I want my mulk!

Clay has learned to speak some words in a Kiwi accent. He just walked into the room and said "I want my mulk (milk)". It's good woody accent (ref Monty Python's skit on woody words) in many ways, other food examples being "fush and chups". It's also a delightfully informal language at times. At other times, to our "twangy" American ears, the accent seems slightly pinched, as in the radio ad by an outfit that sells those furniture items we sleep on, in which the man exclaims: Back to Bead!

Anyhow Clay has learned several pronunications and phrases (e.g. I see your knickers) that are distinctly Kiwi/British, and Estin (Eastin) is sporting the complete package, especially when at school.

Here are some pics of Clay discovering the joys of twister as conceived by Mark, and egged on by Ali as well, at a pancake breakfast we had this morning:

Home Slice

A small slice of evening life just before dinner at 398 BayView Rd: The X Man's words are getting clearer so that in the movie below you can hear him saying "big one" and "watch out". The big boy's taking pretty good care of Clay as he jumps from a fair height, and also of course wanting in on the action. Notably, Clay's jersey/sweatshirt says "BUM"--about the equivalent of a sweathsirt in the US that says "BUNS" in big bold block letters. Mary is multi-tasking, as she does.

Back again

Wellll, it's been quite awhile since I've written. We took a trip back to the US a few weeks ago and brought with us some baggage--various stressors--for me this included the attempt to mix work and family functions, and each seemed to suffer. Although it was great to see the people we did manage to see, it was never right, never enough, never of the right quality except for some rare moments. So, I haven't been inspired to write. Three steps forward, two steps back.

Coming to NZ was like a reawakening. Now, as far as the finding the compass bit goes, I've been snowed in by a rough patch of weather, lost my way. But nevermind, I've decided to grapple with things by taking positive action--increasing caffeine and alcohol intake, abandoning all forms of exercise, and shunning sunshine and society by continuously watching TV nights and weekends. I'm folding right up like a cabbage.

So instead of writing a load of malarkey, I went through some family-type photos and found a few that make me smile. here they go.

Winter Comin' Round Again

In the spirit of experimentation, tonight I'm attempting a video link. Over the weekend we were inside on a blustery day and I took a quick vid with the camera. Loaded on to Google Video and hey presto that worked, so now attempting to embed it here. The footage shows what X and E were up to: EJ making a list of potential activities after complaining of boredom, and Clay running around bashing into things and generally enjoying it all. We are headed back to the North Hemisphere summer pretty soon and we are pretty excited about that, both in terms of reconnecting with friends and family and having a visit with Mr. Jolly Old Sol, the sun hisself. But now and then it's nice to settle in front of the fireplace in our lovely house:

The Rugby

Rugby is the national sport. The other night, at Highlanders v Reds, Estin had his picture taken with the Highlander hisself. The Highlander is a nice fellow who the kids flock to. However, even the most casual observer notes that he is very not from the Scottish Highlands but instead of Polynesian (Maori I reckon) bloodlines. Then again, if you check out the NZ-Maori team playing currently in the Churchill Cup, you'll see a couple of guys with red hair running around.

Every little boy aspires to be an All-Black, a member of the National team. The ABs are the pride of New Zealand and are current favorites for the galatic championship, to be held on our home planet, in France, this year. For a little island nation to be the best in the Milky Way, well how can you blame people for getting so excited about it?

In other sports, like basketball in the US, players stay out of the National side for fear of getting injured and ruining their NBA season. Not so with the ABs--the coach has enough sway over things that 20 players were actually held out of the first half of the recent Super 14 season, ostensibly on a reconditioning program but we all know it's to give the boys rest before the big one in France, so they can peak at the right time.

But what really says it all: you go to a soccer game or to a basketball game, but you don't go to a rugby game. You go to "the rugby". EJ and X and I were invited to see the Highlanders with EJ's best mate, Mark, and family the other night, so I painted some faces and we went on out to the rugby.

Rape and Pillage in the Rock and Pillar

There is big debate these days about a proposed windfarm in Central Otago's Rock and Pillar range. The cons don't want to degrade the landscape or kill too many raptors, and are accused of NIMBYing about and keeping New Zealand behind the times. The pros don't understand what all the fuss is about and are accused of rape and pillage. Me, I think windfarms aren't ugly -- the non-native pine trees spreading around are a much worse impact on the landscape of Central Otago. I also think windfarms are a clean source of energy. But here's me problem: insulation. There is none. No insulation to speak of in homes, no double-glazing on the windows. Most folks use electricity for heating, not uncommonly spending upwards of $500 monthly, or alterntively seeing their breath inside the house. I can't abide by a decision to dam rivers and build windfarms while the power goes poof, poof, out through the roof, and a cool southerly blows right through the windows. Before we put in the windfarm, let's tighten up the houses and buildings to make ourselves more comfortable and decrease the burden on the power grid.

Back in the U.S.S.A.

