Godwits and Other Things

I’m trying to figure out some way to make the photos in this entry relate more to the text. These blogspot people don’t make it too easy, although I expect a person a little more net-savvy could figure it out. If you’re like me, you probably only look at the pictures anyway.

Yes, indeed, the Bar Tailed Godwits have left the Farewell Spit in Golden Bay and are somewhere in the air on their way to the Homer Spit in Kachemak Bay. For those of you not hip to the habits of the Godwits, they are thought to be the longest migrating bird, covering 11000 kilometers and don’t stop much for refueling. Maybe it helps to have “God” in your name. If you see the Godwit from this photo on the Homer Spit, and can prove it, you will win an all-expense paid trip to New Zealand and a free car.

If you didn’t know about the Godwits leaving, you probably didn’t know about the Golden Bay version of the Worlds Naked Bike Ride either. And if you think this is a figment of my imagination, as my mother-in-law did, see the related photos, and if you have small children, you might want to drape a hanky over the screen. The local event drew about 100 people…pretty much all ages and stages of dress and undress.

As you can see from the photos, there was quite a variety of costumes, not to mention body styles. Most actually rode bicycles, but a small group just carried bike tires…not sure of the story behind that. This ride is part of a small-but-worldwide movement to reduce dependence on oil, promote bikes as transport and, I suppose, to just wander down the street naked in front of a lot of people without being arrested. No, Chris and I didn’t participate this year except as voyeurs, but no one seemed to mind. I actually had my bike there, in the car, but as it was last-minute, I hadn’t brought anything to wear.

For the Homerhoids that know Judith Rothstein, we’ve been seeing quite a bit of her. She works part-time at the same place as Chris. In fact, as I write this, they are together at a drumming, chanting, dancing, singing-thing, celebrating the equinox…either the vernal or the other one. One of the photos is Judith and Chris walking on a beach. Looking at the photo, the house Judith lives in is built in a cleft on the high rock at the left of the nearest ridge in the background.

Last weekend, the 3 of us took a tour of Farewell Spit, a 30Km sand spit that forms the northern boundary of Golden Bay. It’s a sanctuary, and private parties are not allowed to go on the spit without forking over a hundred-bucks-a-head to one of the two tour companies licensed to do it. They drive fat tire-d buses and only go at low tide so the next tide washes away the tracks. The $100 did get us a driver who is a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge of the Spit, having been leading/driving the same tour for over 20 years. Did you know that the Black Oystercatchers mate for life whereas the other Oystercatchers, which actually have a more specific name, don’t? I didn’t think so. We went out 26 miles to a lighthouse (see photo) for tea and back to an overlook which is the northernmost point on the South Island (see other photo). There's an interesting story about the trees around the lighthouse. It seems that a guy named Jim, who worked there in the 1800's, and whose job it was to ride a horse to town and pick up the mail once a week, thought it would be nice to have some shade out on the sand spit, so each time he brought the mail out, he would also bring a couple bags of dirt. After a few years, he started planting trees, which took off, and eventually, the needles began creating even more topsoil. So now, there's a pretty nice patch of forest. Jim was one of your long-term thinkers.

We’re still trying to make friends or at least meet people who will know our names so that when our real friends come here to visit, it will appear that we have Kiwi friends, too. So far, besides the people Chris works with, we’ve met several others including the 3 women who work at the hardware store, the guy at the bike shop and Peter who hands out free samples at the local winery…not that we hang out or anything.

Settlin' in

After three weeks of being here, our lives are beginning to even out a bit. Chris is into the working routine…8:30 to 4:30, 5 days a week, and I’ve ticked enough things off my “critical” list that it’s seeming more and more that we really live here. Got a kiwi bank account, the electricity is switched over to our name; all our regular bills have been put on “direct debit” (this is what they do here), we have a cell phone and land line with honest-to-god dialup internet, and…I'm mowing the lawn about once a week.

The big bugaboo is still the internet, not something I ever thought would get me in a twit. We do have dial-up through the phone company, but going back to that now is like going back to a cave. Since the phone company doesn’t offer hi-speed in our neighborhood, the only options are either wireless or satellite, and the wireless guy already came out and after seeing the location said it wasn’t possible. Actually, he said “Neu wye, mite” which my NZ phrase book told me meant “No way, my friend”. The trees on the neighboring lots are too tall and apparently, wet leaves are the bane of microwaves, which are the vehicle for wireless internet. Our last option is satellite, which, of course, is the most expensive of all, not to mention the most complicated. In order to qualify for the satellite company discount, we had to join a farmer’s coop, which as a nice side benefit, allows us discounts on all our milking equipment and fencing needs.

Two days ago, we got a big box of mail forwarded from our friends at the Homer Post Office who, incidentally, had lost the New Zealand forwarding order that I had carefully typed out so there could be no mistakes. What does that say for careful planning? So my last 2 days have involved paying off all the overdue bills that had languished in our PO box for a month. Of course, it’s not like it would be any real detriment to our lives if they shut off our Homer phone or close out our SBS (lumberyard) charge account.

My understanding of the language here is increasing. I only have to ask the natives to repeat about half of what they tell me. Mostly, I don’t have to ask anyone to write it down anymore. I met our closest neighbor across the fence the other day who introduced himself as Wine. After some internal head scratching, I figured he had to mean Wayne. Then he introduced me to his son Lickus, which I initially assumed must have some Celtic origins, but when he eventually spelled it for me, after a few failed attempts, it turns out his name is Lucas. Of course, all I can think of anymore is Lickus.

I have made a couple profound observations about Kiwis, one of which has me a bit irritated. Not one of them can give directions to anywhere. “Right” could just as well mean “left”; 50 meters could be up to a mile; uphill, downhill; 5 minutes, ½ hour…none of it seems too important unless you actually want to get to a particular location. The 2^nd drive on the left could as easily mean the 3^rd drive on the right, and so on. On the other hand, most Kiwis do have excellent diction…in their own funny way.

We both have bikes now; mountain type, which allows us to wreck them by riding on sand and through salt water. The sand has already become one with my chain, which came coated with the stickiest substance I have ever encountered. I’m hoping the bike and chain will last a couple years before I can pawn it off on some unsuspecting tourist.

Here’s an ironic thing. In 34 years in Alaska, I’ve never had a carport or garage. I learned to just expect to have to chip ice off my windshield every morning for 7 months each year. But now we have an attached carport to keep our Subaru, and us, from getting too much sun. Is this really irony or something else?

And one last thing. Don't forget that the Naked Bike Ride (Google this) is tomorrow. Sign up for one in the town nearest to you.