Tom & Chris Go To America

Did I mention earlier that we were planning to make a trip to the US? If not, we were, and we did. Now, after being gone for 5 weeks, we’re back into our basic New Zealand routine which goes something like this. Chris gets up in the morning and goes to work…I don’t. Next day, do the same thing. In between, there may be some meals, some fun, some personal paperwork-business or chores, a bit of socializing or our one regular activity…Wednesday night choir practice (more on that later).

The trip to the States went off without any hitches that were significant enough to remember. There were 2 weeks in Homer with a 1 day stopover in Anchorage to see our friends the Holmans, by way of S.F. to see our friends Rusty and Dia, and 2 weeks in Portland, including a couple days at the Oregon Coast for a wedding (more on that later, too). I’ll try to be brief on the particulars of the trip since this is supposed to be a blog about our lives in New Zealand and not just your typical self-promoting, narcissistic drivel found pretty much everywhere on the internet these days…well, OK, it’s a bit of that too.

In Homer, we have to good fortune to have enough friends off which to sponge, that we didn’t have to spend a single night in a paid accommodation or buy a meal. Naturally, my mind went right to thinking how to turn this into a viable, long-term retirement program.

Until we arrived, Alaska had experienced one of the crappiest summers in recorded history, or so our whiny friends made it sound. Their first, and possibly their only 5 nice days, with temperatures topping out at a steamy 60 degrees, occurred were while we were there. Luckily, four of those days were while we were staying at the Burgesses cabin on Hesketh Island with a variety of friends. We only spent enough time at our house to mow the shaggy lawn and fix a leaking toilet. Other than that, we didn’t camp there and there and suffered no real pangs of nostalgia.

In Oregon, weather was at the other end of the spectrum, with temps up to 104 degrees. Fortunately, we were staying in the 5 star home of Chris’s brother & SIL, Dan & Malin (who happened to be on the East Coast all the time we were in Oregon), which had everything except mints on our pillows (hint, for next time, Malin)…air conditioning, a pool and gourmet kitchen (though we did have to stoop to doing our own cooking). Chris’ mom, who was recovering from a broken pelvis, stayed there with us until even she got tired of us and wanted to go back to her own house.

The main reason for the timing of our trip to Oregon was for the wedding of good friends (and surrogate children) Aasta, who we’ve known since diaperhood, and Stefan, who we’ve know since he started grazing in our refrigerator a few years ago. Since I was the official, wedding official (I expect there’s a more appropriate word for this duty), I pretty much had to be there. It was a smallish

affair…about 30 friends and family…held between beach sand dunes in Manzanita on a foggy, but thermally comfortable day. Afterward, we retired to a rented house to overindulge in food and drink and present the newlyweds with a knockout, custom quilt coordinated by Chris and Abby, with squares made by a dozen-or-so close friends, assembled by Homer friend Gail, and “quilted” by a pro who had a fantastic eye for detail. The newlyweds agreed to keep it.

OK, now we’re back in New Zealand, where the weather had turned from winter to spring while we were gone. Not that winter in New Zealand was especially painful, mind you. I’d expect blank stares if I asked for a snow shovel, and I’ve never heard mention of parkas, snow pacs, blizzards, drifts or wind chill factor. Flowers continue to bloom right through it all, though the grass only need mowing once a month rather than once a week,

like now. Lots of trees are in bloom now, and flowers are coming up all over the place. Gardens are going in and the nectar-eating Tui’s (birds) are going nuts in our neighborhood. I wish I knew a way to attach an audio clip of them to this blog (of course, there’s a way, I just don’t know it). They sound pretty exotic.

As I mentioned earlier, our one regular activity is singing in a “World Music” choir. I’d heard the term World Music before, usually thrown around by the new-agey, granola set, and figured it must have something to do with anti-globalization or stamping out poverty in Africa, but as it turns out, at least in our choir, it refers to pretty much any song with words you can’t understand. Right now, we’re working on such ditties as Shir Same-Ach, Ovdovjala Lisich Kata, Es Fuhrt Uber Den Main, and Nada te Turbe. Even if they mean something like Kill Your Neighbors or Eat Your Babies, they all sound nice in four part harmony.

Chris is reveling in her new-found techno expertise. She’s had an I-pod for a few years, but it was loaded with music by others and she’d grown tired of all the latin and hip-hop tunes that the others had chosen for her. So she bit the bullet and suffered the slings and arrows of having to remove and replace lots of music with stuff more to her liking, and even discovered that you don’t have to play the songs in the same order each time you turn it on. That explains why she thought there were only 20-or-so songs in the thing. She even added our world music songs so she can practice her soprano part while walking on the beach. I imagine people who see her think she’s either pretty happy or kind of wacky.

There used to be a saying something like, “Never trust anyone over 30.” I recently learned not to trust anyone under 50. We had some new friends, Peter and Nicky, over for dinner the other night; Peter is probably in his mid-40’s, but looks suspiciously fit. It so happens he’s a member of a newly formed mountain bike club and invited me to go on a ride with the group the next day on the Rameka Track. He indicated it was an easy ride, mostly downhill, and if he could do it, I certainly could.

