Kicking Mad

Kemp 2.0 was having a good dance the other day, so we tried to capture it on video. It's a very weird thing to watch. Actually, it sometimes feels a little violent. I think our child is angry about something.

I'm assuming it's something to do with the fact that Sarah Palin is suggesting she has foreign policy experience just because she's from Alaska, even though she didn't even have a US passport until 2007. It angers him. He wonders how McCain can claim he's a reformer when he's voted with George Bush 90% of the time. He tells me that seven of McCain's top officials were Washington lobbyists. Not one or two. Seven! That's an abuse of access. At least, that's what our unborn son thinks. In fact, he can't think of anything the Republicans have done successfully in the last eight years. Abroad, we're less safe and less respected than we've ever been; at home, we can't afford to buy gas, we're losing our homes, and we're lied to by our own government: whether it's Alberto Gonzalez abusing the office of the Attorney General to hire US attorneys that shared his political views; or the warrantless wiretapping of US citizens by the National Security Administration; or Colin Powell providing the UN Security Council with concrete proof of Iraq's (nonexistent) weapons of mass destruction; or the vindictive and intentional outing of CIA operative Valerie Plame because of her husband's refusal to continue repeating the same lies; or Donald Rumsfeld's public rebuke of Eric Shinseki, the Chief of Staff of the US Army, for suggesting the war in Iraq would require several hundred thousand soldiers to be executed properly. Abu Ghraib. Habeas corpus. Guantanamo. Lost White House emails. Halliburton contracts. As I write this, the Iraq War has cost US taxpayers $582,977,000,000 (http://zfacts.com/p/447.html). In total, there have been 4173 US military deaths, 444 coalition contractor deaths, almost 200 journalists are dead, and countless tens of thousands of Iraqis (http://icasualties.org/oif/Default.aspx).

Our unborn son is wondering why there's a choice at all.

We're supposed to be the richest country in the world, but our citizens are more likely to be incarcerated (a staggering 2.3 million, or 0.76% of the US population is in jail [http://www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs/prisons.htm]), or likely to die by firearm (rates of firearm-related death for children in the US are 16-times higher than that of 25 other industrialized nations combined [http://www.cdc.gov/MMWR/preview/mmwrhtml/00046149.htm]), or refused access to health care (in 2007, 16.4% of those over 65, and 9% of those under 18 had no health insurance [http://www.cdc.gov/nchs/fastats/hinsure.htm]) than any other "wealthy" industrialized nation on the planet. Those sources, our unborn son would like to point out, are all government agencies.

And McCain wonders why Obama's talk about hope, however vague it might be, seems so attractive.

This is just what our unborn son thinks. Here he is kicking his mom's belly, trying to make his point.

Us, though? We're undecided.

Thinking Ahead ...

The other morning, we were sitting in bed and slowly starting our day. This is one of the many small pleasures of New Zealand. Things move slowly here. If we want to, we can sit in bed, drink coffee and read a book in the morning as the sun streams through the windows.

And so, a couple of days ago, Emeline was looking at a picture book our midwife left us, which follows pregnancy from conception to birth. When she got to this page, showing the birth, she said two words:

"Oh God."

Monsters of the Deep

As Emeline mentioned, after escaping a spirited seal pup attack, we went fishing last weekend. I stood on the slippery rocks, flinging a lead weight out into the chop, my line baited with a chicken heart. And this is what I caught. What a monster! It's some kind of wrasse, I think, maybe a banded wrasse.

Assuming it didn't meet the size requirements for keeping fish, I decided to throw it back. This idea had merit with my pregnant yogi wife, for not altering the planet's Ch'i, or energy flow, too much. So I took a step toward the pounding waves, lost my footing, and got stabbed in the hand by a spiny dorsal fin, all while my arm was beginning the arc that would return this fearsome beast to the sea. Instead, it flew straight up in the air. And then landed on the rocks about three feet away with a very dissatisfying thud. It bounced once on the rocks (quite high, I thought, for a fish), before landing in the sea.

On its side. Completely Ch'i-less.

I tried to convince Emeline that it was resting.

Unless she was crying with happiness, I don't think she believed me.