I made a recent trip back home to San Fran and Denver. A family intestinal bug hand blown through Clay, Estin and Mary a few nights before I was to leave. Mary did an 8pm to 6 am shift in the bathroom. Meanwhile Estin was spectacularly sick and could not find his paper bag--lurvely. This was a heinous bug, a norovirus that shut down two wings of the hospital after I left. But I (puffing out chest), I didn't get sick. I was strong like bull, I was impervious, I was the man. I became one with the toilet two nights later. The night before my 20 hr travel day. In the morning I dragged myself to the doc, and then enriched the pharmacist by purchasing fever-reducer, vomit-preventer, re-hydrator, a chemical bung for the bum (Immodium) and on and on. I felt like I'd been run over by a truck, was completely dehydrated and you can't bring a damn drop of water onto a plane anymore. I also wondered how my fellow passengers would enjoy sharing the travel with me. Fortunately I had stopovers on Christchurch and Auckland, and was able to drink increasing quantities of water on these stopovers. By the time we left Auckland I was rehydrated at least, but oops I overshot it a little on the drinking, much to the delight of the poor guy who had to keep getting out of his aisle seat next to me. Anyhow, all was well in the end because, as the Beatles put it, I was "back in the U.S.S.A":

Oh, Flew in from Miami Beach B.O.A.C.
Didn't get to bed last night
On the way the paper bag was on my knee
Man, I had a dreadful flight
I'm back in the USSR
You don't know how lucky you are, boy
Back in the USSR, yeah


So, yeah. Dreadful flight, paper bag, back in the U.S.S.A.--Paul McCartney had a fair go at describing my own trip of 40 years later.

Been away so long I hardly knew the place
Gee, it's good to be back home
Leave it till tomorrow to unpack my case
Honey disconnect the phone
I'm back in the USSR
You don't know how lucky you are, boy
Back in the US
Back in the US
Back in the USSR

Was I ever glad to be home. It had been 1.5 years. Mom and Dad provided a nice landing pad where I could rest a bit, and we had a great time for a cupla days just relaxing really. And then it was on to Boulder for Demi and Jeff's wedding, visit with Mary's brother and our nephew, some work (showing off Glotec's new device and getting feedback on it's potential uses), visits with work colleagues and some, but not nearly enough of, the local friends, and a leetle bit of skiing. I'd wondered whether Colorado would feel like a foreign place, but It was comfortable to return and felt like home. Returning to Dunedin, I also felt like coming back home. Two homes, how about that?

Curiosity Cilled the Curio

We have had a great reunion with old friends Jim and Mary, down from Idaho, and Anne, down from Auckland. We all knocked around Boulder together years ago, running trails and rivers together in Colorado and Utah and Idaho. Dunedin friends Mark and Julia, here from Bozeman, joined us all for a Rocky Mountain evening at our place: "sweet as". Next day Anne and Mary and MAC ran a half-marathon on the peninsula, chatting the entire way, and we loaded the car and were away to the Catlins that afternoon. Our curiosity was rewarded by the sight of a decal on a Japanese-import vehicle, which dreamily informed that "As enjoyable as communing with nature is the comfort of cruising through the tree-line boulevard" (pic). We camped at Curio Bay, where our curiosity was rewarded with views of the yellow eye penguins from the bluff. There are no more Ciwi birds at Curio Bay, not to mention Moa. Clay screamed absolutely bloody murder at bedtime but then slept well. Our tent was placed among the flax that creates privacy barriers and shelter from the "occasionally chilly" southerly winds. Next day was absolutely brilliantly clear and warm. We swam with the dolphins in Porpoise Bay, and removed no curios from Curio Bay (v cool petrified forest). While lounging on the beach, a wee blue penguin came squawking ashore followed shortly by a seal that laid up to rest. We figured the seal was looking for a penguin meal; unfortunately a crowd of kids surrounded the poor penguin who returned to the sea without respite. Estin spent hours boogie boarding and we each skimmed Clay around on the wave-wash using a boogie board (for days since Clay has dragged the "bee-baw" around the house, hollering for more rides). Dinner, wine, stories, monster pictures, etc. Next morning we said good-bye to Mary and Jim, checked out the wee bum end of the South Island, (pic) and headed back to drop Anne off at the airport in Mosgiel. It was a fine time with that ex-Boulder crew, last together on the Salmon River in the early '00s.

In reference to our previous entry, we discovered that Rakiura does actually glow: on it's way to Australia, the sun dropped right straight through Rakiura, and she lit up with pleasure. (pic, ever-so-slightly enhanced).

The Shortest: A Lump of Clay

Estin came popping right along when called from the womb--we was young, and things was working. After we recovered from the initial shock of parenthood, Mary, being the planner that she is, figured that 3 years spacing was perfect between the 2 kids we wanted to have. Smaller gap would mean more sibling rivalry, and bigger gap might mean that the siblings would grow up separately. So when it came time for #2, we assumed that pregnancy and childbirth would come easily again. Nope. The bodies produced acts of resistance. Acts of cervical disobediance, seminal insubordination, who knows. Things was just not working. What transpired was 2-3 years of anguish. An anguish that only Mary can speak to. I tried and failed to understand it. Having a sore back or losing my pace on the sporting fields--nope, not in the same zip code. Being broken to the point of inability to provide, maybe that would come closer.

