Finbar's perch

2010-07-28T15:38:00.018+12:00

Greenstone Caples

You know you are back at University when you wake in your van to find a half-full whisky bottle and a bear suit under the seat.

Good nights in Christchurch. Secured front row tickets for a Bill Bailey show and drove up a day early for a much mooted "Muppet Party" with the Canterbury geology postgrads. A bit of a furry scene. Great walking about a mile there in costume. Kiwis are big on yelling from their cars, and big on costumes. Put them together, and you have a whole night worth of entertainment.

Next day was the Bill Bailey show. Fantastic. First time seeing him live. Glad he was gentle with me.

Afterward we headed into the Lyttelton midwinter festival. Lyttelton serves as the port for Christchurch, sitting just over a ridge (or through the tunnel) but culturally very separate. I like port towns for just this reason. They tend to be a bit rougher but more vibrant. The bar-band scene is usually solid, and the pretensions minimal. Lyttelton is quickly gentrifying, but for now holds onto its ragged charm.

Festival night involved half a dozen bands and a couple of DJ's playing in venues and shops on various floors of buildings surrounding a central courtyard. Vibrant, chaotic, loud. Flitted from a basement with freeform jazz and scat to a standard rave scene to a jam band to a glam performance by 50 year old men in catsuits. I think I will have to return to Lyttleton when the time allows. Towns like this produce good people, and this was no exception. I have met better people sleeping on floors than in any hotel I have ever stayed. In one night I saw five bands, met an Alaskan traveler, developed my own three apostles who were convinced I was Jesus, danced and sang.

And go hear the Eastern. Lyttelton encapsulated and made music. Another example of my friends being better than I deserve.

I spoke with one of the closest companions of my early teenage years recently. He has grown into a fine, upstanding and stable family man. Like me. But in real life.

Anyway... as we discussed our most recent adventures and compared notes on the survivors of our youth he related a story which made me laugh harder than I have in many days, though it is a contextual thing. I think I laughed because of the sheer brutality of youth. Plus, it really was funny at the time.

We had an ongoing feud with a certain authority figure in our lives who had a large family, even in Mormon terms. One day as we strolled past their yard we noticed that the youngest, maybe four or five, had been strapped into a stroller-like device and was sitting unattended in the front yard (back in the day when you could do such a thing, if we weren't around). Without missing a beat one of us walked up on the grass and nudged the stroller so that it was now sitting atop an active lawn sprinkler, soaking the restrained child from the shoulders down. As the wailing began we continued our leisurely promenade up the road.

Minor but absolutely pointless cruelty. Yet deeply funny in retrospect. Humans are very disturbed creatures.

Which brings me to tramping with Travis.

Nah, the guy is a saint.

First winter tramp in En Zed, and by local standards South Island has brutal winters. They also grind up Frosted Flakes with tomatoes and one part per million jalapenos (pronounced hala pen ohs, or occasionally jala pen ohs) and call it hot salsa. Everything is relative. But the Southern Alps do get snow, which I miss terribly. I have prayed for a true blizzard to hit Dunners; when it does I shall stand nude on Cumberland Street and laugh as their civilization turns to dust and embers around them. Until then I will just snort and look disgusted when they speak of local winters. The Kiwis are genial and pleasant lot, but they need one more island half way between Stewart and McMurdo. Then this country would have everything, and they would have to pry me out like a tick. They still might.

Spent the night at Kinloch lodge on the shore of Lake Wakatipu. Gorgeous, and had it almost to ourselves. A newlywed English couple joined us and then proceeded not to speak to us or each other throughout their meal and most of the evening. Looked fun. The gent finally broke the silence by asking where I was from, and discovering it was Alaska proceeded to say: "Well, I have something to say that you should like!" He then proceeded to praise Canada and slag the States at some detail. Sitting silently watching this performance I finally realized that he thought Alaska was part of Canada and that, as a Canuck, I would be charmed by how little he thought of Americans. I smiled and told him that I liked Canada too, but that sometimes crossing the border from Alaska to Canada was a bit difficult. His face clouded briefly, and he wandered over to speak to his wife in low tones. He offered one look full of horrified embarrassment, and the silence fell again.

The hot tub on the hillside made up for all such Brit awkwardness, especially given the lack of sandflies and mozzies in the bone-chilling weather that ALMOST WENT BELOW FREEZING. Quelle horreur!

First Morning. The Caples/Greenstone was our target as the more classic walks were either on the North Island, had already been done by us (Heaphy, Abel Tasman inland/coast), or are actually impassible during winter despite my sneering dismissal (Routeburn, Milford, Kepler, etc.). The alpine areas in the Alps get huge amounts of snow, very quickly, and avalanches are a constant danger. The Caples and Greenstone valleys are low river valleys with one saddle between them. Perfect for winter walking, assuming weather holds. For the most part, it did. The Caples is fractionally more difficult, so we attacked it first.

It hovered around 0 C for most of the journey, dipping a few below at night and melting in the sun. The streams in the shade produced incredible displays of ice as the running water splashed over plants and stones. Beautiful, but deadly to walk on.

Being valleys much of the area was shaded throughout the short winter days. Frost developed in layers, as fog would rise from the sunny areas each morning and settle in nearby trees. Given the absolute lack of anyone else on the trail (we saw one hunter in the first 15 minutes of the first day, and no one else until late on the second) the noise of our footsteps crushing the frost on the grass, and me jumping on every piece of white ice I could find over puddles and streams, echoed without answer.

Perhaps because of this we talked little. It felt like a quiet place.

Though not as dramatic as the alpine stretches of the great walks, when out of the trees the crystal clear skies and the expanse of the valleys we wandered up impressed deeply. This is a radically different experience than the summer slog flanked by sandflies and other trampers trying to be the first wherever they are headed. It is difficult not to hurry yourself when you are passed by a succession of people on a trail. Travis and I had the peace to just be here, and the art formed by the undisturbed effect of winter on the landscape encouraged our slow, deliberate travel.

At the midpoint of the first day's walk is the Mid Caples hut. As you approach across a solid, unbroken valley floor you suddenly find a very narrow gorge, filled with water so violent and distressed as to seem like a relic of an entirely different place. Nowhere else on the tramp had any structures like this.

The Mid Caples was in the sun and commands a beautiful vista. It was also well stocked with coal and dry wood, but the sun was bright and we were young. A break, a dram, and a bite; then we were off. We would regret not packing a bit of the coal with us.

The hut for the night. A bit higher, a bit shadier, and completely lacking in coal and dry wood.

A night spent encouraging wet wood to burn so that we could dry out other wood to burn to dry out other wood. And poker. And whisky. And food. My diet these days is pretty limited but on the tramps anything goes. Daily chocolate ration is somewhere around a kilo.

Next morning found as a bit less bright-eyed, but not a smidge less darling.

The second half of the Caples led us mostly in cover, albeit as unique of cover as snowy fern gardens. After midday we broke out onto the highest portion of the tramp, the walk over the down up to McKellar saddle. Best views of the trip, and the weather held clear and cold. Perfect walking day.

McKellar is gorgeous, though I would guess in warmer weather it might veer toward the muddy side of things. For us it was ice and snow, fantastic for walking but a bit problematic when it came to descent. The climb up McKellar from the lower Caples is gradual, but the descent certainly is not. The pictures do not do it justice, but the trail comes to an edge, then drops precipitously more than 400 meters. The trail follows a streambed cut into the face of the steep slope. The stream, of course, now being nothing but a curtain of ice. And your intrepid narrator somehow forgot his ice axe and crampons.

I reached the streambed first, turned to Travis, and announced: "We are going to die."

Others had come to this conclusion as well. Where the drop began a cairn of prayer stones had been built. We offered our brief Aves, placed a rock each, and dropped down. No pictures of the descent, both hands being busy.

I used to think of people as basically sane. An incident one night around a wine bottle completely dispelled this idea. I had secured a bottle of cheap white wine from my housesit and brought it over to share with a friend as we watched a film. Upon opening the bottle and pouring two glasses we smelled the wine, which stank exactly of human urine. Commenting on this, rather than throwing it out we looked at each other and tried a sip. Terrible. It tasted of rancid fish with undertones of nothing else. What would a reasonable person do? Throw it out, perchance? Instead, after both of us recoiled in horror and commented on the abomination, we looked at each other, the glasses of wine, and both took another sip.

What the hell. Sanity is over-rated.

We did make it to the bottom nonetheless, without any help from our reason.

After a stroll around the lake we came to yet another beautiful, empty hut. This one held a bit more in the way of fuel, and our night of feasting and cards included reveling in the relative warmth. This served as sharp contrast to the solo German girl who was one night ahead of us on the trail, leaving increasingly depressed and bitter notes as she traveled without a cooking stove or light source, alone through the winter. We would have rescued her, but she never slowed down.

The next day broke a bit colder, clear and sharp. The Greenstone was wider and less steep than the Caples, with a braided river dominating most of the valley floor. Hugging the tree line we walked without sign of others, aside from faint footprints in the snow.

A magnificent day.

Our last night was spent in a new hut just off the junction of the Greenstone and the Mavona. The hut system here deserves the praise it receives. This hut was spacious, insulated better than any home I have lived in here, and generally pretty sweet. Especially for just Travis and I.
The scenery held charms as well.

Final day of walking through frosted forest.

The valley held a few last surprises. The waterfalls were the loudest things we encountered in four days on the trail, and perhaps the most beautiful.

The peace that comes with a walk across a white plain in the absence of all but your close companions, sounds tamped by the snow cover and the mundane interruptions of other humans nowhere to be found, this is one of the great joys.

Next, the Routeburn in October with another trip down the Greenstone. It will be interesting to observe it covered with determined Kiwis and psychotic Europeans slogging through the mud. Somehow, I suspect a great deal of nostalgia for Travis and the snow.

2010-06-20T22:48:00.018+12:00

Heaphy Track

Another semester, another bit of random Kiwi street-art:

While Dunedin is a University town, it is easy to forget that Otago is not the only college here. Otago Polytech, with its focus upon vocational programs, also has a vibrant arts scene. I do not know which group produced the above, but along with the omnipresent graffiti the road and sidewalk art make every day a bit of an exploration. Well, that and the broken glass and bits of body fluids lying about, also bearing testament to the student population.

Nothing scenic about the below picture, but it charms me. Apparently this Dr. Safari is MBCHB FRNZCGP MScIM and DVM. No idea what the first three are, but I am pretty sure the last one makes him a veterinarian.

Heaphy.

With Kyle's impending departure back to North America (at least for a bit) and his return with his guy (which will have an unknown impact on our heretofore swinging bachelor lifestyles ) it was decided that a final trip was in order. Winter in New Zealand rules out many of the Great Walks due either to off-season expense (Holyford) or weather-related dangers (Milford, Routeburn, etc.). The Heaphy Track is on the north end of the South Island near Abel Tasman. It is fairly low altitude and sheltered from the worst of the coastal weather for much of its length. It is generally open without restriction for most of the winter, so we decided to give it a try.

Two complications arose. The first is that as the Heaphy links two dead end roads we would come out six hours by car from where we went in. Second, the weather reports were dire. Papers warned of the worst storms in two years and terrible rain and snow on the trail. After the ten hour drive to the start, we were willing to take the chance. Or perhaps we were simply not bright enough to care. This trait has served me stunningly well over the years. Either way, the next morning we appeared on the trail reasonably intact.

Turns out we were to have the best weather on the South Island. While most of the island flooded, the Heaphy had a bit of moist mist and a few good rains. The warned of flooded rivers and impassible storms never arrived. Much to my secret disappointment.

The Track features an initial day of climbing, followed by two days crossing the downs before you descend into the forest of the west coast. Not classic South Island alpine terrain, but beautiful nonetheless.

The kiwis are generally a practical people, and they tend not to waste much. A possible exception is food eaten after 3 AM following an All-Blacks match which never seems to be used for more than an hour or so before being donated back to the environment. That said, why throw out worn out shoes when you can carry them in a pack for two days and nail them to a random post in the middle of the downs?

The downs grow on you. Hard to find terrain like this elsewhere on the South Island. Riddled with caves and strange little chasms, the hills roll on for hours with flax and birds as your only companions. As well as the three older Kiwi chaps from Wellington. Nice guys, but they had a very different sense of tramping than ours. We went through a liter and half of Jameson's in two and a half days. They didn't. They went to bed every night at 6PM and slept until 8AM. We stayed up until 11PM playing cards and lying to whoever would listen. We left the hut before they did each day; they inevitably passed us en route. Needless to say we resented them deeply, especially after we ran out of whisky.

The huts were great for all of that.

And I found some fellow Nomites!

Did I mention that the downs are riddled with caves?

This jolly bird hesitantly approached us on the porch of the hut, shat next to our gear, and then waited expectantly for something. Approbation? A peanut? After a while it looked disgusted and wandered off.

One of the nicer things about being the oldest one in a tramping group is the limitless opportunity to look disapprovingly at the rest of the gang. Punks.

Post-rain and sunset at the high point of the downs. The next day we dropped down toward the west-coast rain forests.

Looking west from the saddle.

Travis assembles his nightly hut-fort. He then went on to severely bruise Kyle's brain.

The ocean at last, with the next hut nestled in on the saddle.

The forests here are jungles in reality; rich and dark. The rivers that drain them pick up so much tannin as to be the color of old tea.

Swinging bridges break the pattern of walking with moments of deep fear. Compared to the three wire bridges, however, these are stability itself. They also bounce when you jump on them.

Running out of time on the final day (we had a shuttle to meet) we dropped everything and tried to climb this waterfall. I damn near managed to release the logjam holding up the upper half. Kyle wouldn't let me.

The effects of the local fungi are generally positive.

Previous trampers have a habit of leaving donations to the local deities on trail markers. Here is a gift to Lewinsky, goddess of minimal underclothing.