Tiny terror

This past weekend, I witnessed one of the funniest things I've seen in a long time. I thought I'd tell all of you about it.

The weather has been lovely in Dunedin for the past few weeks and Chris and I are making sure to take advantage of it. Over the weekend, we decided to drive up to Aramoana to take in some sun and fresh sea air. I was prepared to soak in the sun while Chris was prepared to go fishing - but I'll leave that story for him to tell.

Aramoana, as Chris has mentioned before, means "pathway to the sea" in Maori. As you walk along Aramoana spit, it's literally a pathway to the sea. Giant rocks line the jagged edges of the pathway while remnants of an old wharf or ancient railway ties or something like that lie under foot. At the very end of the spit, there is some sort of large metal landmark, possibly something to warn boats about this piece of land that juts out into the sea. Other than that, it just ends. I imagine that if I drew a line from the end of the spit, the first thing I would hit would be Chile.


One time, while walking to the end of the spit, we saw a few adult fur seals amongst the rocks sunning themselves in the sun. Chris thinks that they're ugly, but I think they look like bears with no ears. Or furry and cuddly sausages.

This past weekend, as I waddled along Aramoana spit, I looked ahead and shouted to Chris, "Look, there's a stray dog! Or ... actually ... um ... oh, it's a seal pup!" Lo and behold, it was a fur seal pup! We only concluded that from far away because as the pup scooted along the same path as us, we noticed that it's "feet" were joined in the back ... not feet, but seal flipper feet instead. Oh! This pup was so cute. If I thought the adults were cute, you should have seen this pup! It had such a small, furry face but giant cutesy black eyes.


As we approached the pup (we had to pass it so that we could get to the end of the spit - the best place to fish) I started to get a bit nervous. Maybe even a little scared. This pup, though, was only about as big as a puppy - 2 feet or so. I made sure that Chris passed it before me (I can't waddle that fast. You know, in case the pup isn't so cute and cuddly?) Anyway, Chris was so engrossed in taking photos of this pup that while he was passing it, this innocent little animal suddenly starts to walk towards Chris ... and then starts to CHASE him! Ahhh! I got so scared, I pulled out my camera and took a picture of the pup chasing Chris. ha ha ha!!!


Can you believe it? It was hissing at him! It was trying to chase him! Chris, armed with his fishing pole, started running away from this seal pup!

Okay, I have to admit, I was a bit scared even when it was my turn to pass the pup (who didn't hiss at me, by the way.) But I couldn't help but laugh as well. My poor husband being chased by a seal pup. What a scene.

When we walked back to our car, we had to pass the pup. Luckily for Chris, it was happily and peacefully sunning itself on some rocks. I think Chris was prepared to strike this time. He learned his lesson. (ETK)

Baby Lump

Socks!

We've now reached a special point in the pregnancy. As the weeks pass, we get a good sense of how big Kemp 2.0 is from the books and websites we've been reading: first he's the size of a plum; then a lemon; a beefsteak tomato; or a grapefruit. Right now he's a bag of sugar. The growth of our baby is mysterious and mostly hidden from us. The lump is a symptom, and the growth is unseen.

But we've now reached a landmark that's concrete: Emeline can't put her socks and shoes on anymore! Every day, she points her toes out and I pull her socks on for her. And then I tie her shoelaces. From most angles, she doesn't even look all that pregnant. And then that belly!

After a shoes-to-flip-flops change before a walk on the beach last week, I got up from untying Emeline's shoes and saw a couple standing by their car and looking down at me with pity, obviously wondering if I was being held captive.

But I'm not.

I'm just practicing my socks and shoelaces skills.

Carnivalia

Over here in New Zealand, we're really missing the carnivalia of the election season back home. Obama. McCain. Palin. The other guy. It's so exciting. And, at the same time, it's so ridiculous. Did Obama call Palin a pig? (No, he didn't). Is Palin obstructing justice in Alaska? (Apparently, yes). Fortunately, we have our own election brewing here. Oh joy. Carnivalia. The next few months are likely to be quite a big deal. So, here are the players.

Helen Clark: She's a Brick House.