In the end, after all the disobediance, we decided to adopt a child. We felt we would rather spend $ and effort on adoption rather than IVF. We still had to work through whether that would be from another country or from home. There are some complex issues involved, to be sure. Not least, for me, was a frank preference for raising children of our own making rather than someone else's. How would I react to, bond with, a brand new tiny person from another bloodline? I think it would have worked out great. I think I would have/could have given an adoped child as much as I can give. But there was a seed of doubt. What would the child's past hide? Would the pregnant mother be free of harmful drugs and alcohol? Would an orphanage baby get the touch and love that it needs before we could reach it?

When we had sorted it out, Mary and I, we started off down the road to adoption. With that, we stopped the calendar-watching, the tests, the temperature-taking, the cycle-monitoring, the doctors visits. The struggling and striving ended. Suddenly, the Shortest himself came calling.

X has that gap from his brother that Mary wanted so much to avoid, but that is nothing to us now. Mary is making sure these guys have fun-filled bright childhoods. In naming the baby, I liked Xavier, his eventual middle name (the X-man). But we kept coming back to one name. Neither said it aloud for a long time, but realization of why that name seemed right was dawning on each us: we were recalling a poem read at our wedding ceremony:

Take a lump of clay, wet it, pat it,
And make an image of me, and an image of you.
Then smash them, crash them, and add a little water.
Break them and remake them into an image of you
And an image of me.
Then in my clay, there's a little of you.
And in your clay, there's a little of me.
And nothing ever shall us sever;
Living, we'll sleep in the same quilt,
And dead, we'll be buried together.

-Kuan Tao-Sheng (1262-1319)

Together, Mary and I are less like lumps of wet clay and more like little, brittle, kiln-dried bits of artistic offal. More generously, like two stones rubbing each other smooth. But nevermind, the idea of smashing and crashing and remolding captures the imagination. It's one of the things this NZ walkabout is for, to do some grinding, some mixing and reforming, melding and welding our family together by virtue of adventure.

As for the Shortest, well, I'm not sure Clay could be better named.

The Simple Things, the Strong, and the Weak

When uncle Dave visited a few weeks ago, he reminded me of the simple joys when he and Estin and I walked down to Tunnel Beach. We had the place to ourselves at first--shirts came off and boys started tearing around the place. It took me a minute to join in and remember the sheer fun of running around the beach barefoot. But for the occasional visitor, Estin's initial nudity gambit may well have been followed by his older relatives, resulting in 3 hollering running cases of stupiditynuditity.

Track and field is called athletics down under. Estin is quite excited about it, having joined an organized team under the influence of a girlfriend (hmm, well, okay that's a good influence. she hasn't offered him crack just yet). The other day, there was a big Dunedin meet with 4 different clubs. It lasted from 10 till 4, a long time for a 7-yr old, his dad, and his tiny brother. But we had a good time. It is great to see kids experiencing simple joys like running, jumping, throwing. In the running and jumping events a lot of kids were barefoot, which worked well on the spongy track. EJ claimed it was faster barefoot and it might be, but I think it is just a heckuva lot more fun to run that way and to jump into the sand that way. Estin competed in the 100m meter and 60 meter sprints, shot put, and 4x100 meter relay. Did real good in the running events, and won the shot put. Whunh? Shot put?? No offense meant to Estin's dad, but the guy has all the power of a wet noodle. Down under, they call him "Wee Brian". So where did this shot put thing come from? Good technique probly counts for a lot. Hmmm. A look at the other side of the family reveals some strong people, like maybe his mama and her entire clan, and a wee bit more distant on the Hicke tree sits great-uncle Bruce. Taken together, this is evidence that genetic traits can skip across entire generations. Either that, or strength is maternally inherited. Hopefully it doesn't mean that Estin will be kicking that sand in my face before he reaches age 10--I might have to run and ask Mary for help.

WifDiff in Perth

Just back from attending the WFDF World Ultimate Club Champs in Perth with Kiwi masters team Tuatara. Great international tournament, and a great time was had training and playing with the Kiwi squad. The 5 Kiwi teams stuck together, supporting each other on the sidelines, partied together, etc.

Training for the tournament was a challenge with just five people from Dunedin attending the tournament. We trained regularly through the winter in the dark, playing indoors occasionally, running on the track, but not getting any game time. Exceptions were the three training camps in Wellington which were really good for getting to know teammates as well as the rest of the Kiwi squad. Tom, Mark, Carly and Ali have been great training companions in Dunedin. Getting to sunny Perth was great as the anticipation was over, and the niggling injuries melted away in the warmth. Of course they had to be replaced by a few hard knocks, one a scary a head-to-head collision that makes me now appreciate having motor control over my extremities.

Tuatara brought a small squad with remarkable teamwork and superb tactics, and finished in fifth place, just out of the semis. At the end, l had learned a new style of ultimate. In contrast to a typical N. American offense, we played a patient game to use our numbers effectively and to make best use of the two outstanding throwers Tuatara boasts. In essence the philosophical shift is from a cutter-dominated offense to a thrower's offense. For example, as an isolated receiver I would position myself such that the defender has a hard time seeing disc and myself. I am stationary and the defender therefore feels I am covered. Throwers waits until defender turns his back to look at me, and then puts the disc into space. I then time my cut so that only I can reach the disc. Alternatively, if defender checks back ot the thrower, I initiate by cutting. This style allowed us to play as many as 20-25 points per game, and often broke down good defenses/defenders.