Last day, last bridge, desperate need of a shower.

As we left for home we were shocked to hear that Gary Coleman had died, and happy that Travis had been elected Postgrad Rep in our absence. Or perhaps the adjectives should be reversed. I still have not come to peace with Travis wielding power. In honor of Gary's passing and the general brevity of life we stopped for a scrub at Maruia Springs. After five days without showers the bath houses and outside hot pools were glorious. Not sure I would have wanted to clean up after us, but you can't worry about such things.

On the way north one of my windshield wipers had completely broken off. Since it was the passenger side I thought little of it. As we drove south, however, the reports of weather calamities grew. Roads were flooded, snow blocked passes, and general mayhem was in the midst of ensuing. In the middle of a gigantic rainstorm north of Christchurch, the other windshield wiper let go. As near as I can tell, the new tires I put on Yokozuna allowed us to go about 120kph rather than 100 kph, and the stress broke the wipers clean off. Either way, we were pretty much screwed. Except for the hitchhiker.

Driving down out of the pass I saw a hitcher standing in the rain, and asked Kyle and Travis to pull over. I assured them that as I was in the back I would deal with the guy. He was a pleasant young Kiwi dude and I was tired. Seeing no danger I went to sleep, despite my promises to the two guys up front. I slept until I heard him mention that he was supposed to take three pills a day, but only took one because they 'slowed him down'. This woke me up, our hitcher being off his meds. Listening as I lay there I heard him talk about swapping random pills with the other drivers he had traveled with, and how his anxiety problem was not helped by the Ritalin he had just taken. I arose. His first question to me? "Do you like recreational drugs?" Really, exactly that. I have been asked lots of drug related questions over the years, but never quite like that. It would be like your alcoholic acquaintance wandering up and asking "would you care to consume some ethylated spirits?" The question stopped me dead.

Now I am used to surprises from hitchers. Once Karen and I had just dropped the boys off at a summer camp in central Alaska for a week and we were heading out to camp with our two dogs. Just outside of Fairbanks there was a guy hitching. I had my VW bus, so plenty of room, and I stopped. The gent was from Belgium and he was VERY grateful to us for stopping. He asked if he could grab his gear out of the brush. The next twenty minutes were a Jerry Lewis bit. He kept going into the brush and pulling out more gear. Boxes, coolers, a huge raft, tents, bags, food, guns, and finally a husky. I started out troubled, then pissed, then eventually simply laughed at the absurdity of it. When he was done Karen and our dogs were crammed in the back completely fenced in by at least a half ton of gear that this guy had been schlepping through Alaska alone. The van was so full that I could not shift properly and the husky had to sit on his lap so he could put more stuff at the base of the passenger seat.

Turns out he had rafted down the Yukon from his brother's place Carmacks solo, leaving the water at the end of a road barely traveled in Circle, Alaska. He planned to hitch home. It had already taken him six days to cover the 150 miles from Circle, and we could only take him as far as Delta Junction, leaving more than 500 miles to go. He seemed totally oblivious to the problems inherent in hitching that far with hundreds of pounds of gear, far more than any passenger car could carry. In fact, he was enjoying himself. We dropped him at the corner in Delta and as we drove off he was busily hiding his gear in the shrubs, waiting for the next unsuspecting moving van to wallow by. I have to give him credit for his optimism, though not for his sense.

The kiwi hitcher was just offering me pharmaceuticals. Before the conversation could progress much, the other windshield wiper let go, leaving us blind a long way from home. The hitcher mobilized to help, eventually unsuccessfully but after several adventures at the place he was crashing since being run out of Westport for 'rooting' the wrong girl. He directed us to a store outside Christchurch that might still be open at 5pm on a Saturday night in the middle of the worst storm in two years. They were, and showing typical Kiwi ingenuity they used tape and cable ties to get us back on road. As a matter of fact, I still haven't got around to fixing that....

The rest of the trip home was damned wet. Water on the roads that you could feel through the floorboards. Flooded signs placed in the middle of road-lakes rather than in front of them. Road closures and lots of detours through farm-roads crawling with crazed, frustrated, Kiwi truckers. Upon our final arrival we realized we really needed a mint juelp after that drive. Three bars later, we taught them how to make one. Huzzah!

Good trip.

This week saw the annual All-Blacks game in Dunedin, held for the final time at the old-school Carisbrook stadium, otherwise known as the 'House of Pain'. I am not a huge sports fan, but you can't miss something like this. Kiwis are rugby mad in the same way that Russians are vodka mad. The All-Blacks define the national character. They win, all is good. They lose...well, you'd best stay indoors. Plus it is rugby. Pure, unvarnished violence between consenting adults. Fueled by massive amounts of alcohol in the stands, and ego on the turf. What's not to like?

The opponents were the Welsh. Yeah, I know, the Welsh?

One thing the All-Blacks are rightfully famous for is the Haka. This wardance done before each match is meant to scare the opponents. In fact it is merely an excuse to make great faces at other grown men. Really, check out one on youtube. Great stuff.

No pads, no pauses, no whining. If you are going to play a blood sport, do it right.

Carisbrook was the last place in New Zealand that had terraces, stepped concrete areas where folks had to stand, and relatively cheap compared to the seats. Student area and damned lively. The police presence in front of them is not just for show. Keep in mind that everybody walking in the gate is buying at least one if not several 4-packs of Steinlager in green plastic bottles. Keep in mind as well that once you are packed into the terraces it is impossible to slip out for a slash. Some folks bring PVC tubes to piss in. Others just use the bottles. What happens to all these bottles of liquid? Watch the video below to find out. Keep in mind that the bottles tossed from the seats are empty, but notice how many full bottles are rising from the terraces. I can guarantee you that these are not folks to waste beer......

The All-Blacks stomped 'em. The party went on all night long and included our confiscation of an entire transit bus to get to our meeting place.

This is a fun little town.

2010-05-16T20:04:00.007+12:00

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.

2010-05-09T18:18:00.027+12:00

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.

2010-04-20T15:45:00.009+12:00

Samoa, Part one.

Let us start with a caveat. I understand that I am a tourist. I do acknowledge that the places I go are not there for my entertainment nor should my judgments of them be expected to matter at all to the residents. I am a gringo outsider with all of my personal biases and intellectual baggage coming into someone else's home and telling my stories. I acknowledge and embrace this.

Perhaps you have guessed that I did not unreservedly enjoy my stay in Apia.

The place is pretty. The view below is across the bay towards the governmental complex and main business district. There is a nice, well maintained seawall walk where you can get mugged at night before a truly beautiful backdrop. It is small enough (40,000 population) to walk to most locations, though the Samoans look at you as if you are mad should you try to do so. There are some nice cafes, and a very helpful library. The mountains surrounding the town are gorgeous.

You don't walk not out of a lack of things to see, you don't walk because the damn place is 90F and 90% humidity pretty much constantly. Surprise, and welcome to the tropics. Yes, I know, but I am a cold-weather boy and my brain works sluggishly at best in these conditions. Since my chosen method of exploring a town involves walking it for a week or two, this posed some problems.

Perhaps I was spoiled by Nuku'Alofa, or I have been on the road too long, or I am just getting soft in my geriatric repose. Apia just wasn't much fun. It felt hostile. The bar district had guys lounging out front staring you down and the aforementioned seawall has hustlers of every stripe, hawking the range from dope to virgins. Women do not walk around alone after dusk. Fights are common, waves and smiles are not. Despite there being more obvious displays of wealth here than in Tonga (though nothing like AmSam) property crime is more common. Or perhaps it is because rather than despite?

In retrospect perhaps Suva was like this too, but I just don't remember getting the same hard vibe. A local bar owner described it to me as the outcome of kids moving away from their very traditional, very hierarchical villages in the back country into Apia, where they have no chief to watch and socially sanction them. Away from the rigidities of their childhood they follow no rules. Whether this is just the local version of 'kids these days' or has a grain of truth I do not know. I do know that I had to watch myself much more carefully here. No late night wanders as throughout Tonga.

Big bummer there, as the night is when I felt most functional. The stars are beautiful here, clear skies and a equatorial locale providing for combinations I had never before seen. The residential neighborhoods were quiet, and human menace was minimal if you avoided downtown. Canine menace was omnipresent. Thousands of dogs run loose and attacks occur frequently. Locals walk with sticks; I quickly learned to wear my boots. In Tonga bending down and acting as if you are picking up a stone would drive away the hounds. Here a bit more direct action is required. The third time I found myself happily booting a dog in the head I gave up. Apia kept its night. I found early bedtimes.

One element was nice. The University has a house on campus where I was allowed to stay for a minimal charge. Three bedrooms, blessedly air conditioned, and with internet. Unfortunately they did not give me the right key to the gate, so several times every evening I found myself hopping this two meter fence.

I waited each time for the cops to be called, since I had to do my vault on a busy road. The fact that they didn't show started as a relief and grew into a concern. What exactly would I have to do to get the cops called? Turned out that the place had been squatted for months before my arrival by a campus security guard and two friends. If no one noticed the nightly parties, I suppose a bit of fence hopping wouldn't trigger any alarm.

The house was pretty sweet, despite the huge cockroaches. The centipedes, well, they are a whole different bundle of anxieties. Cockroaches are fairly fragile beasts, at least here, and they don't dodge well. When you find yourself chasing a 13 inch red and black centipede (I know the size because I tried to step on the thing and it was longer than my shoe) around the house for half an hour, then it disappears by running up the gap between the toilet outflow and the wall, it makes you reluctant to use that particular set of conveniences. I pissed in the garden for two days.

The barbed wire just screams 'friendly'.

Continually encountered the Utah link here, as well as in Tonga. Having been raised LDS in Salt Lake I knew Samoan and Tongan kids from childhood. I had not realized how much the flow reversed. There were Utah shops, buses with names like 'Provo' and 'Moab', and graffiti from Utah groups carved into tourist sites. Much of the funding for development projects, and some for commercial enterprises, comes from Utah. You simply cannot escape your childhood. But I shall endeavor to persevere.

Have to admit, the roads are pretty. Not something I say a lot.

Favorite bit of Engrish yet in Polynesia. Karl Rove's apparent brother selling Chinese-made underwear from the "FAT COLLECTION".

Not that all of Apia reminded me of Oakland. Good experiences abounded. The first night there I was recognized by a young Indian gent, dripping with gold jewelry, who had apparently helped me through the application process for a Tongan driver's license. He insisted I come into the roughest bar in Apia, Crabbers, and that he would buy me a beer. Not having anything else better to do I agreed, and was soon in the dance area with about 15 very large Polynesian men who my host, Paul, referred to as his 'boys'. He went on to tell me about his business dealings in Fiji, Tonga, and Samoa, and how I never needed to worry about anything in any of these places as his boys would take care of me. Never really having worried about anything before Apia I was a bit confused, but mildly grateful. Meanwhile the boys were harmonizing along with a locally produced remix of Abba's 'Waterloo' and drinking enormous (750 ml) local Valima beers. Then they all wanted to dance.

Hell, on an average night I would prefer to be in a gay bar than a straight one. They are more fun, more relaxed, and I get sick of the breeder guidos stomping around meat markets. These guys, however, were the massive gay mafia. No one else was even entering the dance floor on a Friday night and aside from Paul the smallest one of the bunch still could play lineman for Oklahoma. I was flattered, and terrified. Slamming back my beer I headed for the door, claiming a prior engagement. A few ass-pats and a phone number later I was sitting out in front of pizza joint down the street when I was hit upon by the first of many fa'afafines to approach me in Samoa. Third gender, very cool, not my thing sexually. But boy, did they like me. Whether it was because of my being a palangi, or my sweat encrusted sexy student t-shirts, I think I met and spoke with half of the 50/50's in Samoa. Probably a good thing, but a bit daunting by #10.

Just an aside (unlike the rest of the blog), how do people actually have sex to some of the music I hear in clubs? I assume that is the point, right? Usher exists to somehow encourage people to have sex with each other, preferably after buying a t-shirt. But dear gods, Abba? I would be laughing too hard to function. Has anyone ever actually got lucky to the strains of 'Waterloo'? Is this why Scandinavia is so sparsely populated?

So that was Friday. Good Friday. Everything then closed at 10PM and the country remained closed until Tuesday. Literally. The whole damn country. I went through my food on Saturday and lasted the rest of the time on peanut butter and Tim Tams. On Easter they showed all six Rocky films in succession on TV. So I went to church instead:

As with the Tongans, the Samoans sing beautifully.

Other great things about Apia? Palolo Deep, some of the best snorkeling I have ever found and a 5 minute walk from downtown. Further confirmation of the over-the-shoulder air conditioning method (Polynesian men frequently walk down the street with one corner of their shirts pulled up and tucked into the collar. Considering the scale of the bellies in some cases, this can be deeply impressive.). Driving in a place where they just switched from the right to the left last September and the cars are a mad mix of left and right hand drives. With arrows pointing both ways still painted on the pavement. And no apparent minimum age for drivers. Decent pizza. The fa'afafines were a bit flighty, but generally interesting to chat with.

The best thing? Hiking up to R.L. Stevenson's grave. Just outside of Apia on a beautiful piece of land he named Valima. He came here to try and recover from TB, ended up dying in Samoa. Highly esteemed by the locals, he still has pride of place in the local mythology. Valima's gardens radiate life.

The hike to the gravesite atop Mt. Vaea should not be as bad as it proved. I have not been swimming in this picture, that is sweat. See my comments above regarding climate. I had no idea my body contained this much moisture.

The view made it all worthwhile.

His epitaph reads:

"Under the wide and starry sky,

Dig the grave and let me lie.

Glad did I live, and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:

"Here he lies where he longed to be.

Home is the sailor, home from the sea,

And the hunter home from the hill."

That, I can appreciate. Especially right here.

Next up? Savai'i.

