A slip of the tongue

This, my friends, is not a slip, as it is commonly referred to here. It's a bloody landslide and that's a train it's covered.(Picture from Dominion Post)

Twice-told tales

Work is work anywhere. The same people tensions. Deadline frustrations. The identical heated tempers that are not meant personally, but sure feel like it at the time.

It's easy to slip into the routine stresses that, at the time, seem all-consuming, but in the end come to naught. If you let it, an office can become a dungeon, no matter what language they speak outside its walls or how shimmering the ocean in the near distance.

The secret to life is to hold on to the wonder of it.

There's the budding sense of wit from the younger son, the gift of music in the older and Amy's smile and good humor to come home to. There's the phone call from a far-away loved one with news of a fondly remembered place. There are the mountains and the harbor and the houses built crazily into the hills as if for the aesthetic pleasure of Wellingtonians.

I am learning to empty my mind of job things and walk through the streets of this new land with my foreign eyes. It works every time. You see the unfamiliar features of the faces around you and recognize lives lived differently. You realize the annoying horn that grates on you is from a ship and not a train and it suddenly becomes romantic. It's all in how you hear it.

The southerly wind can be brutal and cold and an annoying inconvenience. Then you think about it and know it comes roaring from Antarctica with whispers of an alien life on its breath. And then you read of the shipwrecks and the battles the people of this place have had with the wind. It becomes something changed in your mind. These are the twice-told tales of life.

We assume that the people we meet have just magically appeared because we have arrived. There's a tendency to build relationships merely from our shared presents, from the points of intersection. But when you ask questions you get magic from the simple things.

A new friend told me how his grandfather taught him to drive by making him take him to the pub and how he had to drive all the way home in third gear because the lessons ended at the pub door. I asked an old Maori woman called Belle what the ancient songs that sounded like nothing to my foreign ears were about. She told me they were laments for the land that was taken from them. Then she cocked her head and said I didn't sound American. I told her I was a new American, but that I'd been born in Scotland. She grabbed my arm and called me brother. "The English did the same to you," she said.

I talked to an old man about his war, the Kiwi World War II, and a whole new world came alive. And suddenly an old and frail man became something new again.

There are stories to explain the world everywhere if we can just claw our way out of the husk of self-absorption.

In the end it's not the where that matters. It's the here. It's the who you're with and the how you live that counts. The rest is all just the crap we bury ourselves with, both figuratively and literally.

Ambushed

Receiving mail at a new home is one of the lovely reassurances that you are finally settling into a familiar routine. You've landed somewhere.

But warm cuddlies weren't exactly what awaited me the other day.

The long arm of the law had reached out and touched me. The first piece of mail addressed to me I'd received in my new home of New Zealand was a speeding ticket.


I didn't even know I'd been busted. No, this was a robot ambush. A camera at the side of the road had taken a picture of my vehicle as I blithely sped toward hearth and home.

Speed calculated. Tried and found guilty. No chance to invent fabulous excuses. No blinking your eyelashes at the attractive female cop. Just your fine in the mail and have a nice day.

Bobbie's your uncle.

It wasn't the platefull of brownies from the neighbors we might have expected.

There wasn't so much as a "Dear Mr. Pratt." Nope, straight into a string of threatening-sounding legalese: infringement, alleged offence (sic - sorry couldn't resist), enforcement authority.

That'll be $80 thank you very much.

And welcome to New Zealand.

Between my Taranaki adventure and being randomly breathalyzed, it was my third encounter in a week with the law. Hmmmmmm.

Lost in Translation

I left the house this morning, feeling pretty finely groomed and in good spirits. As I went into the little newsagents in town, I put on a smile announcing my general happiness and bonhomie.

My body language was apparently misinterpreted.

"You bitter?" the lady behind the counter asked.

I smiled again, thinking she was joking, but didn't really know what to say. So I just put my Diet Coke and newspaper on the counter.

"You look bitter," she said, ringing up my purchases with a benign air.

I was obviously missing something and so unable to retort winningly. I gave her my money and shuffled out, checking my reflection in the mirror above the door. Hair looked kempt. Top button fastened and, yes, a decidedly unbitter smile on my face.

Strange.

"You still crook?" I was asked as I got to work.

I was about to get annoyed. I had presented myself perfectly well to the world, and this was what the world was giving me in return? Then it sank in.

Of course, I'd been sick (crook) all last week and now I was better.

I'm glad I hadn't thrown a wobbly and started shouting at everyone. They'd have just thought I was bitter.