Masters champs were VIGI of Japan, who staged a dramatic comeback against OLD SAG of the US, winning by one at the timecap. Tough loss for the boys from Philly. Of the four finals it was the most exciting and featured a flowing game with big plays. Yes people, that is correct: the masters final was much more entertaining (notwithstanding a universal salute rendered to the crowd in the mixed final) than the women's, open, and mixed finals. Another first for ultimate. Credit to the Japanese and also to SAGgy for getting on with play and playing so well. Strangely, because of the draw, the masters played more games, in fewer days, than any other division (!). Overall, the Japanese teams were the revelation of the tournament, taking the open title without a challenge, winning the top three women's spots, and of course the masters. N. American and European ultimate, take note. I firmly believe that observers are beneficial for our game as it is occasionally impossible to know the right call, and these moments can decide games. In the fair-play department, there was overwhelming goodness. Despite that, I witnessed individuals on Canadian masters and mixed teams who did not do their country any favors. This may be specific to Vancouver (hosts of the next WFDF world champs), but I witnessed moments in both masters games and mixed games that were not pretty, including a double-fisted flip-off of a large crowd in the mixed final. Ouch.

I enjoyed aspects of the tournament in which teams gathered after games to share stories, jokes, gifts, etc. We gave out NZ 5-cent coins with a Tuatara on the back, now out of circulation and therefore appropriate for a masters team. When we played eventual winner VIGI, from Japan, I played against tight defense and had 2 or 3 layout grabs just in front of a similarly horizontal defender, a great series of battles for which they awarded me a scroll depicting the Nihonbashi bridge, from which all distances are measured in Japan. Stories were shared in which our respective captains recealled playing each in 1992's world champs in Utsonomiya, and of mutual respect between island nations. So of course I have good memories of that game. Much fun was also had on the sidelines, where Tuatara treated others masters teams and NZ women's teams to home-brewed, inventive and predictably rude versions of the "El Camino" cheer. ("Tu . . .atara, Tu-Tu-atara. Tu . . . atara, Tu-Tu-atara" and it went on like that.)

Got a delightful slice of home when I saw Geir and Sandra in the lobby, totally unexpectedly, of our place in Perth. They were there with Wouter and Sandra and a Dutch mixed team, Red Lights. Spent a couple of days with the Icelandic Stallion and his submissive mare after the tourney, knocking around parts south and checking out fantastic eucalypt forests and coastal stuff involving deep green pools and white sand beaches. It was so great that I wanted to see it all in 2 days so that was a bit trying for Sandra and Geir, they seemed to deal with me fine but undoubtedly high-fived right after I got on the bus. Also saw a fair bit of A Parker, there with Bad Larry, a real treat. Had to go to Perth to see friends from back home!

Ultimyelitis

ultimyelitis: an irritating, inflammatory condition caused by the flight of a flat ball. frisbee-on-the-brain. Peter Tosh describes a related condition in the tune "Reggaemylitis":

Woke up this morning
With a funny funny feelin'
And that feelin'
Was an unusual feelin'

Inna my bone yeah
It inna my blood
Inna my toes
Coming up to my brain

After playing soccer for many years, and alternating casual ultimate (frisbee) with soccer for a few years, in 2003 I joined a masters ultimate team. Old and In the Way has a proud tradition and great camaraderie. I have suffered from ultimyelitis since. At 40-plus, I train harder and with more dedication than ever. Or maybe it just seems that way because the time is more precious now. Last year the team won a National Championship in my third year, after two consecutive losses in the finals. It's borderline trite to say it, but the way the team reacted to the losses, and the glory in 2005, taught me a lot about winning and losing, particularly within the framework of this self-refereed sport we play. The team support, the enthusiasm and dedication to return and practice in the spring and play tournaments, the story-telling, the music, and the laughing, and yes even the occasional hate session in practice, have ingrained into me a new attitude: I know a bit about how good organizations respond to adversity, and how they achieve goals. I have seen the team repair itself from bitter losses, together all the way, and how to weave talents and egos together to achieve an end. I know what victory tastes like, something I return to now and then with a smiling inner satisfaction. Next year I will return to Colorado for the wedding of one of my best mates who talked me into joining the team.

Shortly after season's end, we moved here to NZ. I had hoped the fellows would make the long trip from Colorado to Perth for the WFDF World Club Ultimate Champs in 2 two weeks in time, but it was not to be. So I have joined the Kiwi masters team, Tuatara, for the trip to Perth, and it has worked out great. I now know a new community of players. There are 3 masters players in Dunedin, and 2 women's players, all going to Perth. Our little corps has trained together with dedication through the cold dark winter and now into the spring, and I can now call them a great group of friends. We've traveled to Wellington for three weekend training camps, and are on the cusp of leaving for the tournament in Perth in two weeks time. Before that, in a few hours time and back in the US, OAITW starts its title defense in Florida. I'm not sleeping too well these days--the inflammation is flaring up.

Somebody get me a doctor.