2010-04-05T16:22:00.012+12:00

American Samoa

Easter holiday in Polynesia. Did I mention just how Christian these places are? Everything shuts down from the beginning of Good Friday until Tuesday morning. I am already down to eating Timtams and peanut butter, which is actually damn good. Plus, I got to put on a skirt and wear it to church this morning, which will please both my mother and my deadhead friends, two categories rarely pleased about the same things. So Easter ain't all bad. It also gives me time to catch up with my blogging and other crucial matters, like a nap.

Spent a couple of days in American Samoa. Had planned on a week but when my transport to Ofu island failed, the trip was shortened. Ofu is supposed to be the most beautiful island in the Pacific, and is nearly impossible to get to. After the FAA shut down the one airline going, only the Governor's plane made the trip, a couple of times per week. I called and pulled the 'researcher' card to get a seat. However, this plane melted its landing gear trying to abort a takeoff on the extremely short strips in the Manu'a islands. So Ofu will have to wait.

The main island of American Samoa, Tutuila, was my home for a couple of days. I suspect most Americans do not have a clue this place exists, much less is part of the States. Kind of like Oklahoma. A relic of the era of expansion in the Pacific, this part of Samoa is still US territory mainly because the locals see no good reason for independence. Lots of funding comes in from Washington, and while the locals can't vote in national elections they also don't have to pay federal taxes. This is a trade-off I suspect many mainlanders would accept.

A bit of history here. In the late 1800's Britain was still expanding its empire, the US Navy was looking for coaling stations and the Germans were dealing with their empire envy by trying to swallow up anything not already Red or Blue on the map. Britain and Germany had interests in Tonga, while all three were eyeballing Samoa. In 1889 a force of three German warships began supporting their favored candidate for the king's role via artillery bombardments of coastal villages. In doing so they destroyed some American property, so the Americans retaliated by bombarding other Samoan villages. Not being particularly satisfying bombardments (the Samoan fales just tended to collapse instead of producing those really neat smoke clouds you get when you blow the shit out of masonry), the three American warships and the three German warships steamed into Apia harbor and prepared to start a war. Over Samoa. That's right, the US and Germany very nearly fought a war in 1889 over Samoa (betcha also didn't know that we invaded Korea in 1871, or Sumatra twice in the 1800's, did you? Yay for history!). The one British warship present was not as distracted and decided to check the weather rather than grease its guns. Noticing a cyclone approaching, it quite reasonably left the harbor, and was the only ship not totally destroyed by the storm. After the death of 148 sailors and the loss of all six ships, the major combatants sat down and decided not to start WW I early over some relatively minor land in the Pacific. They did continue to fund and arm various factions, however, until 1899 when Germany agreed to give up claims to parts of Tonga and several other island chains to Britain, and to give the US the excellent harbor of Pago Pago and all islands east of this, in exchange for keeping the majority of Tongan land and population in the two islands of Upolu and Savai'i.

I am in American Samoa because it was the only place on the globe that managed to impose an effective quarantine against the 1918 flu, and thus the only place without fatalities. By contrast, independent Samoa had the world's highest known death rate from the same infection, at 26% of the population. This contrast is what I am here to investigate.

There are about 60,000 people here. The vast majority of them live on the main island, with a few thousand on the small Manu'a islands. These include Ofu, Olosega, and Ta'u.

A brief note on punctuation. In most Polynesian languages 'g' represents a truncated 'ng' sound, the 'n' part being a bit shortened. In Fijian the 'q' represents the same phoneme. Correctly pronounced, Pago Pago sounds more like 'Pungo Pungo' than 'Paygo Paygo'. And now you know. Because knowing is half the battle.

Flew into Pago Pago on a puddle jumper out of Apia. Perhaps the most beautiful airport I have ever seen. The terminal itself was not much to mention, although the fact that it was showing a completely uncut copy of one of the 'Leprechaun' films on all monitors was a bit discordant. The surrounding country, however, was stunning.

This place is all cliffs. Mountains climb straight up from the waters, and the terrain is defined by edges. There is little flat land, and thus little agriculture. The population subsists on imported food for the most part, including American fast food. One of the nicest parts of Tonga was the complete absence of any fast food chains anywhere in the country. Not so here. Carl's Jr. is considered high cuisine, and the health of the population reflects this. The local diet seems to be an unholy combination of the worst of Polynesia (canned corned beef, lamb flaps) with the worst of the US (fast food, soda, chips). The pigs omnipresent in Tonga have been eliminated here due to environmental concerns, so even the pork is imported. Samoans of all nationalities have some of the highest obesity and diabetes rates in the world.

This particular Carl's Jr. also had a bit of Polynesian flavor to its drive through. Folks here tend to bury relatives above-ground in large, concrete memorials. These take up a significant amount of space, and reflect the wealth of the family involved. They are seen in many yards and parks. Apparently there was one in place on the land purchased for this outlet because to use the drive through you have to dodge the mausoleum. Eternity guarding a fast-food driveway, probably not what grandpa had in mind.

Did I mention that this place is beautiful? A mass of black volcanic rock spilling into blue-green waters, it is one of the prettiest places I have ever seen in the States.

This beast was for sale in Pago Pago. The amount of pure class involved in driving a 70's hearse around an island paradise.....

The fact that what little flat land is available clusters around harbors proved to be a liability following the earthquake and tsunami of late last year. American Samoa was hit hard. Most of the dockside businesses in Pago Pago were wiped out, along with multiple villages. The damage was visible throughout the coastal areas of the island, with various iterations of FEMA tents still housing much of the population. The Lonely Planet guide, just published last year, is totally useless as most businesses listed have been washed away. The US government is trying to help repair the damage.

That said, the money coming in seems to go in directions perhaps not envisioned. there are more new, huge, American-style trucks here than any place I have ever lived, including Alaska. They are everywhere, and seem to be the main source of transport. These are $40,000 Tundras that clog the roads. Sources tell me that many folks have chosen to rebuild to a lesser quality than their former homes, while spending the FEMA check on a truck for an island with perhaps 120 miles of road in total.

Of course, corruption is not limited to householders. The governor was recently allocated funding to buy a ferry to the Manu'a islands, since the planes are no longer flying. Instead of buying a passenger ferry he spent 1.6 million buying a yacht his friend in New Zealand had been unsuccessfully trying to sell. It takes 6-8 people. This is the theoretical new ferry for the poorest area in the US. On a smaller scale a grant was secured to build a practice court for local school basketball teams. It has not yet been built as the the official in charge is insisting it be built in his backyard. Not in his neighborhood, in his literal backyard.

Sports are huge here. Not only is the NFL recruiting grade schoolers, school rivalries are at times extreme. Victorious teams are regularly attacked in their buses by stone throwers as they pass through intersections. Fights are common. The Polynesian warrior tradition combined with good old American sports-focused sociopathy makes for interesting Friday nights. Like to see British football hooligans try to survive here, the 12 year-olds could thrash them.

But, it sure is pretty.

Despite the beauty there are very few tourists. In part this is because American Samoa is just as expensive as the mainland, if not slightly more so. A tourist can spend their time much more frugally in Fiji or particularly Tonga. In addition, the feel of the place is a weird mix of American and Polynesian. There are touches around town, such as forged drain-covers and posted rules regarding seat belts, that remind a visitor of this mixed heritage. As much Duluth as Apia. The roads crowded with new trucks, the American chain stores, all of this fights with the relative poverty and traditionalism of the majority of the population.

Tradition thrives in the villages. Sa are evening prayers, noted by whacking a suspended, empty oxygen tank with a stick at 6 pm. Another whack a few minutes later indicates that all activity must stop. No walking, jogging, playing, working, or any activities aside from driving the main roads is allowed, and palagi joggers oblivious due to their headphones have been very unpleasantly reminded of the need for cultural awareness. Most of the family stays inside for prayers, but the house-holding male will come out to his property line wearing the lavalava of his village and stand until the tank is whacked again about 6:20. Then activity resumes.

It is clear that American Samoans are generally wealthier than most other Pacific Islanders, but it is not clear why. Most jobs were provided by two huge tuna canneries, one of whom has recently closed and the other of which is considering the same. The islands produce more NFL players per capita than anywhere else in the US, by a huge margin. Some of this money comes home. The military is also very significant here, with recruiting posters and tributes to those serving throughout the island. Many of the residents, however, are on welfare. Unemployment is rampant, there is no real incentive to get work, and not enough work to go around.

There are some tourist spots nonetheless. I spent an hour discussing tattoos with an Aussie named Candyman who was tending bar at Tisa's, right on the beach. He showed me his traditional, and excruciating, Samoan tattoo, which stretches in an intricate pattern from his navel to his knees and includes his backside, mons pubis, and inner thighs. This tattooing is done using tools hand carved from wild boar tusks and a stick to whack them with. His tattoo took over 100 hours, spaced throughout 15 days, followed by several weeks recovery.

It is a beautiful tattoo (here is an example of the style: http://www.creativetattooreviews.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/Traditional_Samoan_Tattoo_-_back.jpg) I wonder how one of those would look under a kilt.......

The highlands are covered in flowers, flying foxes, and waterfalls. There is a village named Alaska (unofficially) as well. Not sure if it is named for its relative low temperature (it is the highest village on the island) or for all the Samoans that live in AK.

A great example of the American influence here. This road was a rutted, beat-to-hell stretch of one lane gutbuster all the way down the mountain, until it hit the spot where the tsunami washed it out. Then, since it was rebuilt by federal money, it turned into this beautiful, two lane, well anchored, piece of Utah freeway. For about 7o feet. then it turned back into Polynesia.

Perhaps the best part of AmSam was the folks who put me up. I had been speaking with Kate on Couchsurfing, and she hosted me the first night along with her two roomies. All these folks are teacher volunteers, doing a rough job with little support in a place that is not always welcoming. Being a teacher in any circumstances is rough, but this reminds me of the trials of teachers in the Alaskan bush, except they volunteer their time. Fantastic folks, and she introduced me to a whole crew of them. The next night we went to the home of Taylor and Scott, a young couple working for an NGO in Pago Pago. The picture below is of their backyard. Absolutely gorgeous place and very kind folks, they hosted myself and three teachers that night. Thanks, all.

The next morning they were all headed to a friend's place on the islet of Ta'u, and they tried to bring me along. While the flight wasn't available (I suspect they arrived without luggage, as a matter of fact), it is nice to be welcomed so completely and so quickly. Next time, folks. Or maybe in a place with a more amenable climate. Nome, perchance?

My flight to Apia was a reminder of just how funky Polynesia can be. In front of me sat a 60+ year old Aussie Karl Rove look-a-like sucking face with what seemed to be an 18 year old Samoan girl. Considering the number of large Samoan men in the plane, that took balls of brass to match his depraved soul. Next to him up front was a nearly 7 foot tall fa'afafine (third gender). Like the rest of this place, very different, and very beautiful. Also, completely capable of breaking you if you fail to keep your wits about you. Life is good.

2010-04-04T10:03:00.011+12:00

Day 5 and then some

Neighborhood shots in Nuku’Alofa:

The Storm.

Cyclone Tomas looks to give us a pass and the locals are relieved, though I was hoping for a show. Not that the near miss isn’t great, this morning the wind woke me at 5 AM and I realized that for the first time since my arrival there were no damned roosters or dogs sounding off at the hour. I am not too worried; these buildings are built out of rebar and blocks. Horrible in earthquakes but well suited for hurricanes. The sign for my accommodations blew down, and I saw a young couple whapped on the heads by a falling palm frond. So I suppose my bloodlust has been temporarily quenched.

Remember my comment about the virility of this place, its overwhelming sense of life and growth? As I type this my laptop is seemingly full of nearly microscopic ants. Why they are here, I haven’t a clue. I don’t tend to eat when I work, and the keyboard does not seem particularly filthy. Nonetheless, they are here as they are everywhere else. The long-term impact of ants nestling in your laptop is not clear, but I doubt it is good.

I spend my days wandering Nuku’Alofa looking for materials to use. Very little luck so far, the records from before 1920 have simply vanished, and no clue remains. I am thus seeing little of the rest of Tongatapu, but I am getting a feel for Tonga itself. There is nothing like wandering a town for days to really absorb the vibe. I justify my trip by claiming that this should help my writing about Tonga as a whole.

Nights are spent wandering as well, at least until 10 or so. Once the sun goes down I can actually tolerate the climate, and I try to get out to walk. The locals are not there, mostly inside---either at home watching TV or at church singing (which they do with an ethereal beauty), drinking kava, or playing basketball dependent upon the congregation and the gender.

The evenings have an other-wordly air to them. Trash is burnt in most yards once a week, or more frequently, usually at dusk. Most of this is agricultural waste of one type or another, so the smoke is not particularly acrid but it does permeate the neighborhoods outside of the miniscule town center. Walking through areas with no other palagi (foreigners) in sight, passing yards full of rubble from the 2006 riots and subsequent natural disasters, the place has a bit of the Kurtzian horror to it. Locals sit listlessly in the waning heat of the day watching the smouldering piles fill the still air with haze, while the children run up to the fence line to say goodbye at your approach. It is poverty voyeurism, but dear god it is compelling.

There are many places where I would not feel comfortable wandering alone in a strange town after dark. Tonga is not one of them. I have yet to feel any menace or resentment from the locals, aside from that consistently expressed by young men globally. Those I have passed always offer a greeting, and generally a smile. I have had a few more welcoming comments from some of the residents as well, especially the fakaleiti (third gender), best acknowledged with a grin and a steady gait.

Since I spend my time alone I am violating a couple of local traditions. One of the most important is that Tongans generally do not eat alone. A truly severe insult in Tongan involves suggesting that you hide food and eat alone. This is not a culture of food shortages where the insult is placed on the concept of not sharing. Instead, the animus is placed upon those that would perform something as social as eating alone and away from others. When I sit alone in a restaurant the looks vary from curiosity to pity.

