No Shoes ... Service!

What's wrong with this picture?

If you said that the boy in the white shirt isn't using the scoop to pick out his dried fruit mix, you're wrong.

HE ISN'T WEARING SHOES.

Yes, no shoes. Oh and his friend also is not wearing shoes. Luckily, Chris had his camera with him while we were food shopping at the supermarket. I've been itching to post about this barefoot phenomenon, but I had to gather photographic evidence so that you would believe me.

It's quite a conundrum. It seems as if the style in New Zealand, well at least in Dunedin, is for young people to abandon their shoes. It's still quite warm outside, so it's perfectly reasonable to wear flip-flops (or jandals as they call them). I can't figure it out, really.

And it's not just the bright young men who are walking around sans shoes, it's the young women. I can't quite distinguish whether it's just the Kiwis who go shoeless or if it's a phenomenon that spans nationalities?

What's even more disturbing is that the shoelessness is not only reserved for supermarkets. You can walk down the busy city streets on any given day and see people without shoes. In my opinion, it's a) gross, b) dangerous, and c) gross. There are bits of glass, gum (or chuddy as they call it), trash, cigarette butts, you name it in the streets and yet the shoeless do not seem to notice. We even saw some guys running the GutBuster (see previous post) without shoes!

Even more funny is that it's not forgetfulness or like there was an emergency and you had to leave your house so quickly that you go shoeless. These people are walking around for long periods of time without shoes. How do I know? Their feet are stained black with dirt! Take a look:

Okay, so this isn't the best photo of dirty black feet. But at least you can see that a third shoeless boy has decided to join his mates in a leisurely day of food shopping. Magic! (ETK)

Land of the Long White Cloud

The Maoris call New Zealand Aotearoa, which can be translated in English to Land of the Long White Cloud. It's a beautiful image really. We really didn't know what it meant until we'd already been here for a few weeks. In Dunedin, the clouds are everywhere. Like a constantly changing and unpredictable dimension to the city, they gather everywhere, form quickly, hide parts of the city, change shape, break up, and then disappear again. It's as if the city is evolving and changing all the time. Maps are useless here.

This photo is taken from our house, looking across the Wakari valley toward Dunedin. Do you see the thick white band of cloud?




Sometimes we drive from bright sunlight into a thick rolling bank of clouds. I hold my breath.

Half the time, clouds hide the top of Mount Cargill, which rises into the sky north of Dunedin like a bright green cone. It disappears. In fact, when we first flew in over Dunedin, the only thing we could see (although we didn't know then what we were looking at) was the top of Mount Cargill, its television transmitter sticking up mysteriously through the carpet of clouds below it.

Sometimes, in the afternoons, when the temperatures start to drop, clouds move in from the sea and fill all the valleys, marching into the mouth of the harbor, slipping over the city. It happens so quickly, you can sit and watch the clouds advancing, across roads, swallowing up cars, houses, and schools full of dirty foul-mouthed little feral children (it's true). It's like a bad 1950s B-movie: Attack of the Killer Clouds!!

Last Wednesday, we walked across Logan Park by the university to our second wine appreciation class (French, Italian, and Spanish: It was a frenzy). Between one part of town and another was a huge white solid-looking wedge of cloud. Immovable. It was like a building.



I've watched the clouds gather a couple of times now, filling the cooling valleys that sit between the sunny hills, and it always reminds me of scenery clouds being brought on stage, sliding smoothly into place on well-lubricated pulleys. Yesterday, we sat in our living room and watched a thunderstorm pass across the Wakari valley. Afterward, the sun came out, and between the trees on the hill below us, just behind our backyard, the clouds were rolling and churning and moving so quickly that they looked more like smoke. Ten minutes later, they were gone.

I suspect witchcraft of some kind. Maybe the neighbors, who seem to watch the TV 20-hours a day. Emeline thinks, perhaps, Hobbits are responsible. (ck)

Our Grill.