I should have known when I showed up at the meeting place the next morning that I’d been misled, if not outright deceived. Out of the 12 riders, nearly all had mud-encrusted, full suspension bikes, clip-in pedals and tight, black bike shorts. Two had miniature video cameras attached to their helmets. I had the only shiny bike, and not having had any time to prepare, showed up with one flat tire and one, low on air with no air pump or extra tube. Not an auspicious start with my new group of “mates”. One of the under-30 guys gave me a new tube and even replaced it for me, then we hopped in cars to drive 40 miles to the start of the ride.

I sat in the back seat with the next oldest guy besides myself who was about my height, but I couldn’t help but notice, had thighs about the size of my waist but all his other visible parts were height-appropriate. The youngest rider was about 13 and skinny, so I figured I’d stick with him. What Peter had neglected to mention was that the first 12 miles, from where we parked to where the actual single-track mountain bike trail began, were totally uphill…not a flat spot to be seen. For me, on my best day, that would have been a full-day outing, so by the time we got to the trail, I was already whupped. Fortunately for my pride, the 13 year old had to stop and walk the last couple hundred meters to the top, so when we caught up with the group, I could pretend like I was looking after him.

The entire day consisted of me catching up with the waiting group, and soon I realized they weren’t stopping to rest, they were stopping to discuss CPR methods and where to land a helicopter in case they had to med-evac me. It reminded me of taking a walk with a group of puppies. I’d huff my way to the waiting group only to find that some of them were killing time by climbing up the steepest banks they could find and jumping whatever rocks or cliffs that would allow them some air time. Other times they’d be riding back and forth across particularly rocky streams to see who could do it the fastest without falling…all the time waiting for me to catch up. It turned out, too, that the 13 year old only had a problem with climbing…on the muddy, rocky, root-strewn trail, he was a maniac like all the others. None of them witnessed my multiple spills including a couple over the handlebars.

After the first 20 miles, we came the downhill Peter had alluded to. It was a 4-wheel drive, dirt and gravel thing (calling it a road would be giving it too much credit), which I figured we’d all coast down while chatting about stuff and checking out the scenic view. Hah! These guys weren’t content to just cruise downhill; they’d pedal furiously except at sharp corners that required one foot dragging on the ground to maintain balance. I’d call it a nail-biter, except that if I’d even attempted to move a hand to bite a nail, I’d surely be dead.

I actually survived although my butt still hurts as do many other parts. My new mates were very nice afterward and told me I’d done pretty well and they’d see me on the next ride. I’m not so sure, but memories do fade more quickly than they used to.

I'm attaching another photo that has nothing in particular to do with anything... evidence that steam power is making a comeback...at least in our neighborhood.

Cows in Raincoats

Warning! This entry could be too long for even our mothers to read. Either I’m remembering more than in past months or maybe we’re actually doing more than before, or more likely, I don’t have anything better to do.

Many of you have probably done your ’07 taxes so this heads-up is too late for this year, but for future filings, it may behoove you to know that if you are physically out of the country on April 15^th, you are eligible for an automatic 2 month extension to not only file, but to pay. This sounds like an extraordinarily big loophole for the IRS to leave open, but unless I didn’t read or understand enough of the fine print, it sounds like an annual spring trip to Canada or Mexico might be the way to go. This knowledge could be a boon to chronic procrastinators such as me but, of course, I probably wouldn’t get around to buying a ticket until fall. Anyway, for those who were out of the US on April 15^th , the deadline is June 17^th , which is tomorrow (though I probably won’t get this blog written and posted until next week…or maybe the week after).

The other night we heard this heavy breathing/moaning which Chris insisted was coming from under the house, so instead of just enjoying it, she sent her husband into the darkness with his AA flashlight. Turns out, the sound was actually coming from high up in a tree next to the house from something with two exceptionally reflective, orange eyes. When Chris described the sound to some locals, they all nodded knowingly and said, “mmmm, possum.” (Kiwi's say "mmmm" a lot.) We’ve heard the sound a few times now, but since it's always after dark, I haven’t been able to get a photo (except smashed ones on the road), so I’m including one of a hedgehog (pic), which, of course, looks nothing like a possum, but it’s one of the few wild mammals we ever see here. They are quite groovy looking animals, much like a cross between a porcupine and a rugby ball with feet.

Although there aren’t many wild mammals in NZ, there are an abundance of cows in our neighborhood. Every once in a while, a small fleet of 4-wheelers comes zooming down our road, closing all the driveway gates, followed closely by a running herd of cows (pic). I haven’t figured out where they’re going, or why. It does look extremely uncomfortable, as their udders are usually quite full and swinging wildly from side to side (imagine trying to run with a large water balloon hanging between your legs). I’m trying to figure out how capitalize by turning it into a local, more sedate version of the Running of the Bulls that would cater to the older set. The first few cows are usually running full tilt while the last ones have to be prodded to even move, so, depending on where one chose to jump into the herd, it could be done at either a jogging or a walking pace and would not appear to as dangerous as Spain's version.