My God. I sweat in cheap hotel rooms. I wish for devastating storms. I wander around sleepy foreign capitals looking for justification for my presence. I spend too much in bad bars at night. I can describe the traditions around transvestism in multiple cultures. I think I may be becoming an expat.

Rather than spending my weekends in Nuku’Alofa I head for ‘Eua. ‘Eua is to the west of Tongatapu, making it the last piece of land the sun sets on in a given day. It is of a completely different heritage than the rest of Tonga. Even by Tongan standards life here is slow, with the big excitement every week being the Mormon-sponsored disco on Friday and Saturday nights. No alcohol but plenty of ice cream. It also has the interesting distinction of having more Peace Corps/local weddings than anywhere else in the Pacific.

Having survived the storms and the heat, Karsten and I wait for the flight to ‘Eua at the domestic airport. Karsten is a tall, friendly Bavarian gent I have met at our lodgings. An engineer, photographer, and a bit of a rake he is a great traveling companion. I was fortunate enough to spend several days with him.

Waiting for our domestic flight to ‘Eua, we were seated in a rudimentary terminal reminiscent of a bus stop. The shaking started suddenly, and the locals all stood up and quickly moved away from the building. Remember the early comment about local construction not being suited to earthquakes? As Karsten and I realized what was happening the cracking of cinderblock walls popped like rounds from a .22. Before we could do the rational thing and flee, it was over, and life resettled into the tropical pace. No one seemed interested in checking where the cracking might have occurred. We moved outside.

The flight was unremarkable, at 7 minutes it is the shortest regularly scheduled flight in the world. Plus, I am pretty sure Simon Pegg was putting on an Aussie accent and piloting the thing. Nice touch.

‘Eua was an incredible surprise. Much older than Tonga it is one of the oldest islands in the Pacific, and one of the highest. Riddled with limestone caves (one walk passes through eleven of them in three hours) and covered with unique local plants and birds, this place is almost unknown and untouched.

We stayed at The Hideaway, being picked up at the grass strip which passes for a runway here by Taki, the proprietor. In Tonga it is still the norm to ride in the back of pick-up trucks, which I did at every opportunity. I forgot how much damn fun that is; how much I loved the feeling as a kid before it was legislated out of possibility. Also, Tongans frequently do not shut off their engines while fueling so I judged that the bed was the safer place to be. I also discovered that attaching a seat belt is considered by Tongans to be a negative comment on their driving skill. So if you are going to be loose, might as well be free.

The Hideaway is very cool. Very basic, hosting a max of about 12 folks, it is situated right on the beach with nothing about. Silent, beautiful, and of a scale which encourages socialization amongst its guests, it is my favorite spot in Polynesia thus far. Highly, highly recommended.

Karsten and I headed for the south end of the island on bikes that would have made Mad Max giggle. That said, it was well worth it. Rock gardens with wild horses, sea cliffs and arches, ‘Eua is simply gorgeous. The fresh guava hanging from bushes along the route helped temper the oven we rode through.

Returning to the Hideaway we met the rest of our crew. Erin, a climber lass and geologist from B.C.; Ronnie, an old Swedish hippie from the northwest who had been Willie Nelson’s double in a truly horrible canuxploitation film, “Starlight”; Katherine, an Aussie nurse and festival fiend; Michael, her brother, an Australian volunteer in Tonga, and their mother, Diane. We lucked out. Every one of these folks are of the highest quality. A damned good time was had by all. They made the days on the trail pleasant and the nights at the Hideaway a blast. We clicked immediately.

The next morning we set off on an unguided walk into the eastern part of the island, which allowed us to get lost multiple times. The cyclone damage to the trails, such as they were, and the loss of ‘two beers, please’ Ronnie lent drama to what would have been simply beautiful on its own. There are much worse ways to spend your days than lost in paradise with good people.

First stop was the banyan tree. This was the single most impressive thing seen on this trip thus far, and possibly in any of the islands. She is an 800 year-old tree growing out of a limestone cavern/sinkhole which we did not have the gear to adequately explore. You can clamber down into the cave and climb out up the tree, assuming you don’t mind the spiders. It was too cool to pass up.

Lots of spiders. After the tree and a series of wrong turns we headed for the sea cliffs. Luckily, when the entire Eastern side of the island is a sea cliff finding such is not difficult.

The Rat’s cave is a small tube you can scurry down, followed by a two meter drop into a cave in the side of one of these cliffs. It is stunning. It is also on the edge of definitively lethal drop, so if you take a couple of steps back when entering or leaving the hole they will be your last. Worth it.

Eventually we gathered for a shot off of one of the overlooks. As I said, truly excellent people. I could not have asked for any better. This, right here, this is the best part of travel. Bugger the concierge.

Then we lost Ronnie again.

We were headed back towards camp when Michael suggested rumconuts. I was intrigued. A green coconut is the creator’s way of apologizing for the climate of the tropics. Fresh from a tree you lop the top off, stick in a straw, and drink. It is fresh water, slightly carbonated and with a hint of sugar to it. It is the single most refreshing thing I have ever tasted, and I don’t particularly care for coconut. Michael’s suggestion was to have a whole bunch of these, but with rum. Simplicity and elegance are combined in one deeply dangerous package. Asking Taki what he thought, he drove to some random house, collected our cash, and went inside, emerging with two bottles of potent local dark nectar. The night turned out well, though we did completely clean out Taki’s coolers. He did not seem to mind.

The rest of my time in ‘Eua was dominated by rain and tales more suited for a novel than a blog. Ronnie alone could occupy a cycle of sagas. This place was the highlight of my time in Tonga and I liked it well enough to return the following weekend to meet yet more good people (thanks Kathy, Harek, and Mari!). I will be back.

The remainder of my stay Tonga was work related, though I did rent a car for a day of touring. Doing so requires a Tongan driver’s license, which requires a trip to the DMV. I entered and there was nothing to suggest how to get in line, so after a few minutes of blankly wandering a well-dressed man came up and pointed out that I needed to take a number. Following his hand I noticed a pile of slips of paper with numbers scrawled on them, apparently in no particular order. When I started looking through them for the lowest one my guide interrupted and told me to just take one, it didn’t matter. He was proved right as the clerks seemed to yell random numbers, each of which set off a scurry of petitioners attempting to figure out who got there first. After holding on to #38 through a range of called number stretching into the high fifties I gave up and left. I simply told the rental counter that I had a license and no one seemed to care.

My rental car turned out to be a beater Toyota that was a woman’s personal car and full of her personal garbage. After informing me that she needed a ride home, she told me I was beautiful and asked how many children I had produced, and with how many mothers. Feigning ignorance of the language, I got her home and hit the road.

The trip produced the best example of Engrish I have seen in years (look at bottom):

The ornate gravesites decorated with upturned beer bottles in concrete were another revelation:

This billboard to the King was also high irony, given how the people see him and apparently how little he wanted to be a Tongan (as evidenced by his London cab for an official car, spending most of his year in Britain, and his refusal to cut short a Scottish hunting vacation when the local ferry sank):

Gotta love monarchy.

After a final farewell to Ronnie in Nuku’ it was time to move to the Samoas.

Tonga is poor and has its share of social problems, but the people are great, the place is of a mellow pace, and it is strikingly beautiful. I am strongly considering returning here to do some of my writing. Compared to Fiji, or my experiences so far in Samoa, Tonga is much more welcoming, tolerant, and ungentrified. You are not separated from the people, you do not have liveried hosts, and you cannot get a massage around the corner. You can find your inner islander. You can find corners to be left unmolested for as long as you wish. You can truly relax.

Yep.

2010-03-16T20:42:00.013+13:00

Tongatapu/Nuku'Alofa.

First night:

Hot, hot, hot, dear god it is so hot. Humid too. Some of the clothing I brought will be absurd. I would have to completely grease myself before putting on my jeans. I wonder what the hell I am going to wear to meet the Asst. Prime Minister?

The airport was very casual, folks wandering around the tarmac seemingly without a care. Tonga gets about 12 flights a week, so it has a ‘Nomey’ feel at the terminal. The second floor is an observation deck with a chain link fence. The fence is backlit just enough to show that the length of it is covered with kids climbing and playing like so many of the geckos omnipresent in the bathrooms here. Why just the bathrooms? No idea.

Nuku’Alofa is a series of villages claiming to be a city. Not much happening at 10PM on a Saturday night, and apparently nothing at all tomorrow. Given that Sunday closes the whole island down, I will attend a driving tour instead, along with the two Austrian women in the shuttle from the airport.

The shuttle dropped us at Ali Baba’s guest house. Plan to find out why the place is named after the whole forty thieves thing, but tonight is not the time. Not many folks here, slow season, which is likely a good thing. Tried to climb into the hammock on the deck but discovered that it is more the concept of a hammock than the reality, the holes having taken over the structure long ago. It is still left hanging in respect for the departed. There is one single outlet in the room, and the bathroom is rudimentary. That said, it is cheap and Tonga is not a major tourist destination. I think I will be fine.

Second Day;

Sticky as hell, but I slept well. The nice thing about places this hot and humid is that you don’t mind the absence of hot water. The cold water wake up is pretty much obligatory when you have to peel your sheets off with a spatula. Ali Baba’s is simple and luxury-free but this is a deeply poor country. I don’t take a lot of pictures of the average home here as I think we all know what poverty looks like, whether it be in the tropics or in an Alaskan village. Most folks here are scraping by in Western terms, but they seem happy and the material deprivation doesn’t weigh as heavily as one would expect. I hear laughter constantly as I walk the roads. With that in mind Ali Baba’s fills my need admirably; air conditioning and hot showers are a bit outside the Tongan experience.

Perhaps some of the ability to laugh off poverty comes from the spirituality of the population. Nearly all Tongans are Christian of varying stripes, and being that today is Sunday the place is shut down. No feed, no snacks, no cabs; even the two tourist hawkers in town have gone home. Yet I can hear the glorious singing through my window, and smell the earth ovens cooking the Sunday feast. These folks may be religious but they are not ascetics. They eat, they praise, they sleep. Good Sunday plans all around.

During the tour of Tongatapu I passed at least a dozen Mormon wardhouses as well as other churches of varying types. Sunday sees the wearing of formal woven mats as a sign of mourning, and in the case of Mormons ties with lavalavas, always tres cool in my book. The king and his retinue were at the main Free Wesleyan cathedral, his black London cab parked in front guarded by soldiers. After my experience in Fiji I shall not have much to say in Tonga regarding the government or his Highness. The contrast between the poverty about, no matter how well borne, and the luxury of the king is difficult to overstate. Enough said. The churches were almost as beautiful as the voices.

Royal Palace:

Sunday involves church, a huge feast at home, a long afternoon nap, then a walk to the bakery for a dinner of a loaf of bread heavy with butter. This is civilization. You may not live to see 50, but damn if you don’t die content. This also explains the presence of more swine than people on the streets.

As nothing was open this seemed like a perfect day for a tour. Our guide was the husband of the airport transfer driver, a returned Mormon missionary and a man of very few words. This silence exasperated some of my tour companions but served my purposes beautifully, allowing me to hang out the window like a dog on a road trip and ogle the sights. After growing up in SLC the churches did not impress me, but the trees full of sleeping flying foxes, the surf driven blowholes, and just the feeling delivered by a day of touring around a place few tourists bother to look at made up for my sticking horribly to the vinyl seats. This place grows like kudzu, almost visibly pulsing in the heat and damp. It is beautiful even as it decomposes. There is no time to mourn death here, nature doesn’t allow the remains to linger. The local metabolism is high enough to swallow and reconfigure everything from coconuts to coral. I am no longer in awe of the size of Tongans, I wonder instead why they are not all eight feet tall to match the landscape from which they feed. Eat large, die young, and don’t worry about the corpse.

The coastal blowholes alone were worth the price of the tour.

Enough. Tomorrow I must begin working, but tonight it is questionable Chinese food with an even more questionable Bavarian/Austrian duo. Ein! Zwei! Chug!

Flying Foxes:

Third and fourth days

Ali Baba’s continues to grow on me, as does Nuku’Alofa, Tonga as a whole, and likely a range of tropical fungal infections. This town has little in the way of a business district; in this it is a polar opposite of Suva, and livestock roam freely everywhere. The piglets, puppies, and kittens abound, but they are usually with fairly protective parents and are certainly more wild than I am accustomed to. Their presence keeps down the smell of the organic waste locally and the pigs in particular roam without restraint; they seem particularly willing to devour the flowers in the cemetery.

As I mentioned earlier the churches dominate this town, but as I explore it becomes much more pronounced. Tonga has gone from Stone Age to Modern in 200 years, and while it has managed the transition while avoiding colonization and the loss of the indigenous monarchy, it has not been a notably graceful shift. What money is here is generally resident in the church and the nobility, and the average person lives on a salary of roughly NZD$1.60 an hour. Yet the churches soar. They are beautiful, and they offer support and coherence in troubled times, but the concentration of national wealth in them is jarring.

The Catholic Basilica, and inside:

I suppose it is better than the bankers having it all. It is refreshing to be in a place where the nicest building in town is not owned by some vaguely worded financial entity (Rhombus Para-Transfer Mutual Investment Group, Walrus Crisps Consultants, LLC). Religion also has the benefit of offering a epistemological reach-around in exchange for your donations.

The National Bank is the most impressive commercial spot in the country. No one could explain to me why the Japanese flag had pride of place in front of the Tongan Bank. Tora, Tora, Tora.

Business here is concentrated in small shacks selling canned goods and sweets, scattered throughout town. These are literally everywhere, I can pass several in a block and have seen an intersection where three of the four corners had a little bodega sitting upon it. These are generally run by the small, and seemingly derided, Asian minority.