No joke ... this is a photo of the grill that sits on the deck outside. Capt' n Cook. Get it? (ck)

Wine Tasting in Central Otago

We've just spent three days in central Otago, tasting wine in searing autumn temperatures, standing in wineries, just feet away from rows of plump grapes ripening on the vine, swilling pinot noirs and chardonnays and pinot gris and reislings and sauvignon blancs around our mouths, squirting them between our teeth, gurgling them noisily over our palates to oxygenate them, and then, always, without fail, without even thinking, 'But it's not even 11 o'clock in the morning yet,' swallowing them with a gulp.

Then pausing with a practiced air, our heads cocked to one side, as if listening very carefully to something in the distance, while we pretend to appreciate the afterfinish.

And then driving half a mile down the road to the next winery. And repeating. And then driving a little farther and doing it again. And again. As the sun climbs higher. All day.

Driving through the goldfields, along tight dusty passes that thread between imposing mountains, next to deep gorges cut by cataracts of bright blue, glacier-fed rivers, to the next winery, with its well-tended vines looking in the distance like a green tabletop, half-hidden by the peaks, made pale by the early morning mist.

Heaven. (ck)

A Road Trip!

So, a little primer on Dunedin: It's a (usually) rainy city on the east cost of the south island of New Zealand, settled in the mid-1800's by a bunch of crazy Scots who, although very far from home, had somehow managed to wash ashore in a place that looked just like Scotland. Gold was found in the remote hills of central Otago in the 1860s, and Dunedin sprung up almost overnight, funded by the sudden wealth, which explains some of the imposing, solid-looking and completely over-the-top Gothic revival architecture here. They likes they gargoyles.

Anyhoo, we sit behind a modest harbor, formed by a little infolding in the coast. Stretching away from us to the northeast and jutting out into the cold Pacific is the Otago peninsula, a rumpled and windy place. There are no gas stations out there. Plenty of people live on the peninsula, but they've found a way to live that doesn't impact the wildlife and there's penguins, albatross, sea lions and whale sightings. Here it is.



You see? So, yesterday, with our new (to us) wheels, Emeline and I headed out to the peninsula, on a road with sharp hairpin turns and absolutely nothing stopping you from driving straight into the sea. We visited Larnach Castle, the only castle in New Zealand. It's amazing that this wilderness, and also this crazy castle perched on top of it, sits just 20-minutes away from where we live. The views were amazing. Here's Emeline, banished to the tower for making jokes about Hobbits on the tour.




And then, driving back to Dunedin along the hill road, with a storm blowing in from the sea, we stopped for a moment in one of the windiest place I've ever been. (ck)

A New Family Member

I suspect we might end up calling him Squeaky, or The Gurgler. He's 14-years-old, and teenagers can be temperamental. (ck)

Don't Drink and Fry!

New Zealand is a drinking culture, which is hardly surprising when you consider just how much wine is produced here. Even so, we're constantly surprised by the level of drinking. On St Patrick's Day, we stood outside the central library at 5pm and watched a very drunk student stagger past us down the street at an angle that defied physics. Dressed in green, and squinting into the sun, he stumbled around like a cowboy in an old Western movie who'd taken a slug to the gut. The entire town was drunk.

In fact, there's someone here at the university whose responsibilities include hosing the vomit from outside the Medical School every Monday morning. Imagine what it looked like the morning after St Patrick's Day! It looked like it had been raining pizzas! Deep-pan, too. If aliens visited Dunedin, their report would conclude that St Patrick's Day celebrations involve regurgitating on street corners.

So many people go home after a night at the pub, cook themselves a midnight snack, fall asleep, and then die in house fires that there's a new safety campaign on TV. It has the slogan: Don't drink and fry.

In the central Otago valley, just an hour or so west of Dunedin, grape vines grow in ordered rows all over the hillsides. Order from disorder. Some of the world's best pinot noirs are made there. This long Easter weekend, Emeline and I are planning to drive there (in our new {to us} car) to sample some of them (because we can't afford to buy a bottle). Last night we got into the spirit (hah!) of things by attending our first wine appreciation class, offered through the university. At the start of the class, the instructor (hilarious, red-nosed man) made us stand and repeat an oath, which gave thanks to Bacchus, god of wine, and included promises never to drink from plastic and to attend as many wine frenzies as possible. It was a blast. It was a frenzy. Here's a photo I took of Emeline after the class. (ck)

Coffee.