On the subject of cows, I’m including a photo of cows in raincoats (pic). We haven’t figured out yet whether this was some non-waterproof breed of bovines or if the farmer just thought they would be easier to spot out in the pasture with the blue and orange drapery. The only other viable theory was that they were polo cows wearing their team jerseys, in which case, we must have passed by at half-time.

Homer folks probably know or remember Jan Schofield (now Eaton). She’s been living at the south end of the South Island for some years and has just moved to a beautiful, rural river valley about 1½ hours from us. We spent a couple days at her house in late May with her, a dog and 3 horses (pics). Unfortunately, when we were there, her husband Barry was back down south picking up some of the stuff which had been left behind, which, among other things is a very cool 2-place ultralight plane he’s been building over the past some years and is now airworthy. I’m looking forward to a flight. Jan’s still limping; recovering from a broken hip a few months ago, but still has the energy of four normal people.

We took a short hike up a river with Jan, past a lot of stoat traps (pic). Stoats (mustela erminea) are one of the members of the family mustalidae, (what else?), consisting of weasels, ferrets and ermine. These things are the number one bird predator in NZ…killing about 60% of the baby kiwis, which overall have about a 5% survival rate. If you’ve never seen a stoat, here’s a picture of one in its favored condition (pic).

The manager of Chris’s agency (along with her husband) moonlights as an olive farmer about 30 minutes from here (turn left just past the cows in raincoats). We’ve gone up there a couple times to help with the harvest (pics), the last time to finish off the last few trees, eat, drink and be merry with everyone else who had helped with the picking. They also have an oil press, so we dipped bread in olive oil that was just minutes out of the press…this is your gourmet stuff. The lower branches of the tree are picked by hand while the ones out of reach are picked by a contraption with several rotating fingers. All the olives go right on the ground which is covered by fine mesh netting so they can be gathered up easily. You can see the netting and electric finger picker in the photos.

If anyone reading this is under 56 (maximum age to immigrate) and wants to move to NZ and make a bundle, have I got a business idea for you! Let me preface this by making it clear that NZ does actually have a winter…not an especially harsh one, mind you…but frequently below freezing at nights and even some snow further south; I’d say temperatures are comparable to Northern California. But, for some reason, they haven’t caught on to energy efficiency in houses. Only the newest houses might have anything resembling central heat, and even most the newer are only insulated to bare-minimum national standards, which for framed houses are R2.0 in walls, R3.3 in roofs and R1.3 in floors. They don’t seem to have the hang of going beyond what the government tells them is OK. Most houses built before the late ‘70’s have nothing…they just try to overpower the cold with some strategically placed, small portable electric heaters or a wood stove. To my mind; the whole country is asleep at the wheel (in this department, anyway). Here are some business opportunities: 1) Retrofit older houses with insulation, windows/doors and weatherstripping…most are not insulated and have single pane windows; 2) Build new energy efficient houses; or 3) Consult with builders, architects or the government. If any of you actually do such a thing, I will expect some kind of finders fee or kickback.

My own time is filling up, whether its projects around the house such as building a firewood storage shed (pic), or with jobs for others. (The shed, as is pretty apparent from the photo, is built out of 100% scavenged materials.) This week, I’m starting on a set of kitchen cabinets for a neighbor who is converting a bus to a full-time-live-in motor home. All these things require a bit of ingenuity given my lack of tools, but I’m making do. Next is a set of 5 benches for a yurt at the agency where Chris works. If I’m lucky, the projects will at least pay for my new-used table saw and a couple carpenters pencils.

This kind of work isn’t exactly the kind of thing I was imagining would be filling my time in NZ, but is certainly the path of least resistance for me as it seems that people all over the world need people to do their handiwork. In the words of the immortal Red Green, “If the women don’t find you handsome, they should at least find you handy.”

We’re still taking side trips…mostly on weekends, and often with others. We just got back from an overnight stay at a cabin in nearby Kahurangi National Park with a group of friends, celebrating the Winter Solstice with food, improvised plays, songs, dances and yes, a few nips of local wine. We can be in either one of two national parks in about 20 minutes from our house.

This week, Chris is off to Hamilton on the North Island to help lead a training session for some others in the same line of psycho-work. She may have more to offer on this, later. She's also managed to squeeze in some Buddhist meditation, a felting workshop and now we're both in a world music choir.

Whew, that’s plenty, or maybe more than enough for now.

Owls and Barflies

First, understand that “(pic)” or “(pics)” in the text indicates there is a photo(s) related to the subject. This is the lazy way out of not having to figure out how to add captions to them.