Local Engrish; Susan China will treat your machinery with acupuncture:

The combination of poverty and isolation has created a hell of a bad dietary situation. By WHO estimates 90% of Tongan adults are overweight. Granted, Tongans likely don’t fit the standard charts well but they do have huge numbers of dietary diseases. Local food is generally either out of the sea or out of a tin of fatty corned beef. Also present are the infamous sipis, the fattiest bit of a lamb, shipped over from New Zealand. No fresh food at the small markets, everything is highly processed and full of sugar.

Not a huge amount of exercise going on either, though I can hardly blame them for that. In this heat and humidity I can barely move. Slow walking and measured output is a must. There is the local time sense, as everywhere, with the Tongan version being somewhere between that of California and Paraguay. You might not be seen at the hour you hoped, but likely will within the same day. Workable.

The bureaucracy has been beautifully adapted from its British source material. I met with the Assistant Prime Minister/Minster of Health who suggested I meet the Director of the Health Department. He suggested the Chief of Health Services. He suggested the medical information section. They pointed out that since the Ministry of Health was founded in response to the Flu pandemic, in late 1919, there would not be many records from 1918. True enough, and I was able meet some very nice folks on my way to this fairly obvious point.

Simply getting to the various offices has been an adventure. Addresses are a rarity here, and I soon discovered why. Tongans do not use maps. I am not suggesting that they do not have the capability, Tongans have the highest per capita number of PhD's in the world (though that tells you little about practical skills); they simply never learn the skill. Even the highly educated have never seemingly had to acquire this bit of knowledge. Visiting the Catholic Basilica I went looking for the Bishop. Instead of Church offices the lower level of the Basilica was filled with shops, including a tattoo parlor and a billiards hall. My kind of church. Noticing a law firm I entered and asked for direction to the Bishop’s House. After I pulled out my map a conference including both attorneys and a paralegal ensued where all involved marveled over the map and began tracing routes with their fingers. After some time and a few angry words a consensus was reached, until they realized the map was 90 degrees off from their assumed point of view. The discussion resumed. I was tempted to go and play a game of pool while I waited but did not wish to be rude, so I watched. I now have 2 spots marked within about a half kilometer radius where I shall go exploring. This has repeatedly occurred. This is just one of the many joys inherent in growing up on a small island.

Walking is further complicated by the approaching category 4 cyclone which has just blasted its way across Fiji. It has been raining harder than I have ever seen, and the roads are not built for drainage. Only the natural good nature of the Tongans has prevented them from continuously soaking me as they drive by. Just a single car has gone out of its way to add more water to my load. Stateside it would be seen by many as a moral imperative to punish my arrogant walking along the road with a good dousing. Government Ministers are finding reasons to be out of the country and Wednesday is starting to look a bit rough work wise. Maybe I will get some reading done if the power stays on. Actually looking forward to it, a luxury the locals can’t share. I get to leave after playing voyeur in the storm; they have to pick up the pieces. Still, bring it on.

Other weirdness? How about eerie ability of windshields to attract coconuts. The number of cars with damaged or missing windscreens attests to the general vindictiveness of this omnipresent plant. Also, the signed publicity shot of the Village People up in the tourist center.

I have a meeting with the Lord Vaea in the morning, perhaps I will ask him. I do like this place and its people.

2010-03-15T12:36:00.017+13:00

Kepler
I do believe I have waxed verbose enough on the last 14 posts; let us return to the original subject du jour, the evidence that South island is one of the most beautiful places on Earth.

March 7-10 I hiked the Kepler track with three companions: Sam, the obligatory Kiwi and the card sharp; Travis, Yank and neuromancer; and Kyle who was still celebrating the Canuck win in some game in Vancouver. Travis lost the poker game so he had to carry the liter of Jameson’s.

Setting out from Dunners on a 14C day we promptly got lost.

I was asleep and I am pretty sure I wasn’t driving. We can blame our desperate desire to avoid Gore for our mishap, but just like Taco Bell you can never truly escape Gore. Gore, for my North American crowd, is the bastard love child of Nashville and Potash, Utah.

Problem resolved and Gore survived we endured a seemingly 14 hour drive to Te Anau. Actually, survived is a bit harsh. Most of South Island is better than almost anywhere else, but like the better versions of hell, the pain lies in knowing how good you could have had it if you pushed on just a bit further. Plus, you can get something other than a pint of stale Double Brown in the Te Anau pubs.

A night in the Lakeview Holiday Park passed uneventfully. There is a pie shop in Te Anau whose product would impress the Sun King (Louis XIV). A quick visit, a final shower, and a last minute gear check and we were off.

Before picture:

Day one of the Kepler involves a roughly ten klick ascent at about 14-15 degrees(maybe more). Not brutal but ungodly constant. After an hour of seaside (Lake Te Anau) walking we started up and five hours later broke through to the open country above the tree line.

See the relief?
The Luxmore hut is sufficient justification for the entire Kiwi hut system. Perched above the lake you can see for miles (14?) and after the harshest day of the tramp it is as welcoming as Florence Henderson. The fact that we had a kilo of Friday Store Meatballs Marinara and a liter of good Irish Whisky helped matters as well. Take that thou snotty German trampers left salivating in our wake. It was heavy, but it was tasty.
The hill above the hut was riddled with limestone caves. The Luxmore is the most famous but I was able to count 14 in our near vicinity and there are something like 65 known on the hillside. Apparently the world’s largest walk-through geode is nearby as well, though we did not find it.
The second day found us meatball-flushed and generally spry. The trail to the Iris burn was high alpine with stunning views and a history of being exceptionally cruel weather wise; 120 kph winds, snow in summer, etc.
Our only problem was sunburn. A 14 minute side trip brings you to the top of Mt. Luxmore and a spot no sane person would choose to leave, but our pale skins and generally northern European dispositions soon forced us back to work.

The trail continued in high alpine country throughout the morning. This is the most dramatic part of the hike and I cannot adequately describe it. I suspect the pictures could save me 1400 words.

After the hanging Valley shelter and a final glimpse of Lake Te Anau we started the descent.

Apparently the Iris Burn Hut is located in the 14th circle of hell; one Dante’s knees wouldn’t allow him to reach. I will never look forward to the downhill part again. That said, the hut itself was not spectacular. The neighboring waterfall was, and was simply unbelievably cold. Even for an Alaskan.

The night came to an end with a notably unsuccessful Kiwi hunt.
The next morning broke upon a group who felt the pain of much older men. The beautiful morning fog did not dissipate the sore groans, but it did mollify a bit.
The next two days would be relatively flat but quite long and we were nearly out of whisky; next time Travis carries two. The trail was not dull for all of that. All 14 of the great plagues were represented including the forgotten ones such as spiders:

Lichen:
Small, pretty streams to soak your feet in:
Moss:
A severe fern infection:
And finally, of course, tourists:
Motorau hut was on the shores of Lake Manapouri, a lake I am happy to report was much warmer than the waterfall, perhaps 14C compared to 4C. The scenery ain’t half bad either. It is also a wonderful place for the traditional Kiwi witch hunt.

Night fell on a group out of drink but in good form. Some were well fed, some winning at cards, some sleeping with soldiers. I was licked by a possum. I win!

Day 4 was a brutal slog. It was pretty, but long and filled with the knowledge that those with 14 brain cells to rub together could have taken a shuttle the last 9 km.

But not us, no, we were men and we would finish the trip on our own two feet, or something similar in appearance. As we did.

Then it was time for pies.
Which, of course, closed 14 minutes before we got there.

2010-03-12T11:58:00.003+13:00

(Fair warning; This post is about my dog and I. I honestly do not expect anyone else to take much interest.)

Kenai lived 05/25/94 to 02/24/10. He died in the afternoon, 6 pm or so, following a stroke.

Kenai came into my life in early July, 1994, shortly after I arrived in Alaska with my then girlfriend, Robyn. After settling in Anchorage we headed to Homer to visit my aunt Susan. At the Eagle grocery store in Homer were some kids with a box of pups, strange looking buggers at that. Half black faces, partially blue eyes. They said they came from Seldovia across the bay and were a cross of Catahoula Leopard Hound and Australian Shepherd. I later met a woman in Fiji who grew up in Seldovia and remembered the parents.

Robyn wanted to get a pup. Up to this point I had only had cats, though my folks had small dogs during my formative years. The deadhead lifestyle was not conducive to raising something as bonded as a dog. Cats can be left at home for a few weeks with no permanent damage. Dogs will eat your shoes and kill the chickens. Too much work for music bums. We had given that lifestyle up, in theory, so I had no reason to disagree with her desire. I wanted a little female with a harlequin face, but Robyn chose a male. He was fearless and demanding, and cute as hell. He was christened Kenai Eagle in honor of his distribution point. So began my adventures in dog ownership.

Kenai gave us hints of what was to come on the way home. Leaving him in the VW bus for a half hour when we went shopping, we came out to find that he had chewed the steering wheel, doing an amazing amount of damage for an 8 week old pup. I still have that gnawed-up wheel in my bus, when the bus fades away I will pull and mount it somewhere in honor of Kenai’s refusal to play nice.

As he grew his personality started to worry me. Some dogs are grumpy, but he got bloody well mean after about ten PM. If you approached he would growl, and he wasn’t above nipping if he was unhappy. He was Robyn’s dog, and she would not let me physically discipline him, so we had our problems. One night we were driving home and I reached into the back seat to grab my pack, to discover my hand being aggressively gnawed on by an 8 month old Kenai. He very nearly died that night, but Robyn was determined. We enrolled him in obedience classes. They did not impress him.

Meanwhile I acquired another dog, a flat-coated retriever mix named Gaia. It would be hard to find a happier dog, and she balanced Kenai well, unless she ran faster than him. His herding instinct had already come to the fore when we would run in his presence. He would immediately go for the ankle to slow you down and herd you back. With Gaia, he would play until he was done, then he would hobble her by going for the same back leg until she could no longer run away from him. Clever, but mean.

Robyn and I split up, and she was going to return home to Sonoma County. She wanted to take a dog with her but acknowledged that Kenai had grown out of control, so somehow she ended up taking Gaia instead, leaving me with Kenai. Given the above description, why did I agree?

Kenai was never fully domesticated, and that charmed me. I never worried that he would go into full dog-maul mode, but he was not around to be a toy for humans. He had his space and limits, and was willing to let you know where they were. He also seemed to decide that I was the more interesting human about. He would lick my beard obsessively at any possible moment and for as long as I would allow. He slept next to my side of the bed and walked with me in the field. He and I played fetch for hours, something Gaia neither showed interest in nor aptitude for. Kenai’s favorite fetch item was a softball, which he would give to me to kick and which he would try to block. I suspect those repeated blows contributed to his pronounced arthritis in later life, but he enjoyed the hell out of them at the time. He was still a grumpy SOB, however, and some changes were going to have to occur if he was going to stay with me.

After returning home from escorting Robyn south Kenai and I had a talk. The next time he nipped at me or growled inappropriately I alpha rolled him and held him there until he urinated on himself. I had to enforce the submission a couple more times, but as I was getting involved with a lady that had two small children I could not let Kenai think he ruled the roost. When he growled at Karen, she did the same thing. He had grown into a good sized dog, 70 lbs or so, so it took some force. I never had to repeat it after that first two months. He seemed to accept the reality and get on with his life.

When I moved in with Karen and the boys I took time to introduce them to Kenai and go over the rules of interacting with him. I told the boys not to try to stare him down, so Dylon, being Dylon, immediately gave it a shot. Kenai walked toward where he was sitting on the counter, put his forepaws on either side of Dylon, and barked once, loudly, in his face. Dylon bowled over with a look of shock, and I knew Kenai was my boy.

Being around the boys seemed to mellow him as there were no real incidents I can think of, which surprised me. He just would wander away if not interested, and the boys knew he got grumpier at night. But if you scratched him on the butt he would wiggle, and if you lay down he would clean you thoroughly. That tongue managed to get much deeper into my nostrils than I care to admit. Dylon and Justin used to drape him with blankets while he stood there patiently taking it, and then wandering away after he felt he had given enough.

He was never a lap dog, never demanded attention, wasn’t as food driven as Maggie (though he was not above snatching from an unguarded plate). Oft times we would have to coerce him into eating by acting as if we were going to take his food bowl, which would lead to barking and growling followed by maddened eating. This wasn’t the best idea since he then took future, real, attempts at retrieving his food as part of this process, and went at it full force. This meant feeding him alone when there were guests in the house. Pizza also negated all the above comments. Pizza was the meaning of his life, for brief interludes.

When the other dogs arrived, first Maggie then Cassidy, he took it with a fatalistic attitude. He would play, but not all the time. He started showing some signs of arthritis at age seven, so he was sore longer than he was not. Maggie was bigger and tougher than him, and Cassidy was far faster, so aside from some hobbling attempts and food protection he didn’t push the issue much. An exception was sticks in the water. He never got over his desire to fetch, even near the end when he didn’t move much, and if you threw a stick in the water he would dive in and fight for that piece. He frequently emerged from the damp sharing a twig with Maggie. He traveled well with the girls and very rarely fought, participating fully in the ‘walk’ dance every night as we prepared to go out. In the end though, he would much rather be pushing between my legs for a butt rub than playing around with other hounds. With strange dogs he could be yippy and grumpy, but was not as dominant as the girls. He seemed to be depressed when they passed; perhaps he was a surprised as any of us that both of the younger girls in his pack went before he did.

Rereading this it makes him sound like not a great deal of fun. He was rarely goofy. He was attentive and by my side, at a slight reserve, whenever I was home. Up through the last days he would follow me around the house, keeping me in sight, especially as he went deaf in later years. When I was angry, Kenai and I would go for a walk together. If I was lonely, I could lay down with my head on his flank. He’d howl with me when I got going, and would rub faces with me as a greeting. My relationship with him was different than that with my other pets, perhaps because of his intelligence or perhaps his slightly untamed presence. He was a bit more of an equal, and for that more of a companion. He wasn’t pretty, wasn’t loving like Cassidy, wasn’t absurd like Mag. He was intent, stubborn, and interesting, like so many of my good friends. I am very glad I did not break him of that. He was my dog, 100%.