Coffee.

It’s the stuff of life, isn’t it? It brings people together. It enables conversation. It makes you smile. It makes any day just a bit brighter, better, happier.

So, why is it so difficult to get a good cup of coffee here?

Chris and I have encountered this dilemma in other countries, being served instant coffee frappes, overwhelmed with foams, creams, and everything else but coffee. So why are we experiencing this in the country that we’ve decided to temporarily call home?

Let me see … they have flat white,short black, long black, cappuccinos with cocoa powder sprinkled on top? It’s difficult enough that I can’t understand what they’re saying half the time, but now I have to interpret their coffee choices? We haven’t found a single place that sells a regular cup of Joe. Poor Chris has tried to order coffee and you should hear him: “Can I have a regular coffee? Just a plain coffee? With cream? I mean milk. Just a coffee, you know, like a filter coffee? “ Imagine an exasperated and non-caffeinated Chris. They seem to like the French press coffee here. Chris isn’t so taken with it. In fact, he’s decided that we shouldn’t buy coffee for the French press that we have at home because it makes him not look forward to coffee. What’s happening!!! When the first cup of coffee tastes like washing up, you know he’s losing it. We’re looking to buy a coffee maker online. It’s sad. We often dream about that endless cup of coffee that you could get at places like Sitwells (or most places in the US).

So, like we’ve done in the past, we decided to visit our local Starbucks. You know why? We’ve decided that Starbucks is the standard. No matter where you go in the world, you know what you’re getting. At least it’s a good place to start.

I’ve saved a warm place in my heart for Starbucks. Where I last worked, my co-workers/friends and I visited Starbucks daily, if not twice daily. Yes, I know I could have saved my daily coffee money and put it into an IRA or something useful like that. But why would want to I miss out on the daily coffee train? The coffee breaks that Susan and I would take just before we had to do weekly Culture Room checks? How about the free coffee that my bosses would buy? And maybe Jack would take us into the FCC for a half eaten donut or bagel? Or when you would go for coffee and know that Tim or Caryl had already gone for coffee because the brains were lit up? We knew we were daily Starbucks coffee drinkers because the Starbucks baristas knew us by name, or by nickname (Larry), or would know if we already came by that morning and were now re-caffeinating ourselves for the afternoon. We knew their names. We knew when they bought new cars. When you went to Starbucks and bought a coffee for a friend, those Starbucks baristas could even tell who ordered it! I can even remember everyone’s drink-of-choice: Tim, Katrina, and Jenny ordered Americanos, Susan ordered grande (often venti in the afternoon) decaf black, Caryl often ordered chai because she doesn’t prefer coffee, last I remembered Jack was on a non-fat mocha kick but in the summer he gets iced coffee light on ice please, Kathy ordered the most complicated coffees, Nate would drink anything that was free, Brian had his usual, and Michelle would always change it up. As of late, I ordered non-fat cappuccinos.

And that’s what I order at my Starbucks here. It makes me think of my friends and all of our fun times, but also because … I simply can’t figure out what kind of coffee to order here. (ETK)

Food!

We've had some interesting meals since we arrived. So far, we haven't eaten anything we regretted. For some reason, there's a ton of Cambodian places near work, where you can eat noodles for a cheap lunch. In New Zealand, lamb is cheap and available. A couple of weeks ago, as we landed at the airport, we could see fields and fields of sheep ... thousands of sheep standing in the rain, waiting patiently for me to eat them.

In fact, at the 24-hour convenience store a block from where we work you can buy a bag of chips and a takeout lamb shank for $6NZ (about $5US). The person at the register will select a nice meaty lamb shank, rub it around in the thick dark sauce in the pan, and throw it in a paper bag for you to take home.




And sausages! Sausages galore! Sausages everywhere! At the grocery store, there's a dizzying selection of sausages. There are chipolatas, bratwursts, frankfurters, Irish bangers, battered sausages, chorizos, saveloys, cheese and onion sausages, smoked sausages, pre-cooked sausages, gluten-free sausages, soy protein sausages, chicken sausages, turkey and beef sausages, venison sausages, and oddly, if you look in this photo, you'll see a pack of Purplos, or purple sausages. Purple sausages. Seriously, who doesn't want to eat purple sausages?