OK, here’s my next installment….and I’ve gotta write fast…big night tonight…dominoes with our 80 year old neighbors. Actually, they both turn 80 this week and we were privileged to be invited to their joint birthday and 52^nd wedding anniversary party last week. This should give you some insight into the edgy nature of our social life.

Actually, the most recent focus of our out-of-the-house social activity has been at a place called the Mussel Inn; a place which by all rights should have gone out of business years ago (read on). It’s about 15 miles from Takaka (pop. +/- 1500), in a very rural setting, surrounded by cow “paddocks.” The building, itself, might seat 30 somewhat comfortably, or accommodate 50 if you don’t mind continual bodily contact with people you don’t know, which is not always a bad thing at my age. Yet, the place thrives. It has a brewery on-site and offers live music 3-4 nites a week, poetry one nite, and a quiz one nite, and has a good menu offering (mussel stew, of course). The music is the feature of the place that’s hard to explain. Being as remote as it is, not only for Golden Bay, but New Zealand as a whole, you’d think they could barely support a jukebox, but they continue to draw an amazing stream of talent. It seems to be on every touring musician's Must-Do list. Just Google “mussel inn new zealand” to check it out. Last weekend, we saw a fingerstyle guitar player, Richard Gilewitz (pic), who was terrific…played Leo Kottke tunes every bit as well as Leo, himself. A couple weeks before, our voice teacher (more, later) debuted her 1^st CD at the Mussel. All this is to rationalize that we’ve come 8000 miles to become common barflies.

Probably my favorite feature of the Mussel Inn is the tree stump that has about 20 cell phones nailed to it (pic). This is a fairly effective way to discourage cell phone use on the premises, a method I personally endorse. Even in podunk Takaka, the young girls walk around with their cell phones on, open, saring at it in their hands. We must end this madness. Next time you feel that someone is in need of some cell phone etiquette lessons, just take the phone and nail it to the nearest post.

Voice lessons, you say? Yes. For lack of much else to do and as a way to entertain ourselves and the oystercatchers (pic) on our evening strolls on the beach, we signed up for a singing class at the local school. It was quite good except for the fact that we not only started mid-term, but with Chris out of town for one class, and my being a little sick for another, we only managed to make it to 3 classes. But, you should know that we both now have terrifically strong, tonally spot-on voices now and are looking at performing as a retirement career. Oh yeah, and another reason to hang out in a bar.

We’ve taken a few local side-trips lately, some involving actual walking and some where our butts never broke contact with the car seat. Two separate trips, both the same weekend, featured Chris defying death by walking across two different swinging foot bridges (pics). As she would want you to understand, people spontaneously fall off these things all the time; that coupled with the fact that these type bridges collapse pretty
regularly, plunging the hapless walkers onto the rocks below. We count ourselves truly lucky to have survived these crossings.

One of these trips entailed a walk up to a scenic falls (pic). The cows that live at the base of the trail (track) must be smarter than most, as they are kept off the trail by a sign instructing them to stop (pic), but they had to use the exclamation point to get their attention, because they're not that smart.

Another trip was a drive that happened to go past a classic country store/post office about 30
miles from us (pics). The woman who runs the store has done it continuously since 1946 and, from all appearances, much of the stock came there when she did. She’s retiring this week. Be sure to read the sign showing the store hours.

We really have met a few people…not like we’re on anyone’s A-list or anything, but one couple who seems to have potential is a nurse who Chris works with and her potter-husband, who’s name happens to be Paul; a seemingly popular name for potters in both hemispheres. We had brunch there a couple weeks ago and checked out Paul’s studio (pics) and got a little nostalgic for our Homer-potter-friend Paul (and his whole family, of course). We’re hoping when our other Paul comes here to visit we can get them together to promote a little inter-cultural potterial exchange.

An unusual thing happened the other night as we were sitting at home…alone, as usual. We heard a thump against the front door and looked out and saw that a small owl had slammed into the glass. I assumed it had broken its neck, but picked it up anyway and brought it inside (pic) as I thought it might make a dandy stir fry. After 5 or 10 minutes of wondering what to do with a mortally wounded owl, he/she began to move a bit, but could only manage to open one eye. Then, when Chris made a little racket, both eyes opened and he/she bolted into the spare bedroom. I had to recapture him/her with a towel to take it outside where it took off like nothing had happened. Not sure if we are eligible for any karma points for that.

If you haven’t heard, we are planning a trip to the US from mid-July to mid-August; 2 weeks in Homer and 2 in Oregon where our other kids, Aasta and Stefan will be married. I will be the priest for the affair. I’m banking on the fact that my Universal Church of the Gospel Ministry pastoral registration is still in effect. It has been pretty much inactive since 1971, but it did cost $3.95 (really!), which, considering inflation would I’m sure would be tens of thousands in today’s dollars.