Serious Gamboling

Over the past year, we've encountered plenty of sheep, needless to say, and it's not uncommon to drive slowly around and through a flock whilst out driving on the motorway, as seen in the pic. It's now the lambing season, our first, so we are enjoying seeing the newborn lambs in the countryside. They are so cute and cuddly, and put on weight so delightfully rapidly in order to grace the dinner table after just a few month's growth. Yummy. Clay and I are fans not only of the lambs, but also their chops. Estin and Mary, on the other hand, are fans of only the cute lambs and ewes. Mary deigns to cook lamb because we need to fatten up Clay X, the micro-baby, who devours lamb chops with extreme prejudice. As it happens, Clay's attachment toy is a little fuzzy lamb called "Lammy" or "Choppy" depending on how seriously you are taking things. I doubt that X has made the connection between the darling baby creatures he loves to watch gamboling with their mamas, the favored fuzzy toy that he playfully chews on now and then, and that lamb chop he is voraciously tearing into at dinner. But I have and I secretly find it quite funny.



Choppy and Mono (Estin's pal), sunning after a bath.

Eye to Eye with The Yellow Eye

Adventuring has been a bit thin lately, probably because we are settling in here, and definitely because of winter. But I've been thinking lately, already in fond-memory mode, of an excursion Estin and I took within our first week of arrival last December. The Otago Peninsula is home to seals, albatross, and penguins. We set off on a bike ride out onto the peninsula toward Sandfly Bay, home of the hoiho (Maori; noisy shouter), the Yellow-Eyed Penguin. This is the rarest and most ancient of all penguins. It leaves it's young nesting amongst the tall grass while fishing during the day. Evenings, the adults return and that's a good time to see them emerge from the surf. To get there, Estin and I linked up his Trail-a-Bike to the mountain bike and tackled some serious hills. At the carpark, we dropped the bikes and walked 30 min down the trail and onto the dunes. Bunch of birds on the beach, seaweed, nice coastline, etc. The far side of the bach has a viewing hide from which one can observe the birds. We plop onto the sand for a rest and a snack before making the trek overto teh hide. A few minutes of basking later, Estin says "hey Pop there's penguins on the beach". "Naw, Estin, those are seagulls" (over-excitable child). "No really!" I take a closer look and sure enough, coupla hundreds away, amongst the gulls, there stand a pair of penguins. A delightful moment for a landlubber for whom pengiuns previously existed only in zoos and on TV. There we were, on a warm sunny day, watching penguins waddle up the beach (it should be 50 degrees below zero to see this shouldn't it?). But wait it gets better. We think, hey we'll just head down to that patch of tallgrass and watch them from about 50 yards away. So we hunker down out of view and scramble over to the dune with the grass (newbies don't know that the adults are making their way up into the nesting area to feed the chicks). We carefully and quietly poke our heads up, and damned if we don't come face to face with a penguin, about 5 feet away. S/He doesn't get frigthened, we stay still in awe, the animal is gorgeous. The hoiho and it's partner stop, dry their wings in the air a bit, and continue on their way. While I'm no expert, and am now aware that one should keep considerable distance to avoid disturbing feeding time for the chicks, these animals showed no sign of distress. They moved deliberately and when stopping to dry their wings, were majestic. They were surprisingly agile when climbing the dunes. I was transfixed, and I know the moment was special to Estin because he kept very quiet and still, which has not recurred in the eight months since this event. Because we now know that the hoiho is endangered and needs more space, coming eye to eye with the Yellow Eye is fixed into place as a memorable event that won't happen again.

photo: tourism New Zealand

Where'd the Cheerios go?

My name is Brian, and I have a problem. I feel I must come to grips with it, meet it straight on, wrestle it to the ground. After years of denial and thousands of dollars, things finally came to a head tonight when I went looking for the Cheerios. They weren't there! They had been moved, hidden away. Yes, Mary had to hide the cereal so I couldn't eat my way straight through the baby's stash.

I seem to have a problem. Cereal. Hot or cold, brown or white sugar, sliced banana or none, muesli or Fruit Loops, rice milk or cow's milk. It just has to be cereal. As kids, my brother and I would eat a huge bowl of cereal at breakfast. After school snack was one or two huge bowls, drowning in milk. Bedtime snack? Yep, again. Mom and Dad were able to buy food cheaply at the Army commissary, which was a fair drive, so we'd make a monthly pilgrimage. We eventually got a spare freezer to hold the 20-odd gallons of milk that were hauled home.

I had a fair bit of stomach pain until I was about 33 years old. Most often it was exercise-induced and running/sprinting was the trigger; cycling was okay. I finally quit the milk. As it turns out, humans domesticated cattle about 10,000 years ago, and in all of human history before then, nobody drank milk beyond their breast-feeding years and consequently only babies could digest lactose. 10,000 years later many of us adults still aren't too good at it. Finally I got onto rice milk, the great enabler: my stomach has been great, but the cereal is still there, haunting me. Pouring a bowl is just like taking candy from a baby.

Harry Potter and the Magical Blanket

Estin's reading has really taken off this year, thanks to quality schooling and his own enthusiasm. He's gone from barely reading to really reading: with H Potter, he is now following along and even reading some of the sentences to me. As reading together is the stand-by for Estin and I, so is the story he often gets from mum. Spiderman stories are always requested, and lately the number of rescues Spiderman will undertake is a negotiating point. Spiderman turns out to be rather ordinary off stage, being occasionally prone to bouts of laziness and over-indulgence in ice cream, but that's another story altogether.