Still, it's an uncomfortable feeling to hear people stringing familiar-sounding words together in non-sensical ways. The other day I was told that everything was "bugger in the States." It didn't seem like the compliment the look on the guy's face told me was intended. I worked it out eventually. It was the Texas thing.

At least he didn't say that bugger was bitter. That would have twisted the brain.

Movie premiere

I had a pretty stormy run along Oriental Parade today. This is just an excuse to upload video for the first time. It was shot this morning in the sheltered part of the bay. It was really quite tempestuous around the corner, with sustained winds of 70 mph. More training than I wanted.

I hate to go on about how windy it is here. But you know it's bad when you're in the bathroom shaving with the windows closed and the mirror is moving. I'm just saying.

Randomly breathalyzed - very randomly

I was driving through downtown Wellington this fine and gusty Saturday morning, feeling rather self-satisfied. I had defied the shackles of an awful, bronchial cold and headed down to Oriental Bay for a run/walk.

It was before 7 a.m., the wind was brisk and the water choppy. It was a fresh and reviving morning. I gleefully imagined the gentle misery of some of those who may have overindulged last night, as they looked resentfully at me - that cheerful, energetic bugger - bouncing merrily along the boulevard. All, in other words, was right with my little corner of the world. (I'm sorry, a bit much P.G. Wodehouse there.)

In the softish grip of the beloved runner's high, I was returning home in my car, turned a corner, and drove right into a police roadblock. There's nothing quite like the stain of criminality - even just associated - to take the shine off a morning.

I rolled down my window, as instructed by the policeman, and attempted to throw him my most "you've-got-to-be-kidding-me" look." He seemed immune to it. Actually, he was disgustingly good-spirited, and looked covetously at my coffee.

"I could go for one of those," he said with a smile. You can't hate a guy who's stuck at the side of the road on a Saturday morning doing a job he hates.

Still, breathalyzing people - even if it is randomly - at seven a.m. is not only not on, it's also a little stupid. A lot stupid actually - unless you're trying to prove that your town doesn't have a drinking problem. As I looked at my fellow suspects behind me, there was a preponderence of red-cheeked healthfulness as opposed to the hoped-for red-nosed drooliness.

"Count to ten please, sir," the relentlessly upbeat copper said, sticking a device near my mouth.

"No Alcohol," came back the reading.

I wanted to shoot him a look that told him he was an idiot. This was not, after all, 1 a.m. But a strange - and definitely misplaced - pride had filled me. I had passed. So I gave him the look of a responsible citizen, wished him a good day, and was superiorly on my way once more.

Ah, the little things in life.

(Random good quote about booze, from Oscar Wilde: "Work is the curse of the drinking classes.")

A year of weather daily

If the New Zealand weather were a person, he (notice I didn't say she, Amy) would be locked up in the funny farm. Talk about wild swings. This was the weather Morgan and I endured in one day.

Beautiful morning - almost warm, in fact. Tempestuous rain (with landslides thrown in) a few minutes later. The make-up sex of a rainbow - followed by ... freaking snow. In fact, maybe she is sounding a little more female. You make the call. Either way, there's substance abuse involved.

Whatever the sex of the weather, whatever the drug of choice - and it's too early here for such talk, frankly - let me tell you, boys, it makes picking the right outfit ever so difficult.

Luckily we've had seven years of advanced severe weather training in South Dakota. We're professionals, in other words.

A battle of the sexes

Irony is usually delicious, but fleeting. Satire can be vicious, but rarely endures.

In other words, feuds, especially of the political variety, inevitably die with the participants.

But not all of them, apparently.

Let me introduce you to Richard Seddon, in the above picture. Though he was not New Zealand's first leader, he was the first to be known as prime minister, taking office in 1893.

In the above picture he looks like a distinguished man regally regarding the land he once ruled from a place of honor bestowed by a grateful nation. All things as they should be.



Now meet Kate Sheppard, above. She is the most famous New Zealand suffragette and widely regarded as the reason New Zealand became the first country in the world to grant women the right to vote.

She lobbied parliament continuously to try to win universal suffrage - despite being ridiculed and belittled.

Her efforts finally succeeded in 1893. She has received widespread recognition, including this eponymous apartment complex.



The two - Seddon and Sheppard - did not like each other or, as a tour guide at the Parliamentary building said the other day, "Seddon was not fond of Kate Sheppard."

The final telegram informing Sheppard that her great battle had resulted in a new law for the land, came from Seddon.

Still, the two never really overcame their differences.

So, what is Seddon regally surveying?



That's right, the Kate Sheppard Apartment complex. The two are staring at each other in stony silence for the rest of eternity. You gotta love Kiwi humor.