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Floods and Things

We are now officially into the autumn season, which brings some rain and cooler temperatures. In fact, we have been utilizing our “log-burner” most nights the last couple weeks, and even had a fluke, one-time, night frost a couple weeks ago. Despite the fairly mild temperatures, it takes a log or two every night to make up for the lousy (or lack of) insulation, inefficient windows and doors and total lack of central heating. The owner of our little house tells us that the walls are insulated with R-3 batts. What they refer to as insulation in the floor is actually a single layer of foil attached to the underside of the sub-floor. That’s it. These were government standards 10 years ago. I do hope they’ve stepped it up a notch since then.

I have a confession. Father, I knowingly and willfully ate farmed salmon. I can only hope my Alaskan friends can see it in their hearts to forgive me (and Chris, too). I suppose if I were truly honest with myself, I’d go and rip the “Fiends don’t let friends eat farmed fish,” bumper sticker off my guitar case, but I think I’ll leave it as a reminder of what a bad person I am. We actually did this thing at the invitation of some neighbors, at an end-of-season feed at the salmon farm (See photo); one consolation being that it’s a landlocked facility where there seems to be little danger of escapees contaminating the wild stock as there is in the ocean-based farms. I hereby verify that the taste and texture bears not a whole lot of resemblance to the real thing, though in their defense, they do look like fish.

Speaking of foods…I’ve been doing more than my fair share to support the NZ fruit industry, but as we get closer to winter, the goods are harder to come by, at least at the roadside stands. Peaches, apricots, berries, plums, tomatoes and nashees are gone; oranges, grapefruit and grapes are on their way out; pears, apples and feijoas and are peaked, and kiwifruit are coming on. I’ve been trying to do my ten servings a day, but it’s getting harder. Looks like I’ll be on a kiwifruit-heavy diet for a while. (FYI, they don’t call the fruit “kiwi’s…those are the people.) Of course, there are always the Ecuadorian bananas, Hawaiian pineapples and other imports at our not-so-super-market, but I haven’t caved to that. Just got some grim news from a local, organic farmer; next year is forecast to be a lousy year for avocados…30% of this year’s crop. Not much else to do but try to eat all of next year’s allotment this year.

While eating lunch on the deck the other day, and when I wasn’t looking, a bee dove into my juice glass for a dip. When I took a sip, it was hard not to notice a chunky thing squirming in my mouth. Unfortunately, I was slower spitting him out than he was inserting his stinger into my tongue. I debated heading for the ER, just in case my tongue should swell up and choke me to death, but didn’t. It did go away, but not before swelling into a grape-sized lump, mid-tongue. It was over in a couple hours…enough time for me to take in the lesson of not drinking before looking.

And then there’s the flood. Monday before last, it started raining around noon. It was not your ordinary rain, this was RAIN…13 inches in 9 hours. It was so loud in the house it pretty much brought conversation to a halt. All the while, I’m just thinking on the bright side, that our water tank will at least get topped off. About 9PM, we hear a crash so I looked out the back door to see what it might have been and before I confirmed that it was our firewood pile having fallen over, I see chunks of firewood, various pieces of lumber and a gas can floating through the carport and across the lawn. I don’t get any photos because it all happened after dark, certainly the most disconcerting time for such a thing to happen.

At that point, there was about 3 inches of water flowing through the carport, so I decided to move the car to higher ground. I donned the swim trunks and sandals and moved the car up a nearby hill. During this process of driving and wading through the neighborhood I could see that the creek that normally flows innocuously along our property boundary was way over it’s bank, 18” over the road at the end of our driveway, and our land was now part of the creek bed, with water flowing under and around the house…about 2 feet on one side…enough to completely immerse the lawnmower, which is stored under the house. (The accompanying photo of the creek is its normal level. This particular night, it was about 18" deep where I was standing when I took this photo.) Lots of firewood floated away, most of which I managed to salvage from the yard and the woods across the road the next morning. Just as quickly as the water rose, it fell. In about 20 minutes, it went from 2 feet of water at the deepest point in the yard, to just soggy grass.

Other than having to disassemble the lawnmower motor to dry it out, and water getting into the gas and oil cans there was no real damage; just another adventure at Patons Rock. The next morning, of course, all the neighbors were out surveying the damage and talking about how this has never happened and lying about how deep the water was at their house. Anyway, I managed to make three new “friends,” which more accurately translates to “I know their names.”

I’ve finally worked up the courage to ride the highways on my bike and in the past couple weeks have done my two lifetime bests for distance. To save embarrassment, I won’t say how long (or short) they actually were, but it’s nice to be able to talk about distances in kilometers rather than miles...it adds nearly 40%.

And on the subject of metric conversions, we are paying $1.94 per liter for petrol, which doesn’t sound too bad until you do the math. Since there’s 3.785 liters in a US gallon, it comes out to $7.34 per gallon, so let’s not be hearing any whining about you having to pay $3.70. Needless to say, there are very few Hummers or Suburbans in NZ….like none! Our Subaru is pretty much a mid-sized car here.