For EJ and I, the last couple of years have meant a lot of Harry Potter. We get into other books now and then, but it comes back to HP every time. There are occasional weekend morning readings at home, or midday events in the tent. Our first two weeks in Dunedin, we would even head to the hot tub and have a soak with Harry P. Increasingly, we visit with Harry on the couch in front of the fire. But most of the reading gets done in Estin's bedroom. He uses the electric blanket to warm the bed and then flicks off the heater before climbing in. Me, I go right ahead and jump in too. There is almost no better feeling than my back hitting the toasty warm bed in a chilly room. That electric blanket is truly magical. And off we go with the book.

The Solstice, The Carnival, The Balls of Ice

The solstices have become key family holidays. As the shortest and longest days of the year, they literally represent turning points towards and away from the sun, Mr. Jolly Old Sol hisself. We celebrated the winter solstice a month ago in fine fashion. Dunedin's central area, the Octagon, fills with light and sound at the Mid-Winter Carnival, featuring a parade of lighted figures, festival food, fireworks, and a band. We brought our Flashflight, a light-up frisbee that is a blast to play with at night, and played frisbee on the grass with other kids and folks while the band, Koile, played nice groovy reggae tunes.

Why celebrate the solstice? Let me count the ways . . . we decided our Victorian home with it's airy ceilings was a bit too airy when we started seeing our breath at the breakfast table. Krikey. We then realized that we needed to buck up and heat the place ($ and resource drain as the heating is electric) to get feeling more comfortable in it. At 46 degrees there aren't so many daylight hours in midwinter. We ran out of firewood and got restocked but the new wood is a bit wet-say no more. Last but not least, balls of ice fell from the sky one day. They spilled out the (now decorative only) bedroom fireplace onto the carpet. Technically then, it hailed inside, making the house less weatherproof than our tent. We love the place, it's "sweet as", but goldarnit, balls of ice was rolling around in the bedroom.

Dunedin is known to some as a kind of darkly beautiful city, which is true in some respects and in others not at all. Light bright and beautiful days occur often enough that I wish I was getting out midday in the winter. Nighttime in the Octagon reveals an almost haunting cathedral on the years shortest day (first pic), but the carnival lights (second pic) and the band (third pic) warmed that place right up, and that's exactly what the winter solstice is all about. We also celebrated by getting ourselves up and out into central Otago where it is higher and drier and spaces are bigger, and that was also food for the soul, as well as a weekend trip to Catlins, where I saw frost on the beach for the first time. In all, we've seen planty of fine frosty mornings and are ready for the return of el Sol.

The (Non-Mythical) Forbidden City

Among the many things we seek in this walkabout is a sense of balance that we can impart to our children. We have begun to feel that our home town increasingly resembles the Forbidden City, Zijin Cheng. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forbidden_City) in the sense that commoners are not allowed inside: housing is too expensive. Lacking balance, you might say. IF you've lived in our little FC long enough, or have deep enough pockets, you might own the house that you call home. Otherwise, rent or continue knocking at the gate. Because of wise planning in an earlier age, the FC purchased land and created a greenbelt to buffer against encroaching sprawl. Brilliant. Unexpectedly, the resulting shiny disposition combined with limited housing have driven housing prices through the roof. Now commuters drive into the FC to work--lots of traffic. Not brilliant. Many dwellers from an earlier, funkier era have exited, replaced by high tech wizards. Due in part to the influx of wealth we felt ourselves being drawn into a rat race--lots of people in the FC have big shiny things.

So a primary reason for our NZ walkabout is to experience freedom from Boulder's wealth, have-it-allness, and weary acceptance of congestion. Weekend trips to the mountains need to be planned around traffic avoidance, an insanity. We have now discovered a place where there is no significant automobile traffic. Employers prioritize families in a real way, not in a lip-service way. And so far, there seems to be but a single Forbidden City (Queenstown) in this island nation. On the whole, Kiwis take pride in being a more egalitarian society, so that there is less distance between CEO and plumber. We thought it would be nice to live somewhere where, as some local friends who also hail from the Rocky Mountains said so aptly, not everyone feels compelled to remodel their kitchen. And we remind ourselves that nobody lives in Zijin Cheng these days: it is a museum, a mere statement on a bygone past.

The Shorties: Kid Stuff

_________________________________________________________

Primary among the things we seek in this walkabout is a sense of balance that we can impart to our children. Housing costs in our home town are spiraling into the stratosphere, and kids there are learning to expect a lot: a lot of toys, for example. We felt ourselves getting sucked in. Off balance. We had recently received the gift that is baby Clay Xavier, the X-man, and Mary had not yet returned to work. It was time to get some perspective. Given that we needed perspective on science/work and our lives at home, not to mention the current regime in White House, the time was right: we would pull up stakes and cast off mortgage, telephone and Masa Grill, and seek the renewal outside of the country. A sabbatical, except that I'm not a academic, I'm in industry, which meant walking away from my job. Moving overseas, we knew, would be difficult. We would miss family and friends, and even be forced to leave one of our family members, our aging dog Ayla, home. So after a time of sorting it all out, and that wasn't easy, off we went. _____________________________________________________________
Goofing Off with the Elliots, Cable Bay
__________________________________________________________
It has been fantastic. We've seen a lot of the South Island and had great times, begun to make friendships, and are right now are experiencing a bit of a rough winter spell. We have seen old friends from Auckland on a great summer holiday, and spent lots of time reading and playing with the kids. Although Estin and I had forged a deep bond immediately 7 years ago, I was more distant from Clay, primarily because of my preoccupation, and that disappointed. Slowly, over the past few months here, Clay and I have regained the lost time as the bond grows daily. That in itself is worth it all. In addition, becoming tenants again would free us of the need to watch over the house, landscape, etc. Without these responsibilities and without the network of friends and relatives we have at home, we would be together as a family more often, and have time to run around on weekends together. At the same time, we have removed the baby and his brother from the regular presence of cousins, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and godparents, which is the hardest part about being here. It's so damn far away!
______________________________________________
One Happy Tramper