A lack of confidence

"Oh, who gives a damn? Let's just sell this place and go home."

Trapped on Taranaki

It's not the smartest idea I've ever had, to head up an 8,000-feet active volcano during one of the biggest storms New Zealand has had in many years.

But the day started out so beautifully - with blue-sky optimism and the rains quieted - and, in any event, Mt. Taranaki is listed as active, but quiescent. (Whatever the hell that means.)Morgan and I had been planning this for a long time. Twice we'd been put off by events beyond our control. Not today.

That's what we told each other. We smiled dismissively at Amy when she warned us this was a stupid idea. As guys are wont to do.


It didn't take long for the weather to turn. In fact, by Pukerua Bay the wind was whipping up the waves and the rain was coming in hard. Still, much of the drive was to be inland and we had plenty of time. So we did not turn back the first time the rain came down in sheets so forceful that it bounced off the road like a smokecloud. A watery whiteout.

In Waverley the weather became so bad we had to pull into a firelit cafe for shelter. But its roof leaked and the sirens went off, not affording us much peace. Morgan and I thought they were tornado sirens, but apparently they summon the volunteers to the firehouse. When enough firemen arrive, they head off to whatever needs their attention. The sirens were going off in each town we drove into.

Nature itself seemed to be drowning. Mudslides were coming off the roadside mountains; rivers were bursting their banks; bedraggled sheep stood forlornly in their fields without shelter.

At one point we passed a sign that read, "Remote Adventures 57km," and it seemed to me that that was far from remote. It was the one laugh of the day.

The wind worsened - gales of up to 130km buffetted us from side to side, the rain threw itself at us with unwanted attentions. By the time we got to Stratford we decided that we'd get a nice hotel room and take it easy, hoping for a reprieve in the morning and a good hike up Mt. Taranaki. It's quaint to know that many of the streets are named after Shakespeare characters. Not sure what to do with that, though.

We unpacked the car, but grew restless and decided that we'd head up the mountain just for a look. It was so tempestuous and cloudy that even right at its foot, we could see nothing of a mountain that rises 8,000 feet from sealevel to the sky. Nothing.

But we kept on driving up the hill and into Mt. Egmont National Park. The trees seemed tropical up here and close to the road. The higher we went, the wilder it roared. A small tree lay halfway across the road. Power lines all around it. I knew that our rubber tires would mean that we wouldn't get zapped if we drove over the lines. As you are confronted by making a decision in such circumstances, you realize there is a difference between book knowledge and practical experience.

"Call Mom," Morgan said. Ah yes, our MacGyver.

"You'll be fine," Amy said. As I was about to disconnect, she said. "But make Morgan get out of the car - just in case."

It's good to know where you stand.

Soon we were up among new-fallen snow and put the car in four-wheel drive. The wind was preposterous up here. This far up and away from civilization, it screamed like a banshee welcoming us into her mad and rule-less world. Out of the car it grabbed us, punched us, pushed us. We got back in and decided it was time to head back, hoping for a better day.

We were fleeing with honor.

Getting away would not prove easy. The thick snow made the car coast towards the edge of the steep roads. The four-wheel drive was screeching in 10-year-old protest. We thought we had made it, when we came off the high edge of the mountain and back into the snow-free forest.

It was not to be easy. We came across another tree that had been levelled by the wind, this one lying fully across the street. Back into 4X4 and off the road we went, feeling well proud of ourselves.

Then came the bastard: a big tree wrapped in powerlines blocked our escape from the lunatic mountain. There was no way around it, and the wires boobytrapped it against movement.


I had to call the cops. They were nice and came and took a look from across the tree. "It's a live wire," we were told. "Hold fast."

And hold fast we did for hours and hours - and with all the emergency stuff we had carefully packed left in the hotel (including my asthma medicine). A few crazy snowboarders pulled in behind us after a while. They had their own chainsaw and charged at the log determinedly - but the contractor across the tree yelled at them to get away. They went back to their car and drank beer.

We waited some more. The cops - my new best friends - told us there were 40,000 people without power. We weren't a high priority, in other words.

Now it was dark and getting cold and, of course, we were running out of gas. We'd been stuck on the mountain for eight hours. Morgan fell asleep in the back of the car. This was probably the longest he'd been without food in five years.

It all ended - as these things usually do - with a whimper. The power company disconnected the wires and the chainsaws came in. It was the sweetest noise I've heard since arriving in New Zealand. Morgan woke up when we were outside the gas station buying emergency rations.

We'll see if we head back up the mountain again. But suddenly I like the quaintness of Hamlet Street and its kin.