And speaking of conservation, the Golden Bay Dump, which they call the Refuse/Recycling Center, or something similar, is a thing to behold. No, really! Entering the grounds is like entering an adventure ride in Disney World . You drive up this gentle hill on a curving road. On both sides of the road are stone outcroppings that look truly fake, with exotic vegetation and beautiful flowers growing out of the crevices (see the 2 photos). Since most flowers have died off for the season, you’ll have to imagine them. The facility itself is incredibly organized into tidy piles of like materials with places for every kind of recyclable material. Since most people around here compost all their organics, there is very, very little actual garbage (rubbish, here) that makes it to the dump that can't be recycled. The cool thing is that the dump has its own “Shop,” (store). The staff scavenges anything that may be of any use to anyone, clean it up a little, and sell it in the shop to offset the price of operating the place. No prices are marked; you just ask the shopkeeper, Hitha (spelled Heather) or just make her an offer. None are refused. If you want her to keep an eye out for anything in particular, she’ll write it down and give you a call when one comes in. (Hitha and her husband have two old Studebakers. See my last post.) Exciting, eh?

Our last two evenings have been a study in contrasts. Sunday evening was the annual Harvest Feast, put on by the organization, HANDS (How About a Non Dollar System), which is a conceptually, neat system of buying and selling goods and services using vouchers as opposed to Kiwi dollars. The members-attendees were heavily dreadlocked, dashiki’d, barefoot, vegetarian, spiritual-seeking, yurt-dwelling, artistic, immigrant greenies; all very nice, thoughtful, friendly saviors of the earth and advocates of a sustainable economy and planet. It was great…good vegetarian, low-salt, fat-free, home-grown food, herbal tea, music and conversation. I'm still telling myself, “I thought we left Homer?”

Then Monday was Eucher night at the East Takaka hall, a slightly musty smelling, 100 year-old renovated, one room schoolhouse (see photo), to which we were invited by our septuagenarian neighbors, whom we’ve gotten to know quite well, lately (plus their 2 grown children and 3 teenaged grandchildren who are visiting for the school holiday). Oh, Eucher is a card game. The attendees there were heavily short haired, conservatively dressed, long-time residents, well-shod, well-adjusted, happy, smiling, meat-eating, paint-by-the numbers, retired Kiwi farmers. I’d guess the average age, even taking into account five teenagers, was still my age or worse. After 2 hours of highly competitive card-playing, we stayed seated for tea and tiny, crustless sandwiches (with meat, of course) and desserts of various kinds (heavy with real sugar and butter, of course), yum. I was the only one of the 40 people who had coffee (instant, of course) instead of tea. Your choices of tea; with milk or without? Winners for the evening took home bags of feijoas and walnuts and free admission to next week’s Eucher night.

I’m still looking for the venue where these groups come together.

At the Races

Sometimes I feel like I have fallen down the rabbit hole and come out as a character in a movie. I am myself but either in a different time, or place, or life status. I think that’s because some of what am experiencing I’ve only been exposed to in movies such as in hearing some of the accents, and seeing some of the sports that are common here such as cricket, squash, bowls, and rugby. Now I know we have some of these things in the US but just not where I’ve been. This last week I was fortunate to be sent by Te Whare Mahana to Auckland to attend the Tenth Annual Gathering of mental health professionals treating personality disorders. It was held at Ellersbie Race Course (for horses). I have never been to the races or even seen a horse race course. This is a huge piece of real estate in the middle of Auckland that has a well groomed grass track for the best thoroughbred horses to race their little hearts around. It is so big that a golf course sits dwarfed in the middle of it. Along one side of the track is the grandstand with a four story building through which you enter which is quite posh. When the races are not underway they rent the glass walled rooms overlooking the track for conferences such as ours. It was a lovely, peaceful setting in which to hold the conference. We took our catered lunches out into the fresh air and sat in the boxed seating areas with me pretending to be in a white flowing dress and large showy hat politely sizing up the horses and sipping tea with a touch if cream in it and discussing this and that with my colleagues. The fact that I continue to be surrounded by accents from around the English speaking world added to my surrealistic feeling.

I’ve had some other reminders that I’m “not in Kansas any more” when I’ve found myself realizing that what I think I heard was different that what others understood. One fine day at work, as the night staff was filling in the oncoming day shift about the status of the residents’ wellness, she mentioned taking away a residents “sleepers” as a safety precaution. Everyone else in the room quietly nodded in agreement while in my head I pictured a pair of pink bunny slippers and wondered “what the heck can a person do to cause self harm with slippers.” When the discussion was over, my curiosity compelled me to ask the questions which brought uproarious laughter from my colleagues. “no, no, not ‘slippers’… ‘sleepers’, you know, sleep medications.” Once again, I am reminded not to make assumptions that I know what I think I know, no matter how small.

For now, as they say here, "G'Day"

Chris

Chris' Working Life

What’s happened to Chris, you might ask, after my name dropped off the blog authorship line many weeks ago? Well, I thought I’d better give you a picture of how I spend my workdays each Monday through Friday from 8:30-4:30.