______________________________________________
Well, the shorties are thriving. Estin has met some challenges in school and done well with them and it's a particular joy to listen to his reading which has improved immensely this year. All the hours we spend together reading, no chore from my perspective, (more on that another time) have resulted in his requests for more and more. Clay has gone from Mr. Grouchy, waking several times a night to sleeping right through the night, Mr. Smiley, and that has enabled Mary to find a job and set herself up with a caregivers network that allows her work time and a wee bit of free time for exercise and meditation with the Surf Yogi. New Zealand puts a high priority on it's shorties, from the government on down to our employers. There are playgrounds and public toilets and kid-friendly campgrounds everywhere, and lots of activites for kids during school holidays.

When we are 80 years of age, we'll tell the stories, and hear new stories if we are lucky. And I hope we can say that we did right by our kids: we taught ourselves, and therefore them, that there is a way out when you are stuck--"son, have yourself a walkabout and see what's out there. Things might end up looking rosy out there or right back here, either way you get a good look around".

________________________________________________________

The Unfolding Thing

A ubiquitous NZ symbol is the Koru, an unfolding fern frond (www.otago.ac.nz/minds/courses.html). The Koru appears in greenstone/pounamu jewelry, in artwork, etc. While any overseas trip has to be about renewal, and while it is borderline-trite to claim it for ourselves, there are many new beginnings here for us. Our baby will learn to walk and talk here. The older boy, Estin, 7, has made new friends and learned to introduce himself as "Easton". MAC has made friends from the UK, from Capetown, and of course lots of home-grown Kiwis, and has exposure to "heaps" of newness at her job with the Dunedin City Council. Work has been a revelation to me, a rediscovery that vocation and avocation can be the same. I've put up a Koru painting in the labs (shown here, a painting by Natasha Tuck) as a bold reminder of that. At home, and especially in wintertime, we need each other as a family as we have few friends and (thankfully) the phone doesn't ring continuously. And that's new for us, having so much in the way of family and friends back home that we grew away from relying on each other. In all, this koru/unfolding thing works pretty good as a symbol for me.

The Ice Cream Man

It’s 5 pm on June 19th, one week until the solstice. The ice cream man doodles by, broadcasting his merry tune. All good, yes? Well, not exactly, something’s gone awry. At 46 degrees south, we are talking WINTER solstice. It’s dark outside, 35 degrees F, and there’s snow on the hills around town. Hmmm. I’m out schlepping around wet firewood wearing full winter gear and a headlamp while a stiff breeze blows in from Antarctica. Still, the ice cream man brings on that jingle we associate with the sultry nights of summer. It’s a cruel trick. Is this ice cream-in-winter thing a testament to Kiwi hardiness (“Insulation? In houses, you say?”), or is the man serving hot chocolate?

The Green Myth

EN-Zed’s clean/green image is mythical. Yes, the rivers run clear and yes there is pristine wilderness, yes there is minimal traffic and air pollution except in 2-3 cities, and yes New Zealanders have disavowed and disallowed nuclear submarines and genetically modified foods. However, much of Aotearoa'’s cleanliness and greenliness is an accidental by-product of low population density. Most of the native forest is gone, a process initiated by Maori and drastically accelerated by the Europeans. Favorite pastimes often involve fuel and engines, such as farm bikes, 4-wheeling, and adrenaline sports including jet-boating and sky-diving. In homes, insulation is not used, and the preferred method of heating many (most?) Dunedin homes is firewood, and many people even burn coal, which produces acrid smoke. On still winter days, a smoky haze hangs over the city. On summer days when the wind blows hard from the north, sea water at the local beach becomes contaminated from the sewage outfall pipe, which is currently being relocated further off shore. Batteries are thrown in the trash, as is common in the USA but unheard of in Europe, where folks understand the impact of heavy metals in the water supply. Many Kiwis appreciate the gift they hold and want to regrow native forests, maintain air and water quality, etc. Population pressure will eventually force the issue, as has happened in Europe and to a lesser extent in the USA. I hope that changes are made here (protection of water/air quality, improved public transport, etc) before that point is reached. Jared Diamond's Collapse has made me acutely aware that, beyond esthetics, a given society’s survival depends heavily on shepherding it’s resources. Given Kiwi awareness, and government ability to mandate change, New Zealand can emerge into reality as a truly “green” nation when the challenge of population pressure is felt nationwide, not just in Auckland.