A big blow a blowin'

A storm system the size of Australia (and that's big, y'all, even if Kiwis refer to Oz as the West Island) is battering New Zealand at the moment. It's batten down the hatches time. Winds of more than 120kmh and lashings of rain are whipping through the streets. There goes the trip to Mt. Taranaki Morgan and I had planned. The storm - with gale-force winds - is expected to last 48 hours. Yes, that's us somewhere under the fuzz in the corner there.

Busy at the Beehive

Outside the parliament and the building known as The Beehive.


Having recently been through a number of stressful classroom simulations in which I had to give speeches, I am filled with admiration for any minister who could survive "Question Time" in the New Zealand Parliament.

It's full contact.

Members bellow, "Rubbish" or "Nonsense" or howl with derision or shake their heads or heckle noisily. Others have conversations with one another, or check their BlackBerries or even take phone calls on the landlines by their desks.

It's a sport of organized rudeness in the most refined of settings.

Until the speaker pops out of his lambskin-lined throne of a chair and yells, "Order." A semblance of that ensues for a while. They play by Westminster parliamentary procedures - but the wigs are worn only on special occasions.

How any of the speakers - responding to questions put to them by the members of parliament - keep their concentration, far less string together semi-coherent answers, is beyond me.

To begin the proceedings - on the spot at two; members are locked out if they're late - one member of a minority party, David Garrett,told his peers he obtained a passport by false pretences after reading about such a scheme in the thriller "The Day of the Jackal." Really. And this was a strong campaigner for law and order and the three strike policy.

Just a couple of days ealier he'd confessed to a conviction for assault back in his youth. Somebody, finally, who was having a worse week than me.

There was much headshaking from members of the other parties. And, when Garrett later stood to ask a question, he was interrupted by, "Strike Two," and, putting a question into his mouth, "Could the minister please overturn my conviction?"

Rowdy, indeed. To think that all I was worried about during my speech writing classes was whether I had spinach in my teeth.

Struggling Christchurch

The hits keep on coming for Cantebury.

On top of the hundreds of aftershocks that are rattling the nerves and causing dozens of fatal heart attacks, the main road into Christchurch has now been closed by a massive landslide at Kaikoura.

Lyttelton port is damaged. There's a new leaning tower there, the port's lighthouse. Two workers were 150 feet up in a crane doing repair work when a 5.1 magnitude aftershock hit on Friday. They nearly fell to their deaths. Rail service is out.

The terrifying and startling state of the land around Christchurch is disturbingly outlined on this website. It's really worth a look. http://www.christchurchquakemap.co.nz/.

Strict earthquake construction codes prevented damage to the majority of modern buildings. But it's the old, early 20th centurty brick buildings that are being lost. That's much of the town's quaint heritage. Luckily the grand cathedral had recently been earthquake reinforced, though it still suffered some damage.

The Kiwis are pulling together remarkably. Schools all over the country are raising funds for their southern brothers and sisters. The recovery work is orderly, systematic and impressive.

Folks are not moping around, wondering why this happened to them. The town's firefighters - many of whose own houses were damaged in the quake - even paused their rescue work on Saturday to honor the New York first responders killed on 9/11 nine years ago. New York City donated some of the girders from the World Trade Center to Christchurch for a memorial - the bond is obviously deep and heartfelt.

In the midst of their own disaster, they remembered ours.

To donate to their ongoing recovery efforts - which will take years - you can go here: http://www.redcross.org.nz/cms_display.php
(Pictures taken by NZPA)

Kiwinglish

Being a native English speaker definitely helps in New Zealand. But it's by no means a guarantee of foolproof communication with the locals.

More than once I've been forced into the thousand-yard stare, thinking "I know they're speaking English, but I don't have a freaking clue what they're saying."

The problem is not just that they speak quickly and have an unfamiliar accent. No, it's that they seem to despise the letter "e." For some reason the tyranny of distance has morphed that perfectly useful letter into an "i." A sort of pinched, squeezed and hurried "i" that at least gives an intimation that the Kiwis are a little embarrassed with what they're doing to the language.

It's the sort of mutation that causes sex to become six. You can imagine the embarrassment that would cause for "The Situation" if he were to ask if a Kiwi girl would like to see his six pack. Oh my God, I'm sorry I went there.

"Sparky'll bee hir at sivin on Winsday," a man said to me the other day. My vacant smile did nothing more than convey idiocy, so I soldiered on down a linguistic street with no return. We were talking about an appliance, so this was where I had to go for context.

I gave him a meaningful look that said, "What the hill does that mean?"