Six weeks into my new job and I am still greatly enjoying my new position as DBT Program Specialist. Today a new organizational chart was introduced to clarify for myself and everyone else what exactly I can do in that role. The organization of Te Whare Mahana has grown by leaps and bounds in the last few years and because of growing pains and normal staff turn over they have been chronically understaffed for quite some time up until just today when we are finally fully staffed again. Thus, the new kid on the block has looked pretty attractive for filling in all sorts of gaps, any of which I am happy to do, but all of which I cannot. So as it seems now, I sit on the management team, oversee the residential treatment team, do program development, see a couple of clients as their individual therapist, provide clinical supervision to staff, provide DBT orientation training, provide emergency consultation back up to the house staff one weekend a month, am the external liaison with related health care professionals, coordinate discharge planning, and participate in applicant selection and intake (a process which is pretty thorough). I sit in on hours and hours of meetings every week as information is communicated up and down the organizational chart in a pretty egalitarian system.

My co-workers are very compassionate, and dedicated souls who really take DBT to heart at their various levels of interaction and understanding. The organization is well run by a board committed to their mission and values and regularly reviewed strategic plan. TWM is managed by a very competent woman who has been doing so for the last 12 years. We have a fabulous clinical director whose clinical insight I greatly respect. This program is regarded as one of, if not the, best treatment program for people experiencing personality disorders in the country. Because they are committed to excellence they invest in training the staff and have brought high level DBT trainers from the States to keep the staff tooled up for their jobs. In fact they are sponsoring bringing Robin McCann, one of the top 5 DBT trainers in the US over here in late May for a six month period to live in Golden Bay and provide training around the country while here. That means that our staff will have maximum exposure to her expertise which I am really excited about.

The residents come to stay at TWM for up to a year and participate in daily skills training modules, and community groups that focus on processing issues of daily living while using the DBT skills. When someone is immersed in the DBT method of therapy it is amazing to witness the change that can occur in their lives. Every meeting, whether it is for residents or staff, begins with mindfulness practice, respectfully led by any member of the group. People take this seriously and come prepared to lead or participate fully in each group and/or meeting. I am learning a lot.

In addition to the residential treatment program, TWM also has an employment program that focuses on both training folks for work and in giving them real work opportunities matching their areas of interest while being mentored and supported, kind of like an employment incubator. The team leader is extraordinary in his vision and skills at empowerment. The third branch of TWM is called Outreach. It provides 24 hour crisis services to the community at large and offers some outpatient rehab services as well. I feel lucky to be working with such a great group of people in such a beautiful setting.

The residential program is situated in a large house that used to be a convent. It has heavy wooden doors and floors, and a stone patio/entry looking out to the front at a large lawn with gardens surrounding. There are gardens and fruit trees in the back yard and several small associated buildings on the same property which house the administrative staff, my office and the group rooms. We are just completing the construction of a yurt in the backyard to become another group meeting/educational classroom. My tiny little office has large picture windows on two sides framed by grapevines and looking out to a large pasture. The pastoral setting is very private and soothing. The grounds are situated right in town on the main street, directly next door to the police station which has proved handy at times when staff have been dealing with some extreme behaviors. However, many people don’t even know we exist because the front is so lush with vegetation on the street side they can’t see what’s behind. We are within walking distance of the doctors offices which is also handy at times when we need to have a resident seen for the results of self harm or to be evaluated for a hospitalization. TWM also owns and manages a fourplex of apartments, one of which we keep accessible for visiting family members of the residents, and for occasional respite purposes.

TWM is unique in the country as it is a NGO (non-government organization) doing the work normally operated by the District Health Board. Many years ago TWM was begun with volunteers who simply wanted to care for their community members at home with compassion. It has been effective in developing from this heartfelt start. There is a small hospital of sorts in the Bay for emergency care primarily I think, but if someone needs psychiatric care they are transported “over the hill” to Nelson, a drive of about 1-1/2 hours. This Hill, which I scoffed at before arriving here thinking “it’s just a hill for crying out loud”, actually made me carsick because it is steep and has more curves than a roller coaster (over 360 curves in a 45 minute drive over the pass), and it is the reason Golden Bay is not more populated. The Hill keeps the idea of long distance commuting to Nelson out of most people’s minds. The Bay is, however, where everybody and their mother come to spend the weekend or a holiday as it is beautiful and the weather is fine.

It’s been interesting that more than once when a stranger asks me what brought me to New Zealand and I explain I am here to do mental health work, they have personally welcomed me to the country and thanked me for offering my skills to their countrymen and women. People seem to take the issues of health care for one another personally. So, to make this long story shorter, I am feeling appreciated, supported and like I can make a difference here, all of which is very satisfying. And it doesn’t hurt that Tom and I can walk on the beach in front of our rented “bach” every night wearing sandals.

