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.