Finally: The muttonbird. I haven't eaten one yet. It's on my to-do list. As far as I understand, the muttonbird is a local species of seabird. It's also called the short-tailed shearwater. It lives in tunnels underground here on the South Island, which makes it very vulnerable to predation. It's a legally protected species and can only be harvested by the indigenous Maoris. People who apply for a permit have to prove their lineage before they're given access to breeding areas. Muttonbird isn't widely for sale and isn't too easy to find. Apparently, there are a few restaurants in Invercargill, a couple of hours south, that serve it. Grocery stores in predominantly Maori areas sell it too. At some point, I might have to make friends with a Maori and convince him/her to stick his/her hand down a muttonbird tunnel. Once cooked, it supposedly tastes and smells very fishy, and the meat has a very oily texture. Supposedly, the harvest season is approaching, when Maoris harvest the chicks from tunnels, boil them, chop them in half, rub them in salt and vacuum-pack them for long-term storage. Erm, yummy? (CK)

Strange Dunedin Sights #2

Stray, um, chickens. I saw these two roosters strutting around the front yard of a poorly-maintained house that sits between the bus stop and our house. A coworker has assured me that stray chickens are not common. In the newspaper classifieds, people advertise egg-laying hens for $10 each all the time. We're even thinking of buying a couple. (CK)

We survived!

Emeline finished in first place and I finished second.

Kidding.

This thing, this hill, it's steep. (CK)

Quick Update

Later today we'll take part in the Gutbuster, an annual footrace up and then back down Baldwin Street, the steepest street in the world. Here's a photo I found online that shows how steep it is. The street is only 350-meters long, and the record of 1-minute-and-56-seconds was set in 1994. I think the record is ready to be broken. In 2001, a student attempted to ride down the street in a trashcan with wheels on it. She died. Today, I will avenge her death, by defeating the hill. (CK)

Real people with new duvets

Emeline and I are becoming real people. At the start of our second week in New Zealand, we now have bank accounts, cellphones, library cards, a house to live in, electricity to power it, some gas canisters (we don’t know what they’re for yet), plenty of bus timetables, a new duvet, some new towels, new keys, and lots of other things that prove we exist.

By Wednesday, we’ll have wireless internet at home too. Once we’re online again, there’ll be no stopping us. It’s been a tough and busy week. Dunedin is a hilly city, and we’ve walked lots and lots and lots of hills. Even in a nice quiet civilized country like New Zealand, it’s hard to set up new lives ... especially if you’re starting from scratch and trying to start new jobs at the same time. The realty agent we’ve been working with told us on Friday afternoon that the house we were moving into on Saturday morning had no power. Who do we call for power?

“There are lots of companies,” says a co-worker. For instance, there’s Contact Energy, or Meridian Energy, or we could try Trust Power instead. When I call Contact Energy, a recorded message says, “Welcome to Contact Energy, the only energy company that lets you power up your Fly-Bys!”

What?

The weather is already turning chilly. In the afternoon, our house high up in the Wakari Valley is filled with bright sunlight. And then as soon as the sun dips below the houses above us, a little farther up the slope, our house is cold. Very, very cold. Immediately. Cold enough for thermal underwear.

Anyway, I can’t post pictures until we have internet access at home. In the meantime, here’s a picture I found online of the Taieri Plains of central Otago. In the middle of the frame, if you look closely, you’ll see the tiny airstrip that we landed on a week ago. (CK)

Going to the seaside

This morning, we caught a bus through town to St Clair beach. For just $2.40NZ, or less than $2US, the ride took about 20 minutes south and, before you know it, the neat and tidy suburban streets begin to thin out, and then suddenly dead-end at a promenade and some railings. Beyond that: gleaming bright blue breakers and endless cold ocean that stretches all the way to Antarctica to the south, and to the United States, thousands and thousands of miles to the east.