People frequently thought he was blind because of his part-blue eye. I had heard that this was a likely sign of hearing loss, a warning that in later years would prove very true. My mom called him one of the ugliest dogs she had ever seen, with his long mottled coat. Shaved he was striking, full-coated he would have been camouflaged in the ruins of Stalingrad. Grey and black with some brown and white, his coat was thick enough to hide many a burr and tick. His nails grew like mad, and we had to keep his attention with a treat in order to be able to two-man him on trimming day. When done he would always jump up and be at his most playful for a few minutes, a behavior I never understood. Perhaps it was a bit of joy at being released? Those same paws attracted ice balls such as I have never seen. This necessitated frequent stops on walks during Nome’s six month winters.

I’d suggest that this made him a warm weather mutt, but that would be untrue. He loved the snow, and the cold within reason. On the -60F days in Bethel he wouldn’t go outside to save his life, and in his final winter he had no interest in going out on colder days. Yet in the heat all he wanted to do was find some water and plunge himself into it. On one trip he spent 8 consecutive hours in Lake Havasu.

His independence could be frustrating. He would wander away, slowly but deliberately, and would be gone for hours, which was a problem when we had driven to a trailhead somewhere. I used to be able to call him in by starting the car, but as he went deaf it became a trial of vision and perseverance. One day while I was at work he ate about $1000 of Native art which he had lived around, apparently without taking an interest in, for ten years. He never bothered any other pieces. It becomes hard to adapt to behavior when you cannot predict it.

For all of that I was always glad to see him when I got home. A quick approach, sniff, acknowledgement, and his return to his previous activities is all I usually got, but from then on he was within eyesight of me the rest of the night. I suppose that is a strange thing to find comfort in, but I did.

He started seeming old at age seven, which then proceeded for an additional nine years. I have been half expecting his death for so long that I can’t believe it has really happened. He started to show arthritis about then which eventually advanced to some serious bowleggedness, and his hearing started to fade a couple of years later. He had been diagnosed with kidney ailments as a pup, and his liver enzymes were frequently wonky. We could never get them balanced or his BP down, but eventually we stopped worrying about it. He got an aspirin twice a day in a chunk of hot dog, and lived just shy of 16 years. His breath the last five might have suggested that he was dead already. The frequent visits to the vet did not encourage him to like them more, he still fought the door and the leash. But at home he’d let me clean his eyes every day, and when he grew the extra head on his neck he was pretty good about my fussing over it. The last few years he also developed the habit of keeping his tongue slightly out of his teeth, making him look moderately unbalanced in a quizzical way.

His aging mellowed him, more than anything else. He played with the day care kids at Pat’s house and never let out so much as a growl, just a hobble away if he was being handled too much. He kept MaxCat in line when nothing else could, but did not care to go for walks much. He hurt, and you could see it, particularly after a slip on the ice. I took him around the block one last time before I left, about a month before he died, and it took half an hour. Part of this was his continuing need to mark everything in his range. He grew into a very tolerant, mellow, occasionally loving dog, but when I’d come home for a visit a bit of the puppy would come out, just for a flash. It was damned good to see.

Coming home was hard. As he grew older our boys grew up and moved out, and I started planning for my trip to NZ. As Kenai was past 12 when I started my planning I had little expectation that he would live another three and a half years. We assumed that Cassidy and I would go over first, followed by Karen and whatever of the older dogs survived. Transport was going to be very difficult and there would be a one month quarantine, despite my scheming to the contrary. Yet as the time approached we lost Maggie, in 2008, and then surprisingly enough early 2009 saw Cassidy’s death. By the time I actually left in February, 2009 Kenai was the last dog standing, but was clearly in no shape for 24 hours in the kennel and then 30 days in quarantine. He moved in to Pat’s home, along with Karen, and I left, never expecting to see him again.

That was rougher than it sounds. I think I had more guilt over leaving Kenai than anything else. Karen and the boys are adult and can care for themselves, the cats really don’t mind either way. I was sad to leave my wife and family, but not guilty. I felt like I had abandoned Kenai. Although I know he had it sweet at Pat’s place: bacon most mornings, lots of plates to clean, the run of the house, I felt wrong about leaving him behind. Still, with each of my visits home in the past year he seemed to be doing well, and we slipped into the same old pattern without missing a beat. That made leaving again just as hard.

I spent 6 weeks in Nome in December and January, and hung out with Kenai a lot. He hurt from his arthritis, but seemed happy otherwise and in no better nor worse shape than in the past two years. I left with a sense of finality, as I would not be back until October. It turns out this time I was right. I can’t complain about the way he went; I had always worried that he might have a long and painful end, with a decision having to be made about euthanasia (and given the lack of a vet currently in Nome, I would have to administer it as I did with Maggie and Chief). Instead on the morning of the 24^th of February he got up and ate as usual, cleaned off the kids plates at lunch, went outside a bit, and lay down in the hall. Pat found him aware but unable to move, and called Karen home. By the time she had him to the vet he was fading fast, but with no sense of pain or distress. They gave him a painkiller/sedative just in case, then helped him along. It was time. Methuselah was gone.

Karen and I have been placing our dogs when they die in a fairly remote area outside of Nome, a spot where they loved to play and that Karen visits for berry picking. Once we had placed Maggie there it was natural to put Cassidy, and then Kenai, in the same spot. No hole, they are left open to the elements to rejoin the system as quickly as possible, as I hope someone would do for me. I was not around to help, but Karen and Dylon went out to place him with the pack on Saturday. Being Kenai, the situation could not be simple and it was one of the coldest days on record for late February, a brisk -38F. They persevered, however, and I will go and visit the spot when I return.

After losing all three of our dogs in two years it is time for a rest. I thank the whatever out there for the way Kenai went, and for keeping him around as long as he stayed. He was my friend, and we had some good times. More than that we enjoyed just being around each other. He was my boy, and one of the longest relationships I have had as an adult. I loved him, and he seemed to dig me. He was a damn fine dog, and was no man’s toy. Rest well, and then go play, old friend. I’ll see you soon.

2010-02-22T22:31:00.004+13:00

Four part harmony.

I live a quaternary existence. Alaska, Salt Lake City, Northern California, and New Zealand. No complaints; it could be Detroit, Minsk, Mogadishu, and Kandahar. Confusion comes with the territory, however, in spite of the undoubted quality of the locales. Karen keeps my heart in Nome, my soul is with my family in the desert, and New Zealand is sheltering my logos, or what remains thereof. My booty, and all shaking that accompanies it, is rooted firmly in Northern California. After the past year I approach a point where difficulty tracking reality is a reasonably frequent experience, similar to the feeling after a double trip through the Hammer at the fair.

So why the navel gazing? Another departure, I suppose. Observations suggesting my enjoyment of the emotional intensities of goodbyes have been made, backed with the reasoning that if it was not true I would not engage in so many. Perhaps, though if true it is a aspect which I do not claim.

As life has fallen into four main tracks my experiences with the inhabitants of those areas have shifted into a time-lapse presentation. We are at an age where the physical realities begin to show after the fairly benign late twenties through early forties. Now to see my friends and family (and many combinations of the two) for a couple of visits a year allows me to see significant changes, and my aging and changing must seem similarly episodic. Dinner once a month allows for two people to notice gradual alterations, facilitates a conscious airbrushing to remove changes that are uncomfortable or that threaten our stability. Dinner once every six months creates very different dynamics. 180 days is long enough for visible change to occur in most people, and to live a close friendship with this periodicity of gathering gives a very time-lapsed sense of a life. An evening's flash or even a week of company, followed by enough time that you have both changed significantly, and often aged visibly. It does not allow for the day-to-day smoothing of the edges and reevaluation of earlier memories which allow us to not see how quickly our partners of many kinds are aging along with us.

This time-lapse relationship with all is useful in that it helps keep strong relationships with people I love, and there are many of those in wide ranging places. It allows for intense, short visits to reconfirm relationships without becoming a pest. It allows me to enjoy my friends to the utmost in many locations and in limited time.

It does frighten me. Since the changes between visits are significant, the their films seem to be showing much faster then my personal narrative. I can feel my age, but that does not dispirit as I can observe and to some degree guide the process. My friends and family mostly stand in a room behind a closed door. Every time the portal opens there sit a group glad to see me and whose very presence lifts my spirit, but who are notably older. I suppose this is the price paid for trying to be a part of so many films at once, you become a constant cameo.

Please forgive the narcissism. Back to En Zed in the afternoon. Very happy to see my crew in Dunners, watch a few couches burn, lose at poker and billiards. I have met tremendous people there, and the excitement to get home is just as strong as it was to leave four months back. But it does mean stepping off stage somewhere else, ending my cameo. While my part always wraps with a request to come back as soon as possible, the drama will have moved on and everything will be different when the time comes to return to the action.

But life is fair, despite anecdotal reports to the contrary. I am fortunate to be writing a script which still strikes me as interesting. I have yet to find the proper shark to jump, though others may differ. Life is sweet, and my family/friends are the finest part. I shall devour them all, perhaps with some fava beans and a nice primitivo.

2:30 AM with a 13 hour flight in the morning. Time to tear my gaze away from the reflecting pool and head to bed. Many goodbyes, and greetings, to prepare for.

Much love to all. I will be back in the States in October, most likely. The travelogue will resume ASAP, probably with the Kepler Track in March.

I have always loved this video, and it seems appropriate to the thread. I do wish John had stuck around a bit longer: http://www.slashcontrol.com/free-tv-shows/saturday-night-live/3714027524-dont-look-back-in-anger

2010-02-17T14:33:00.002+13:00

Northern California weekend.

Friday:
Mexican Lucha Libre wrestling and burlesque at the Fillmore in SF. This was an event for all the hipsters who have secretly wanted to go to wrestling for years but were either afraid or too twee to manage it. Throw in male burlesque on a pogo stick, a number of skilled young ladies and a grand variety of wrestlers including older women and little people, all MC'd by two gents, one of whom is the voice talent for Sponge Bob, and you have the perfect Friday night. Lucha VaVoom: http://luchavavoom.com/
Sexo Y Violencia!

Saturday:
A bluegrass/jam band performs Dark Side of the Moon in its entirety while dressed up in Wizard of Oz drag and with the film in the background. Audience full of Dorothys and yet more little people. Poor Man's Whiskey: http://www.poormanswhiskey.com/

Sunday:
Wine tasting at five top end Dry Creek wineries (Mazzocco Maple Zin is the nectar of the gods) followed by a walk, a nice long nap and then a fantastic dinner with yet more wines to taste. Truly decadent.

This is why I could not attend college in Northern California, nor do I live there full time. Even with the Dead no longer touring.

California can and does furnish the best bad things that are obtainable in America. - Hinton R. Helper

2010-02-02T21:33:00.003+13:00

Max

The intent of this blog was to be both a journal and a means to communicate with family and friends whilst retaining my fundamentally lazy, if widely dispersed, lifestyle. The second part has worked out reasonably well; but the first part, a journal for my own use, has been neglected. So please indulge me while I try to rectify that. No new pictures here, no stories of the South Pacific, just tales that I don’t want to forget.

In late 2007 I brought home a kitten from California. Nome is hard on cats, at least those of the outdoor variety. Summers are valhalla with lemmings and tall grass in spades, but members of felis are most definitely not the apex predator. Everything from gyrfalcons and foxes on up can take out a house cat, so they tend to disappear after a few years. One of ours had done so the previous year and it seemed time to get another drummer.

Normally we are shelter folks, dogs and cats, but I had received a note from a former colleague in Sonoma County describing how she would have some Maine Coon kits available around Thanksgiving. I’d always been intrigued by the breed with their ‘doggish’ behavior and massive size and I was going to be in the area at the right time. So upon my return I unveiled a huge red kitten, inevitably named Max.

Fast forward a month to the depths of winter. I picked up a stomach bug in one of the villages and was unable to stop the egress of anything from any of the usual orifices, so I lay in bed for two days mewling. On the third day I emerged in robe, shaking and weak, and decided to make a cup of tea (which goes to show just how deathly I felt. One notable remnant of my Mormon upbringing is a relatively strong aversion to coffee and tea; they just aren’t part of my routine). Normally, this is a fairly simple process, even for those of us inexpert in the art of the cuppa.

These were not simple times. Our other cat, Demeter, had not taken gracefully to the presence of the red-headed stranger. Her displeasure was demonstrated in a very specific and unusual way. She had taken to urinating on the stove. Atop one specific burner, to be precise. Not pleasant by any means, but not as bad as could be as we had a ceramic cook top and thus it was very easy to clean. Since her spot of choice was the large front burner, I addressed the situation by simply putting a large cast-iron pot over the burner until she got over her tiff, and this actually seemed to work quite well. Life went on.

So here is the setting. One very nauseous, weak man in naught but a short bathrobe. One large, insanely rambunctious red kitten. One stove with a large pot on the burner normally used to heat up the kettle. Not paying attention, or unable to do so, I fill the kettle with water, remove the pot, place the kettle there, and turn it up on high. I then retire to recover from my exertions and await the whistle.

I never made it to the whistle, due to the cloud of acrid smoke which wafted into the front room. Staggering back to the kitchen I ran face full into a cloud of seared, vaporized cat piss. Apparently Demeter had decided to one-up me by simply pissing around the cook pot, so that upon my lifting it and placing the kettle down the burner was covered in her essential excretions. The smell was god-awful, and I began dry heaving immediately. Clutching the sink to keep upright, I forced my stomach into submission, turned to the stove, ripped the heat off the burner, and yanked the kettle off onto our cheap countertop. By this time the smoke alarm was squealing and I became sick again.

