessity eventually drove me back to Upolu. Having a couple of days left to get my work done I decided to hell with it and went to the south side of the island. This used to be the biggest tourist area outside of Apia but received the full force of tsunami, so not much was there. The drive had its moments.


The south coast itself was blasted and nearly abandoned.


My spot was the first to rebuild. Still pretty basic, but new fales were springing up weekly and some folks were working off their rent and board by reassembling the resort around us. I contributed a bottle of rum, sat back and watched the show. The location: stunning. The people, at least those at my table: debauched and highly entertaining.


The plastic covered fales in the tropical downpour: A bit muggy.


The next morning, roughly 12 minutes after I rolled away from the celebrations the presence of my bottle seemed to inspire in the youth of the community, I was awoken by a man asking for help. He explained that since the tsunami had washed away the local school, the new school was too far to walk. The rains had kept the school bus away. I was the only person with a vehicle in a ten mile radius. Could I give his sisters a ride to class?

What could I say? If I was rich enough to have a car I should be generous enough to use it constructively, eh? So I mumbled something, pulled on some clothes, and climbed in with the two adolescent girls and the man in question. I had not drank that night to speak of, instead just observing the celebrations, so only fatigue informed my stupor. The rain fell in sheets on the ravaged roadbed, and as we drove I asked the man how far to the school. 'Forty-five minutes'. Round-trip? 'Each way'. Fortunately I try not cry in front of women. The roads were just horrific enough to keep me awake, and I missed breakfast.


Hard to feel too bad for yourself when you drive through ruins for an hour and a half.


Left that noontime for the Otago House and one final night in Apia. These falls were one of many bits of beauty on the way back to Apia. Upolu really is a beautiful place, outside of Apia. Like Utah outside of Provo.


Seems like a nice way to leave Samoa. I suppose I could tell about the French girl who convinced me that Tom Waits was playing in Auckland the day I arrived (he wasn't) and inspired a Cannonball Run remake across the center of Upolu as I sought an internet connection with which to find a ticket. Or the cab driver who decided that since John McLane was Bruce Willis, that I was Bruce Willis, and whose friends were waiting to meet me in downtown Apia to take Mr. Willis out for a drink ("Where is Demi?").

Instead, let me finish my Polynesian travels (for now) with a bit of acquired wisdom. Below are shown the entire contents of the Samoan Airport duty-free shop. When the same company makes your Whisky, Rum, Gin, and Tequila, DO NOT EVER DRINK THE TEQUILA. EVER. ESPECIALLY WITH SCANDINAVIANS. AS A MATTER OF FACT, NEVER DRINK ANY TEQUILA WITH SCANDINAVIANS. INCLUDING ICELANDERS. RUNNING IS A REASONABLE RESPONSE WHEN OFFERED SUCH AN OPPORTUNITY. OTHERWISE PLAY DEAD UNTIL THEY LEAVE.

Remember that, and Polynesia is a breeze.