A shark bell sits at the top of a pole to warn surfers that sharks have been sighted. It hasn't been rung since the 1950s. Seagulls are everywhere.

On the beach, two rows of wooden rotting pier struts march into the sea, all that remains of an old pier. Half a mile to the north, on St Kilda beach, a long pipe from the local sewage plant feeds human waste right into the breaking whitecaps. I know ... that sucks, right? Apparently, the bacterial contamination was causing problems so the water treatment facility has recently been extending the pipeline so that it dumps the poop further into the sea. Even so, it's still a poop pipe in the sea. All the way to New Zealand, one of the greenest countries in the world, and we see a poop pipe.

I heard on the radio this morning a story warning surfers not to surf at St Kilda beach because of bacterial contamination. So, instead, they bob up and down at St Clair, in sight of the shark bell ... but if you stand on the promenade and look north along the beach, past the dead pier, you can see the poop pipe, dark against the foamy sea. (CK)

Strange Dunedin Sights #1

Located by the library on the Octagon in the middle of town, here is the Otago Seafarers Society drop-off box for books and magazines, which are collected and distributed to sailors who read them during long stretches on the open seas. (CK)

Blue skies ...

Basically, we came to Dunedin on the rainiest weekend in South New Zealand for about 27-years. I'm not really sure what I'll do if another person tells me: “It's a shame you came now, we've just had a wonderful summer.” Undaunted, we walked through the rain in our new Gore-Tex shoes, opened bank accounts and got ourselves some new cellphones. Our plans allow us to each pick a "Best Mate."

I've included a weather-related picture from the Otago Daily News, which is full of funny New Zealand-centric headlines about delayed Bluff oyster harvests and new gold prospecting plans (Dunedin owes it's solid, Scottish-looking civic buildings downtown to the gold rush of 1861).

By far, my favorite headline in today's paper is: “Coroner apportions no blame after wool press mechanism failed.” Think twice knitters: wool can be deadly. If you don't believe me, ask Peter Milton's widow.

We looked at a house for rent yesterday in the Kaikorai Valley and we like it enough to try to get it. Pictures will follow if we're successful. We also walked downtown and scoped out the location of the Cadbury's chocolate factory (they have a chocolate fountain), and the Speight's brewery (they, um, make beer).

If we have a chance, we're planning to go on tours at both places today. I'll suggest to the brewery that they take a look at Cadbury's business model and install a beer fountain. Anyway, the wind and rain have finally moved on and, at 9:30 in the morning, the sky is bright blue and cloudless and we're ready for the day. (CK)

Another sunny day in Dunedin

Kia Ora!! That's how we Kiwis say hello, you know.

Anyway, we're here, after a very long trek across the globe, which included an unexpected stop for an hour or so in Rarotonga, in the Cook Islands (80F at 4am, and a ukulele playing crooner in the arrival hall). Next: after four hours in Auckland (sushi, and a smoothie) and another two hours in Christchurch (meat pie), we flew into Dunedin airport, landing at 5pm in the rain. Nestled between a rough sea on one side and a ridge of rolling hills on the other, the runway sits neatly in a bright green, flat valley, dotted with cows and sheep and farmers hosing down their milking sheds.

We're still a little dislocated ... but not too bad considering we've traveled so far through time and space. It was mind twisting to watch the little plane icon on the screen as we flew from Rarotonga to Auckland ... as we crossed the International Dateline suddenly everything that was going about to happen tomorrow had already happened yesterday.

Last night, we checked into our hotel (in the rain). We have a basic but pretty quiet and functional one-bedroom apartment for a week. The landlady asked us if we wanted, “full or trum mulk,” which stumped both of us for a few seconds ... until we realized that “trum mulk” is trim milk, which, to normal people, is skim milk. So, that's one good way to gauge our assimilation to New Zealand: when we refer to milk as “trum mulk,” it's time to leave. Immediately. In fact, by then, it might be too late.

Threw our bags everywhere; ran out for a curry (in the rain).

This week we have to find somewhere to live, and get cellphones and bank accounts. Most likely, we'll be doing it in the rain. (CK)