Deciding that the first priority was to remove any further cat urine from a heat source, I grabbed a cloth dish rag, soaked it under the tap, and began sponging off the still glowing burner. In this process I noticed that the countertop around the base of the kettle, so recently on inferno setting on the stove, was bubbling and burning. Grabbing the kettle I whisked it off into the sink and tried to grab the wet rag to throw on the countertop to prevent further damage. Only part of the rag came, however, since in reacting to the incineration of our faux Formica I had dropped the rag on the hot burner, where it was now on fire.

I was now heaving between every breath and desperately, dizzily lurching about a room with cat-urine smoke, 70’s countertop off-gasses, and burning stove-top pissrag filling the air. The smoke alarm was wailing, the dogs were barking, and I was reacting at about a tenth of my usual lackadaisical speed. There was a black ring the size of a dinner plate on my countertop and I was busily dumping the kettle I had designated for tea, my first potential nourishment in 48 hours, all over the flaming rag on the burner. Then Max stepped in.

Remember Max?

Max had been standing behind and beneath me, watching the follies with great interest and stepping out of the way when prudent. It was, I sincerely hope, the first time he had seen a functionally-nude adult human move in such a way. Having observed the full three minutes of glory his essential feline rose up and the moment I seemed to slow, to perhaps have put this disaster into some type of limited control if not outright abeyance, he struck. Springing from underneath, he latched both of his front paws into my swinging pair of holiest of holies. I screamed and dropped like a bull in an abattoir.

Karen came home to find pretty much the mess described above, save that I had managed to clean up the final efforts my stomach had made after Max’s masterful massage. I retired to my bed for an additional two days, leavened with some topical antibiotics. Max did not approach me for weeks, and I have yet to kill him. Karen states that he is coming with when she moves to New Zealand next year.

I have my doubts.

Max at the time of the 'incident'.

2010-01-25T20:31:00.003+13:00

Finishing up my time in Nome. I could write a basket of novellas about this place; as my brother once noted pretty much every permanent resident has a compelling narrative going. That said, I will resist and instead give an example of why I keep coming back. It isn't the food.

My baby and I along with Laura and Jeff, Lorne, Graham, and at some point in the evening Ian, went out by snowmachine and foot to an old miner's cabin about 15 miles outside of Nome. Nice day, crystal clear and pushing 0F. The pictures should tell the story.

This is the best stuff in life. Out in the far corner of the world, crammed into a ramshackle hut with a fistfull of fine friends making music and spinning stories. This is why Nome keeps pulling me back.

The last one is a bit explicit, I know.....

Sorry about the spotty visuals here, between a rudimentary camcorder and a headlamp for a spotlight not much was captured. You do get the music, nonetheless.

Thanks to my friends, and mea culpa for stoking the fire up to 116F, according to the thermometer on the top bunk.

2010-01-22T20:03:00.000+13:00

Fiji.

   I write this two months after the fact which is rarely optimal. It gives perspective but strips the immediacy of the experience, and Fiji was a very definite experience. Unfortunately, the current leaders of the Fijian government take a strong stand on publishing negative opinions of them or their actions, and I found myself targeted by their Chinese software package (The Great Firewall of China) which led to my being censored by my third night there. A very gentle censoring in that I was simply unable to access Blogger either to post or read, and neither was anyone else in Fiji. Admittedly freaky, and I did look over my shoulder a bit more frequently for a few days, but nothing else ever happened. They just shut down what they didn't like and otherwise left me alone.

   This demonstrates the dilemma of those dealing with the Fijian government in its current form. They are a military government en-placed by coup and maintained by force, yet their aims for the most part are positive and the government itself is made up of some of the most progressive people I have heard discussed in Fiji. Due to the reluctance of the locals to work as slave labor in colonial-era plantations, tens of thousands of people from the British Indian possessions were imported by white settlers on long-term contracts. Most stayed, but in order to protect the local culture and population most land was held through traditional tenure by Fijians and was unable to be sold. Currently, 85% of the land is still held in this way. Thus nearly 40% of the population has access to less than 15% of the land, and even for this they have to fight with property developers, expats, and other outsiders. The native Fijians often see them as imposed aliens, while the Indo-Fjians see themselves as exploited and discriminated against. Over the last 50 years this has caused a great deal of anger, and the government before the current military takeover was dominated by a very Fijian-nationalist bent which drove many Indo-Fijians out of the country. The current military government, while dominated by Fijians, has made strong efforts to mitigate the race-based anger in the country. There are signs and slogans everywhere trying to play down race and blood and stress the unity of Fiji. Very progressive, yet imposed by the threat of violence. They generally do not beat their opponents (there have been some exceptions) but they do not hesitate to silence any opposition. Progressive Autocracy? Still autocracy, I suppose. It just doesn't quite fit the mold of banana-republic evil-doers.

   Easy to forget about as you sit by the water in the evening and watch groups of flying foxes returning from the outer islands like squadrons of bombers sweeping through.Or when eating the best tasting pears I have found anywhere, ever, period.

Some shots from the hotel

    So, memories of Fiji? Watching huge Fijian men play rugby on a concrete pad that looked as if it used to be the apron of a gasoline station. I think it was theoretically touch rugby, but the touching was occurring with significant force. Blood was flowing freely.

    The taste and texture of chicken heads in a black bean sauce. Not bad, all told, but crunchier than I am accustomed to.

    Kava ceremonies, many kava ceremonies. These produce a mild hypnotic effect, a blissful relaxation without impairment or hangover. Good stuff.

Some shots of the Suva suburbs. Funky jungle livin'.

Packs of wild dogs in the parks lolling about. Maybe wild is too strong a term? Packs of independent dogs without medical care in tropical environments. They looked like hell but seemed content. It did explain why there were not too many folks in the parks.

The Archive. I do not think I will ever forget the inside of the Archive. The outside, possibly, though it is situated next to a very strange looking cathedral and features a large burn pile for who the hell knows what organic refuse. But inside were some wonderful people who went far out of their way to assist me. I am forever in their debt.

Views from atop and outside the Archives

   Rafting the Navua river. This trip down a gorge through the center of Viti Levu, Fiji's largest island, is hardly whitewater. It was sedate enough to flop out of the rafts and float alongside without a concern, but the scenery was sublime. Palms, bamboo, locals riding unsaddled horses through the deep blue water pouring through a verdantly overgrown gorge. Waterfalls like exclamation marks as you pass the stages of the river. If Fabio was to appear it would either be a Harlequin cover or a Lifetime special, but I had Ben Cross instead. Chariots of Fire guy and Spock's dad in the latest Star Trek Ben Cross? Didn't chat, just noticed, then went back to the scenery and the fish nibbling my toes.

   The incredible social differences between the Indo-fijians and the Fijians. The Fijians are a blend of Polynesian and Melanesian peoples, large folks with a very laid back, very traditional lifestyle. They have been encouraged to maintain their culture by remaining in the villages and thus to be fundamentally conservative in their outlook. They are also, almost to a person, adherents of Christianity. The traditional island life is not lazy, but it does prize an economy of effort. Traders are quiet and generally not aggressive, outside of the tourist and flea markets. Fijian taxi drivers don't chat much, but they sing quite a bit.

    The Indo-Fijians are necessarily much less conservative in outlook. They are representatives of all parts of the Indian subcontinent; Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Punjabi, Tamil, Bengali. When brought to Fiji to work they were forced to live and dine together, breaking the strictures of religion, caste, and age-old enimities. They went on to create a syncretic culture, one separated enough from most of their origins as to preclude an easy return to India. Yet the essential bustle and drive for self-improvement seen so often in the Subcontinent is very present here. These folks tend to be more of the merchant class, and less of the government and military. They are direct and active in seeking your business, pulling you into a store, haggling as you try to run away, getting your life story in the space of a four block cab ride. They are no more or less pleasant than the Fijians, they just live by a different schedule. Like outsider groups (currently a large minority, 38% of the population) in so many places, their drive has led some to great success but has also engendered deep resentment from the indigenous population. Many have left for freindlier shores, and those still in Fiji seem nervous and watchful.

These three buildings were within several blocks of each other near the University.

A bit of home from the University Social Science Dept. office wall.

     There are areas of agreement. Blazing hot curries are for breakfast, brunch, and any other time. The head is the best part of the fish. Kids are sacred. Children are beloved here to an extent that charmed me. If you walk into a restaraunt with your baby in arms don't be shocked when your server asks to pick him/her up, then proceeds to carry them away to meet everyone in the kitchen and likely some of the other diners. A friend I met there has twin, blond, three year-old girls. It has taken him a year to grow accumstomed to the crowd that envelops him and them whenever he goes out, and the tendency for the girls to disappear into those crowds and re-emerge with assorted new items of clothing and jewelry as well as food, toys, and religious symbols.

     Yet the mutual trust that extends around children is not shared in the stores. I remember very clearly being in a grocery store in the nicest shopping plaza in Suva when a security guard approached the two local women ahead of me in the aisle. He asked that they reurn their small handbags to the security counter before shopping. The women then turned and looked at me with my enormous Timbuk shoulder bag, said nothing, and left for the security counter. It was not a suggestion that I do the same, but an acknowledgement that my expat/tourist/white status excluded me from many of the rules the locals had to follow. It was also very uncomfortable.

    That same mall was the start of my quest for a decent bookstore. It was deeply weird to be in a place without a strong reading culture. No criticism at all intended, I am simply used to seeing books for sale everywhere, yet outside of the small library branch near the Archives this was not in evidence in Fiji. Bookstores, including the University Bookstore, were focused upon a few airport thrillers and lots of young-adult stuff like Twilight. I asked around for the best bookstore in Suva, and found something very similar to a cross between a small Christian bookstore and the children's section of Border's. So be it, different strokes. But doing without my Economist? Lord no. As described above I finally filled my Jones by raiding expat coffee shops around town.

    The Expats. Gotta say, for a bunch of crusty beachcombers these folks treated me quite well. By the end of my stay I had more invitations than I could accept. I was fortunate enough to have an in via a friend from Nome with some wonderful folks who had been mid-levels in Kotz for years. He now worked with the Peace Corps and she with the embassy. They had me over repeatedly during my stay, introducing me around and showing me Suva. Their hospitality was humbling and I hope to return the favor when I can. One of the groups they introduced me to was the Rucksack Club, an informal tramping/adventure group made up of mostly expats interested in discovering all the nooks of the Fijian archipealago. During my three week stay I went on two expeditions with them, one to a waterfall and another to a former gun emplacement. The folks were welcoming and deeply vaired, with members from Asia, Europe, Australia, the Caribbean, and North America. Good times, and they accept temporary members. Much recommended if you are heading over.

Great hiking country.

View from the gun emplacement. Notice the sunken ships in the middle of the harbor.

    Met some very kind Australian folks while diving. That's right, diving. Given my swimming ability it seemed important to learn how to survive under water rather than atop it. Fiji has some of the world's best, and I received my certifiaction diving at Beqa lagoon, world famous for its sharks. Big sharks. Easily one of the most revelatory things I have ever done. The training pool sucked and I burned myself ruby, but all worth it.

     My dive partner was the husband of a senior official in the Australian embassy, who invited me home for dinner and proceeded to insist that Karen and I stay with them if we ever visit Fiji. Damn straight, you should have seen his house, not to mention his manners. I enjoy Australians immensely, generally. The Kiwis like to compare themselves to Canadians in that they are a small population, with quiet, somewhat refined people living next to a much larger, richer, more powerful, and generally crass, rumbunctious, and backslapping giant of a country. They see yanks and aussies as basically the same, and while not perfect companions at least we aren't poms. True enough. Aussies are loud, but they are also open, direct, warm as hell, and a lot of fun to hang out with. Lots of hospitality, and very little fakery in their make-up. I have yet to deal with some passive-aggressive Aussie, a few straight up agressive ones perhaps... Many expats isolate themselves from their surroundings, with groups such as the Rucksack club paradoxically reinforcing this through social ties even as they wander their adopted lands. The Aussies, however, seem to have personas too big to be held in narrow definitions. Plus their consulates used to have great parties. Damn you Bin Laden.

     The Aussies at times can get a bit much, as per the Kiwis' complaints, but even that is fun in a voyeuristic sense. The hotel I stayed at had just repoened and was about 10K out of town. Thus it was completely dead the majority of the time. One night shattered this pattern, however, as about 20 folks from Melbourne descended on the hotel. They were employed by the parent chain of the place running the 'platinum level' equivalent loyalty program and had been flown over for one night at this place and one on the other side of the island, the idea being that they could then sell the properties over the phone with some knowledge of the place. They had boarded a flight at 4AM in Melbourne, were in Suva for about 14 hours, and then would be shuffled onwards. They seemed determined to use this time to completely drain the facility of anything edible or intoxicating. These people partied, especially given their status as employees. They were drunk when I got back at 6 PM and continued to drink, calling me over and giving me free food and such despite the objections of the wait staff. A couple of hours later found me sitting on the back lawn watching people jump from balconies and women pissing in the grass in front of horrified local staff. Two hours more and I was hiding with a local secuirty guard from a pack of screaming cougars. Fun night, but I could not maintain. I finally slipped off about 1 AM, and in the morning they were gone leaving naught but the pyschic scars of the night staff and a disgruntled cleaning crew.

   Most of my time in Fiji was not nearly so raucous. One of the folks at the Archive who invited me to lunch at her place did so on a Sunday, and I joined her and her husband at their home. They were an anomaly in Fijian society, she a Indo-Fijian woman who had converted to Christianity and married a traditional Fijian man from one of the villages. Not too traditional, however, for the match was not smiled upon by either family. Her devout Hindu mother was at the home during the meal and would mutter angrily every time the word church was mentioned, which was quite frequently. The meal was nice nonetheless, very basic but very tasty Indian food served in a clean home but one with piped cold water only and very sparsely furnished. Fiji is a poor country, but these folks put out the best they had and made me feel very welcome. I would have felt welcome without the food, but Fiji as a whole has an admirable sense of hospitality and communinalism. They also invited me to church.