The Ingenuity Myth

Okay, this isn’t a myth, it's real. Kiwis are always running around fixing stuff. MacGyver was a closet Kiwi. One needs those skills when a new one either isn’t available, it costs an arm and 2 legs, or it takes 6 weeks to arrive. So one finds another solution. I just took a First Aid course. For splinting broken bones, do you think high-falutin' air splints are used? Nope, cardboard works great. The common and passe reference to #8 wire, used in fencing for sheep paddocks, refers to the gazillions of repairs made with it. Kiwis are self-reliant, practical, and take care of gear. It is not uncommon to see vehicles for sale that have 200,000+ miles on them, and they appear to be in good condition, unlike my truck back home. That truck's rust and wobbly condition would not make a Kiwi proud, nor would the fact that I had to take it into the shop just to repair a short in the brake light. Kiwis understand electricity and would fix that at home. However, if I "had a go" at that, I'd probably be sporting a pair of entry/exit wounds from electrical shock, just as they were described in that First Aid course.

The Mythical Tramping Track

We have been befriended by a work colleague, a renaissance man who is former head of Dunedin Search and Rescue, an experienced mountaineer in these parts and in parts abroad, an electronics engineer and flamenco guitarist who built a home that evokes the comfortable and communal feel of our Tenth Mountain huts back home. I was lucky to be invited on a trip into the hinterland with he and his 18-year old son Robert, knowing I would be in good hands and seeing things that one just doesn't get to see on a Great Walk. Because this web-log isn't meant to out the people we know, suffice it to say that this man's initials are B.R.U.C.E. P.A.R.T.R.I.D.G.E. We were to sleep at a hut one night, climb onto a ridge and traverse high across glacier and mountainside, drop down to a high saddle overlooking Milford Sound, traverse across another peak, and drop down again through a place called Gifford's Crack (watch the moss!), bivy under an enormous boulder. The next day we would saunter over and pick up a track, heading jauntily down the creek and thusly to the car. After battling the cheeky keas (gorgeous and bold mountain parrots that will leave with your mustache if you're not careful) for possession of the stove, we got a nice start and had a beautiful clear day, as B.R.U.C.E. put it, an "absolutely cracking day". The climb up onto the ridge was a bit grunty; from that perch I looked down between my toes to the road below (pic). We then climbed free up a steep ridge, put on crampons and summited a minor peak. After lunch we headed onto the glacier, crossing a snow bridge at the end that provided some extra interest for me (pic). Then over a ridge, descending snow, ice, and rock to the saddle below, a perch from where we could see down into Milford Sound. We looked at our route across to Gifford's Crack, looked at the sinking sun, and decided we wouldn't be sleeping under that rock but on the ridge instead--a good decision. Our progress had been a weeee bit slower than expected, a hint that the weekend might become slightly extended, heh heh. It had been a fantastic day of rock and ice and crystal clear vistas. After some hunting we found reasonable bivy sites (pic), cooked up dinner, and watch the sun sink into the West, lighting up Milford Sound with beautiful light, curious in that the yellow light lay only as a band across the horizon below a deepening azure sky (pics, top and below). A nice reward for our days work. Next day we were up and away with bars for breakfast, knowing a long day awaited. We immediately spent time route-finding, realizing after getting it figured out that we needed to decide whether to bail and take a 2 hour stroll down to the hut or a long day around on the planned route. Live large, or live small. Well, you only live once, whatever the size. We kept going. Around the mountain, down Gifford's crack, sometimes using the tussock as the only available handholds, then a late lunch in the sun, a hello to Lake South America and the rock bivy that was our intended night's stay, and on towards the track that would take us 5K to the car. No worries. Time twisted and stretched out before us as we wound our way around a lake in fantastically beautiful terrain. Oopsie--between us and that track now lay a bog and an enormous, hillocky, rubble-strewn area that was clearly swarming with orcs. Our goal became to reach the established track before dark, and we would then head down using our torches (flashlights). Well, we did it--made the track at dark, that is. However, we discovered that the "track" . . . wasn't. Long disused, the former track was now overgrown, boggy in one place, steep and pitted in others, having sunken into the stuff of legend. As a heavy dew settled, we beat our way along the "track" through masses of vegetation that drenched our pantses. In places the track had eroded back to big drop-off steps and the grasses would mask these steps. In other places one might step between grasses through 3 feet of air and then to the ground below, a so-called "hole". So the three of us proceeded down the track in the dewy dankness of it all, the leader lurching onward with a litany of "rock", "hole", and "step" to warn the others. Many side trails were visited. We went squelching right straight through a bog. On one occasion, W.E. even got turned right around and headed straight back up the trail. The temptation to stop and bivvy again was skirted as Hicke had not alerted MAC of the possibility of spending an extra night, and knew that she would either rejoice or worry excessively, either being bad--so we would get to the car, drive 2 hours and phone home around 10p. Hmmm--we finally stumbled across two swinging bridges (pic) and reached the car at 3:30 am, a walk/climb of some 21 hours with minimal stops for food and water. The body is capable of a lot more than one supposes. Despite the mythical track, or maybe because of it, it was a memorable weekend and one that I, B.R.I.A.N., would never trade away.