Sporting some phenomenal equine dentistry, Clark is the incumbent. She's been the prime minister of New Zealand since 1999. Despite being a woman, Clark somehow manages to straddle the gender issue by closely resembling a man. This might sound unkind but I think it's made it much easier for men to vote for her. She's an imposing woman with a deep manly voice. There is absolutely nothing feminine about her. She could benchpress Sarah Palin. Clark represents the Labor Party, whose policies tend toward the socialist. Of course, terms like socialist are relative: compared to New Zealand's version of working socialism, even the most liberal, left-wing members of the United States Congress look like Stalin. Under Clark's helm, New Zealand has introduced child tax credits, increased the minimum wage, introduced 14-weeks of paid parental leave, and legalized civil unions. Abortions are legal, crime has dropped significantly, and we remain nuclear-free. She does seem, however, to be a little out of touch with the concerns of New Zealanders, as food, house and gas prices soar, and the fluctuations on Wall Street are felt here every day, and violent crime seems to be bubbling up in the inner cities (all four of them).

John Key: The Smiling Assassin.


John Key is a member of parliament, and the leader of the opposition. He heads the National Party. He earned millions -- perhaps as much as $2.25million a year -- as Merrill Lynch's global head of foreign exchange. Apparently, he earned his nickname The Smiling Assassin there. Key's National Party is New Zealand's conservative party, which really doesn't mean much compared to the US or England. For instance: He wants to reduce New Zealand's greenhouse gas emissions by 50% in fifty years; and he wants to provide free food to schools with the poorest children. If Facebook is a reliable meter, his Facebook page has 5776 supporters, to Clark's 2357. (Give us a break, there are less than 5-million of us here.) But he does seem to lean on some of those tired traditional conservative ideas that generate fear in the electorate in order to win votes. For instance: he's tough on crime; he wants to change immigration policies (the Asians are taking our jobs); he wants to privatize some state run institutions, etc. People here are dissatisfied (or just have Clark fatigue) and Key wants to capitalize. He strikes me as a very very rich man who thinks that success in the marketplace guarantees him success in running a government. In this respect, he's Republican to the core, both to the extent that he believes in applying business principles to government and the extent to which he's wrong.

Winston Peters: The Crazy Fox.


I'm not sure where to begin with Winston Peters. He is an enigma. He has no peers. He has no US equivalent. Peters has been in New Zealand politics since 1975. The founder of the New Zealand First party, Peters is the Foreign Affairs Minister in Helen Clark's coalition proportional representation government. Amusingly enough, there are several Winston-centric Facebook groups: There's the Winston Peters for Prime Minister group, with 39 members, the Winston Peters Appreciation Group, with a staggering 16 members, and the I-Continue-to-Love-and-Support-Winston Peters group, with 17 members. And the name of that last groups speaks volumes. Peters is currently embroiled in an ugly dirty corruption scandal. He's one of those politicians who, even when faced with damning evidence, will stand in front of the camera and assert his complete innocence, like a baby with chocolate smeared all over his face who denies eating an entire chocolate cake. There's something pathological about it. Slimy. He's been hounded lately by allegations that he received $100,000 from a wealthy businessman to fund a legal battle against a political opponent. Politicians are supposed to relinquish gifts over $500. But rather than relinquish it, he phoned up the businessman to ask for more money. He has an annoying habit of holding up a sign with NO printed on it. There are so many allegations against him that he carries this sign everywhere, press conferences, televised interviews, even at airports.

Then he says, "NO means NO," all the time.

And I think he'll keep saying it until the election.

Wow!

The baby lump grows every day. It's growing so quickly that I sometimes think I can hear poor Emeline creaking as she expands. Her stomach is now roughly the size of a soccer ball. In fact, if I hide a soccer ball under my T-shirt, we look identical in profile. According to various online sources, Pancake is now sensitive enough to light that, if you shine a light on Emeline's baby lump, he turns his head to find out where the light is coming from. Isn't that amazing? We're trying to teach him about good music, because he can hear that too.