    I haven't been to church aside from weddings and funerals for more than half my life. No real desire burns my soul to visit more frequently. My hosts had been very kind and it seemed that attending would make them happy. Thus I found myself at a Wesleyan Fijian service. More fun than I expected, between the incredibly diverse congregation (including one very mentally ill man in a dress playing with barbie dolls), the fact that it was led by a youth group, the scriptural reading with at least five Jackson Five references in a ten minute spiel, and the wonderful singing, dancing and finally.....interpretive dance of scriptural stories! Glad I went, stranger than a SF hipster bar.

Mormon wardhouse, Lami Bay.

    One final story, one also church related. During my travels around Suva I happened upon the Mormon Temple. Driven by a mix of nostalgia and interest I wandered around the grounds after checking with the Security man at the gate. Upon my departure the gentleman asked if I was a member of the church, and then asked if I could contribute to his lunch fund. Taken aback, I asked how much that would cost. He replied: "oh, about tree fitty". Really.

    TREE FITTY. That's about the time I noticed he wasn't a man at all, but a 200 foot scaly monster from a Scottish Lake. GO GET YER OWN TREE FITTY YOU DAMN MONSTER!

2009-12-31T21:28:00.000+13:00

Back.

   Last time I tried to post was in Fiji, where my blog was promptly censored by the govt. True story, no access from anywhere in Fiji. Must not have liked the comment about the uniforms. There are several good stories to tell from Fiji, but as I am feeling contrary I think I will hold them for a later post and instead cover the last six weeks or so.

   Leaving Fiji gave me all of one day in Dunedin to settle my affairs, clean the house I have been sitting, say goodbye to the dogs I have been watching, check in with my advisors (remember, I am theoretically in college), say sayonara to my NZ-based friends, and catch a flight for S.F. Saying goodbye to the dogs was the hardest bit, as you can't be jocular or decptive to a dog. They don't care, they just look at you as if to say "why?". Luckily none of my stuff was left in the house for them to destroy, but I will miss them both. I will also miss the trampoline, and the concept of the house being warm (a reality I completely missed). Housesitting is a strange life in such ways.

  So after a few hurried goodbyes, a late night at The Bog, and promises to catch up in Feb all around I jumped on yet another flight. Air New Zealand continues to impress. On-time, decent food, functional entertainment, and no one trying to detonate things in their underwear. At least that I noticed. When not drunk the Kiwis are a generally quiet people, so perhaps something unobtrusive was going on in someone's knickers, but as long as it doesn't bother me, c'est la vie. Oh yeah, and at the Auckland airport I bought an Economist and while throwing out the reader reply cards I noticed a contest...50 words or less on Obama's Nobel with the winner getting a case of wine. I scrawled a haiku of sorts and dropped it in the post bin.

   To California, arriving before I left due to the wonders of the time zone system. Nice thing about this 13 hour flight is that it only crosses 3-5 time zones (dependent upon daylight savings variations) so the jet lag isn't too horrendous. Meeting Karen in Rohnert Park, over at Downtown's place, but have to pick up the car first. As we were planning a month on the road in winter in the Mountain West I asked for a 4-wheel drive. What do they give me? A brand new (192 miles) Dodge Absurdo-Truck. These beasts are single-handedly responsible for the disappearance of Saab and the sale of Volvo to the Chinese. They are very fun to drive, however, especially when you can abuse a new rig and hand it back. Really gives you some room to, ahem, test its limits a bit.

    Over to DT's and finally back with my bride. What can I say about a woman who tolerates my wanderings with good humour and even participates in mad dashes like this little tour? The same goes for friends and family who facilitate my travels, particular DT and the Stebner/Fineman Axis. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I suppose I could do it without you, but I can guarantee I wouldn't want to (Is there a gramatical rule about using I four times in the same sentence? Maybe something in the DSM-IV?).

    Northern California never pales. In the space of a few days we go out wine tasting around Sonoma County, have two great communal dinners, and manage to be around for Viv's 39th birthday party. Viv has a life-force that attracts high-grade freaks and Family like Jupiter attracts moons. Her party was in a beautiful little 5-room hotel/bar/bistro in Tom Waits hiding-place-of-choice and featured those souls that managed to survive and thrive post-Dead, and others from similar paths. The inventor of kayak-fishing, one of the principals of likely the best run medical dispensary in California, varied musical figures; a cross-section of Sonoma County biota. Very good times. This leaves out playing muscle in a speed-freak lovers' spat and other sundry adventures.

    We then head east across US 50. I much prefer this route to the purgatory of I-80, not just for the scenery but the emptiness. Truck does well at 110 in a valley in which I counted 28 miles without a single slight angle in the road. One day I will take a few weeks and really explore all the nooks of this area, up till now I have just hit the literal hot-spots. A night in Eureka, or Austin; I have spent enough nights in both that I can no longer tell one Best Western from another. Up in the morning and off to see the family in SLC.

   Thanksgiving with my folks is the putative reason for the trip, and doesn't disappoint. Mom is doing very well and Dad maintains though he works too hard. More of the next generation inbound, as per a surprise announcement at dinner, and once the shock passes all are well pleased. My sister throws a good party, as does my brother. Ending the night with the extended McLanes in the former frat house just gives T-day the extra twist necessary to make it real. Then to Zombieland at Brewvies.

My folks then rented the Presidential at their time-share in St. George. Very plush, totally unnecessary, and very sweet of them. So how do we repay them? Go exploring up past Kolob Canyon, with my Dad driving the very urban Subaru and Mike in his SUV, and enjoy one of those jaunts where you just keep hoping the road will improve around the corner. It doesn't, but it might around the next bend. Well, let's try this way around the lake then. Hmmm, no.

   End result-furious Mom, hunkered down Daniel, mud-covered Subaru. Aaah, family outings. Damn pretty though, Zions never disappoints.

Karen and I at Zions...

The Brothers Barbatus.

    Tell me my family doesn't look like a hipster band. Dad's the drummer, clearly.

Wow, just met a guy with the longest arm-hair I've ever seen. I'm talking collie-coat length. Weird. But I digress.

   From St. George we head north to Elsinore, where Libbie and Justin Zenger continue to lead a low-cost, low-impact life on a small farm with two boys, William and Arthur. No TV, boys that have chores at 3 and 6 years old, a yard full of complicated and slightly dangerous things that need doing. The kids are going to be good people. It is nice to see some folks still doing it right.

   Spend the night at Capitol Reef, get up and into the park before sunrise, and drive the rest of the day through gorgeousness and gorgeosity, aside from that bit where you first enter SE Colorado, right up to Isaac and Kristen's place up in Creede. 10,000 feet in the Colorado Rockies with a storm threatening the whole time. Perfect.

Kristen and the Tel Aviv bat-dog.

Three days with more high quality friends. Loving, mellow, still a bit in shock from Albequerque; they treat us right and feed us like crazy. I gained some significant amount of weight on this trip which I don't even want to quantify. Worth it to stagger around the cabin committing carbicide with good folk. The steam shower was pretty sweet too.

Left in the middle of the Great Storm Of Six Weeks Ago which put record amounts of snow all over the damn place. We drove through that mother over some pretty questionable passes throughout western CO before crossing the border and giving up the fight in Vernal, UT. At least we had Absurdo-Truck. Isaac and Kristen had to get home in a Prius.

Vernal to SLC, meh.

Is there anyone out there whom I have not mentioned my chops to? Karen's idea, they eventually took best of show in Choptober, which is the second strange award I have won recently. The first was for the Obama haiku, remember the Obama haiku? For some unknowable reason my NZ Vodafone sim-carded iPhone worked for about 20 miles in the CO Rockies, unlike everywhere else in North America. Just long enough to let me retrieve a message from the Economist that my jottings had won a case of fine NZ Pinot Noir. Take that, talented people. The award-winning chops were approaching their end by this time, however, as I was tired of eating them and curious if I still had a definable chin. Plus my Mom wanted to see my face. So in SLC I had a straight razor shave (new experience) after which my brother Michael did not recognize me (the t-shirt eventually gave it away), brother Daniel stated that at 25 years old he had never seen me bare faced, my Mom screamed, Karen grumped, and my Dad didn't notice. We covered the range well.

One night in SLC and we head north to Wendell, ID. A night with JC and Candace at their ranch, some of my favorite relatives and always a good place to hang. Candace cooks like a demon (in a good way) and JC is one of the most charismatic guys I have ever met. Straight out of some lost piece of Cormac's. Fed well, once again, and stuffed with new knowledge about the Kilgrow clan and our role in the Danites and Avenging Angels we set ou the next morning for Spokane, with a side trip to Boise.

   Boise never held much for me, but having met the Earwickers in NZ (yeah, they've heard the jokes) I was fortunate enough to meet them and their new project for lunch as we passed through. Nyah is beautiful, no surprise there, and her folks are as gracious as ever. Good to finally have a lure to Boisetown.

   Up to Spokane to spend time with Karen's Dad and his partner, Marsha. This doesn't happen often, but it should. Whatever Ed does, he does intently. Spokane doesn't do much for me but it is a worthy trade to see these folks. To balance the cosmic scales we also dropped by Karen's aunt and her husband in Richland. They are as spiritual as Ed is practical. Good cooks as well. Actually, pretty much everybody this trip has been a good cook. Not that I am complaining, it is just easy to fall into a Orson Wellesian track in such company.

   Down to Portland to see our comrade from nursing school, Jen. I would go to see Jen anywhere, even Indiana. The fact that she is in a place as vivaciously odd as Portland is merely gilt. A town selling Nyquil donuts, with the country's best bookstore, and which even designs the underside of its bridges with semi-apocalyptic elegance:

And, of course, the 24 Hour Church of Elvis (yes, I started the sentence with 'and'. I am uncomfortable with it too, but the Economist has started to do it. To which my mother would respond 'if the Economist jumped off of a cliff...' and I must say that, yeah, I'd probably follow, so long as my subscription was paid up and they keep sending me wine. I could not buy the big E in Fiji and I went into such withdrawl that I found a Kiwi chain of coffee shops and went around Suva stealing their copies. Really.):

From Portland we head back to Hood River to say goodbye to our European friends who had decided to cut their multi-year stay in North Am a bit short. Sorry to see them go but hard to have sympathy for someone leaving to spend a year in the south of France. I suspect they shall see me sooner than they expect.

Stopped at the Treesort just outside of Cave Junction, OR for the night. found this place online and I wish I had young children to take. I can't adequately describe how neat this spot is. A series of unique treehouses scattered in a grove of evergreens. We spent the night 40+ feet up in a snug little cabin with a very comfy bed, a working water system, a tree growing through the center of the room, and a Pacific NW windstorm to rock us violently to sleep. That was cool. Even mas cool, however, was the complex of ziplines, platforms, netted climbbing complexes for kids, rope swings, river pools, and yurts, saloons, cavalry forts, pirate ships, and everything else you can hope for scattered in the trees connected by bridges. Really, this place was designed with the insanely juvenile or agressively novelty-seeking in mind. Take my word for it, you will not be disappointed.

http://treehouses.com/

From there it was back down the coast for more days of patient hedonism in No Cal with the usual suspects.

   Then to Anchortown to hang with the boys and get them their Christmas socks. Snowed in for an extra day, which gave me enough time to get in a catfight with the Front Desk of the Captain Cook. They have already apologized.

Now I sit in Nome, having returned from my first village trip in a year, and slowly catching my breath. 5,000 miles and a whole raft of other statistics later. Horrible, no?

    And that's what I did on my summer vacation.

   Enjoy your New Year, and listen to The Eastern , they'll make you smile. How many people can do that anymore?

2009-11-03T21:16:00.002+13:00

Third night in Fiji...

Archival work sucks. Hours of staring at old, faded, absurdly illegible handwriting in the hope of discovering the little nugget of joy that has eluded so many others. It is boring, yet painful, like a seven hour tooth cleaning. Well, maybe not that bad, but it is pretty dull.

No pics today as it rained constantly. Warm, tropical rain, but still the wet kid precluding the use of my camera. I did get in touch with the local tramping club (the Rucksackers) and will be going on trips the next two Saturdays. Also signed up for an open water scuba certification course. So I have nothing at all in this world to whine about, save the absence of my baby.

Suva pulses. It is dirty, it smells bad, the cars all seemingly burn mentholated peat rather than petrol. The street food is questionable, the parks have packs of abandoned dogs, and the tourists are non-existent. It is not a life I would want, but it is fascinating to orbit the perimeter of. I have chosen small towns to live in for their pace, and the cities I have moved to over the years have been far northern or southern, sharing that reticence of the deep temperate zones. Places where ETOH is more common than soap, but a conga line is considered grossly offensive. Okay, conga lines are offensive, but the far north and south are stolid and reserved.

This attraction to the scandinavian makes the tropics a full body experience. Wandering Suva is like drinking a couple of Jolts and eating a Twinkie after years off of sugar. Overwhelming, dizzying, hard to process, but damnedably fun. The people vary widely between the Polynesian stock of the eastern isles, the Melanesian of the west, and the denizens of the subcontinent. Huge men in fringed skirts (yes, I know, sulus) small women in moustaches. Fiji-country. Indo-hip-hop. Everyone going someplace else. I have seen eight caucasians in the last two days. Glorious.

Time for bed and to give my mind a chance to rest. Tomorrow it is back tot he books, then perhaps a trip to the Museum, or inland if the weather breaks and I can find a guide. If so, pictures will ensue.