Old Friends and Studebakers

With Easter weekend at hand, I even had the car started as Chris coiled the hose after dousing the new plants before taking off for 4 days to the West Coast, and a guy in full bicycle regalia comes cruising down the road, looking up our driveway. It seemed he had found what he was looking for because he makes a sharp left turn and made right for me and stops his bike 2 feet in front of us. So, I’m looking at him with a, “May I help you…do I know you?” look on my face, while he’s straddling the bike shifting his shit-eating, grinning glance between Chris and me, clearly enjoying our senior moment. Remember, he’s got not only reflective, wrap-around shades but the helmet and the whole deal. After a few seconds, he says, “Marty…Marty Leichtung.” Holy crap, talk about out of context. Of course it was Marty, but 10,000 miles from home. After several seconds of, “…what?, oh my god, how did you find us?” and such expressions of confusion and lack of anything coherent to say, we shut off the car and had him in for coffee. (For our non-Alaska friends, Marty & Barb are Homer friends.)

He and Barbara are traveling around NZ in a rented motorhome with their middle daughter Ellen and her husband and, of course, whenever they stop for much more than fuel, Marty hops on his bike for a few K’s (that’s kilometers). He’d ridden the 15 miles from their campground to our house on the off-chance we’d be around, knowing we were in NZ but had only managed to get our address, not our phone number. Unfortunately, we already had our Easter weekend trip planned and had reservations at “backpackers” for the next 3 nights, so were committed to going ahead with it, but not before stopping by the “caravan park” where they were staying and had a good chat with them all.

This trip was the 1^st chance we’d had to get very far away from Takaka, so decided to go west to see the other coast. We only had one particular site in mind…Punakakai…where there is a local geological feature they call Pancake Rocks (see photos). Other than that, the trip was pretty much planned using darts and a map. The west coast of NZ is known for its rain, rugged coastline and the independent streak of its residents. One sign outside Westport said, “Want England, visit Christchurch. Want New Zealand, visit Westport.”

As I guess should be expect from an older car, the Subaru developed a growl in the rear end, which was diagnosed as a wheel bearing being returned to dust, so we decided to abort some of the side trips and go for the most direct way home. Short story: we made it, got the car fixed back in Takaka, increasing our vehicle investment to $2900.

I have to digress here and define “Backpacker.” These are low budget accommodations, much like we would define hostels in the US, except they are virtually everywhere, unlike hostels in the US which are actually nowhere. We’ve stayed in several and found them all to be (usually) comfortable, clean and cheap….cheap, meaning $12-24 USD’s per person. Backpackers on Easter weekend were quite full, a last-of-summer fling for Kiwis…much like Labor Day in the US. We couldn’t get a private room in Punakakai, so we ended up in a dorm-type room with 4 roomies. Being the social sorts, we hung out a fair bit with a couple of our new mates, 2, 20-ish guys, one from Belgium and one from Germany. As fate would have it, one was Tommie, the other was Christian. This made it possible for both of us to remember their names for more than 5 seconds. The weather was a mix of sun, clouds and rain, but comfortable temps, though.

One of of the stops was the town of Greymouth, which coincidentally is at the mouth of the Grey River. And talk about coincidences, when wandering through this mostly deserted town (it was Easter, after all), we stumbled on a huge gathering of old Studebakers. I’m including a couple photos, which I expect you’ll want to print out for yourself. I think Chris was pretty stoked by the whole experience, but managed to keep it to herself. I was pretty psyched too, not only as an appreciator of old cars, but as a former owner of a ’47 Studebaker. (Both Chris and our kids are pretty sure I have owned one of every kind of car, having grown a bit weary of hearing various versions of me saying, “Look, a ’32 Plymouth coupe. I used to have one of those.”

Wouldn’t you know my one regret related to this trip also had to do with a car? While we were wandering around in Westport, we saw a beautiful, 1960’s, bright orange Morris Mini, which I’m sure you all will recognize as the forerunner of the new, copycat, Mini-Cooper. Morris’ are the real deal, and this one was a bargain, but before I was able to talk myself into it, we were gone and I hadn’t written down the contact phone. Sigh! The photo is a reminder for the Mini-deprived reading this.

Being Easter, the only thing open in Greymouth, strangely enough, was a jade shop. Another coincidence! It was Chris’ birthday and she had decided (long ago, apparently) that she would get a piece of jade jewelry while in NZ, which she did. It’s green. She browsed, I drank coffee. (See photo. The jade, not me drinking.)

Last stop on the trip was the Old Nurses Home in Reefton. The ONH is now a backpacker and Reefton is a place not many Kiwis can even find on a map. It’s a place that sometime in the 1800’s was expected to grow into a major hub because of the gold and coal, which explains why there was a nurses home for 50 nurses in a town which is now, maybe, 500. It never developed into a center of any kind, but there’s lots of good fishing, kayaking and exploring to do in the area, none of which we did. This particular night the Home was inhabited by a couple old Alaskans and 50 old fly fishermen and spouses. After several bottles of wine, a few of them had to be carried up to their rooms…the fishermen, not the Alaskans.