Little Dead Crab

Kemp 2.0

Here's a brand new photo of our healthy growing baby boy, aged 25-weeks and change. I hope you can make some important things out. Maybe take a step away from screen, it seems easier to see him that way. You should be able to see his mouth and his nose, and his right eye. He looks like he's lost in deep thought. Some of the rest of his face is obscured by goopy weird pregnancy things. Or maybe he's smoking a cigarette. Look, we're not sure, okay?

Interestingly enough, John McCain called Kemp 2.0 today to ask if he'd be his running partner. Can you believe that guy? Apparently, being conceived in New Zealand and having an American-Filipino mom and an English dad gives him some impressive foreign policy experience.

Maybe that's what the little guy is mulling over.

Mmmmmmmmuttonbird

I finally got a chance to taste well-prepared muttonbird last week. Muttonbird is a seabird that lives on a chain of rugged and isolated island that sit to the south of New Zealand. They are harvested every April and May and only by people who can prove through their lineage that they have a right to harvest their share of muttonbirds. Sometimes you can find fresh muttonbird but it's also pretty common to find it salted, as a traditional way of preserving it for a long time so it can be eaten months later.

One of the local grocery store chains, Pak N Sav, has recently started stocking muttonbird in the meat section, next to the corned beef and the lunch meat. The carcass looks flat, pale and greasy and reminds me a little of duck. For $14.95 each, muttonbirds aren't exactly a bargain.

This muttonbird pasta I ate was on the menu at a local place called Plato. It was delicious, unusual and satisfying. It's a dark meat, with all the greasy chewy complex flavor of duck, but it also tasted strongly of the sea. I think this muttonbird was salted, for sure, because its flesh was so salty but, even so, every mouthful was filled with the briny and fishy flavor of the sea. Like concentrated sea flavor, crossed with duck, on pasta.

Mmmmmmm.

I think.

Aramoana

About 15-miles north of Dunedin, there are some beautiful stretches of coastline at Aramoana, which is Maori for pathway to the sea. One of our favorite beaches is there, a thin curving wedge of white sand, pounded constantly by gleaming breakers that dump drifts of long spiral shells onto the sand. The beach is only about 50-feet wide at high tide, bordered on the other side by a wall of tall dunes that seem to gather and store the noise of the waves until it's the only sound that can be heard. It's a beautiful and peaceful place.

Emeline and I go there every chance we get, and look out over the flat calm of the South Pacific, uninterrupted from here to Chile.

If you struggle to the top of the dunes, which takes a while on the shifting sands, and turn your back on the sea, you find yourself looking out over acres and acres of salt mudflats. The mudflats are a delicate and fragile ecosystem, which supports some species found in few other places. Vehicles aren't allowed on them. Signs are clearly posted.

Unfortunately, one of the species found here is the human. Last weekend, I watched a group of kids who thought it was a blast to drive as fast as they could across the mudflats; or in tight circles, with some of their friends sitting on the top of the car, as you can see in this video and in a couple of photos below. Decades of growth were destroyed in moments. It makes me sad. I watched them for 20-minutes or so, hoping they'd get bored before I did.

They didn't.

Pancakes for Pancake

Graduation Day!

Sometimes you really need to be reminded that you're living in another country. Their streets look like our streets, and their apples taste like our apples. A couple of weeks ago, on a Saturday afternoon, we attended the graduation ceremony of a friend. Public events like these are great reminders. The pomp and circumstance have a particular flavor to them. The ceremony took place in the solid town hall building downtown and was convened with an address in Maori by a professor wearing traditional Maori costume over his robes. We sang the national anthem, alternating between Maori and English verses.

(Emeline and I moved our jaws up and down, chewing the cud, in time to the music.)

When a doctor was given an honorary degree, some members of his family stood up and did a haka. A haka is a traditional Maori dance and it involves a lot of shouting and chanting, facial expressions and movements that tell a story. From high up in the balcony, three of them chanted and stuck their tongues out to celebrate this man who had spent a life in public service. It just shattered the drowsy quiet of the graduation ceremony. I think plenty of old people had been sleeping as the names were called out, expecting a nudge in the ribs when their niece or nephew or granchild began to walk. Instead the calm was ruptured with a haka. Look at how startled they all look, like deer in the headlights!

It was a liberating thing to watch.