We eventually - and not after a short time, I might add - established that apparently the electrician had just made an appointment.


They'd know what a "minkey" was over here.


Nor did we have any idea why, at the airport, we had to go to ckicken. Nor where that was. We weren't even hungry, having just disembarked from a 13-hour flight. But it was apparently where we had to go after we had "uplifted" our suitcases - 'you're the best baggage ever' - to get our flight from Auckland to Wellington. We made the flight, but we weren't fed. There was no chicken at the check-in. Our bags had good self-esteem, though.

Apart from the whole devolution of the completely innocent and inoffensive "e," there are word issues too. Amy has already written about the horror she felt when she was told that Ewan would need rubbers for school.

No mother should have such thoughts about her 10-year-old son - especially when the conversation merely concerns erasers.

There's more: A shopping trundle is apparently a cart, not an American husband at the grocery store. Togs are swimming trunks. What do you think you would buy at a Tuck Shop? I assure you it's perfectly innocent, but really? And why is a dairy a convenience store? Who buys milk at a 7-Eleven? Oh wait, never mind.


Completely random video clip. Might make you think this post is a bit funnier.

It's not all confusing, though. A chilly bin, is a smooth word for a cooler. I think I'll claim that one.

These are not just innocent diversions. Amy was deeply embarrassed when she turned up for supper after a church service with a pasta salad. Everyone else had bought some sort of cookies or desserts. Supper, apparently, meant afternoon tea. Only one kind Maori gentleman sampled the pasta salad. You can't blame people. It's not like it goes well with petit fours.

I'm sure we'll overcome these "iccintricities," but a little bit of language training before we came here might have been good.

Waiwhetu Marae 50th Anniversary

I laughed out loud when the TV cameras recently focused on the faces of the Australian rugby players as they watched the All Blacks perform the intimidating Haka. They looked terrified.

I'll never laugh at that again.

On Friday I was "greeted" by a Taki outside the Waiwhetu Marae, a tradtional meeting center for Maori. A Taki is the aggressive first part of a traditional welcoming ceremony known as a powhiri. It is meant to determine if the visitor is friend or foe.

As the guests waited outside the marae, four warriors in grass skirts and ceremonial weapons that look like paddles cautiously approached us. Three of them held back, making growling noises, bulging their eyes and sticking out their tongues. The lead warrior came at us with elaborate motions and horrifying noises - the very picture of barely contained violence. And yet, frighteningly elegant.

He approached, swinging his weapon. He backed off. He came closer. The noises he made - a cross between growling and ululating - crept into my stomach and made a commotion there. We had been warned not to laugh or break eye contact. Any sign of disrespect or fear could lead to "being clipped."

I can tell you there was not the slightest chance of a giggle. I could see why one senior Asian diplomat is said to have turned tail and fled from such a ceremony.

We remained steadfast, and the warrior offered a rautapu. This is to be picked up without breaking eye contact. It is permission to enter the Marae.

The king, Tuheitia Paki, pictured at right, who has been the monarch since 2006, led us in. We walked into a tent outside the elaborately carved building and were greeted by 30 women singing and chanting. Perhaps 200 people were under canvas to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the building. The king took his seat at the head of the gathering.

Almost two hours of speeches, each one gratefully acknowledged by a waiata, a song, followed. Everything was in Maori, so I have little idea of what was said. But the speakers were deeply moving nonetheless. They roared, they sang-spoke, they told jokes. The singers chanted lamentations and sang traditional, sacred songs.

Everyone was moved.

After the speeches, we removed our shoes and moved into the actual Marae. There was
much greeting. It was my first time to engage in a hungi. You shake hands, look into each other's eyes, and touch forehead and nose, joining together visitor and host. A melding of the minds.

Then came the happy music. There was handclapping and joyous melodies, sounding almost Hawaiian, a decidedly different, uplifting tone.

We followed the king into the dining room, noticing he did not need to remove his shoes. It's good to be the king. More women greeted us with song - and an astonishing cornucopia of food - known as the hakari. I had muttonbird and an abalone paste that were quite unlike anything I'd tasted before.

Then there were more speeches. One gentleman looked like he was going to launch into a doozie of a talkfest. Luckily, the first time he paused, a lady jumped up and burst into song. Everyone joined in. The speech and the powhiri were over.

It was a four-hour tour de emotional force, ranging from fear and awkwardness to warmth, friendship and a deep gratitude for being invited to be a part of such an important day in the Waiwhetu Marae's history.

The gratitude turned to humility when, as we left, we were told we were brothers now and could come back to the Marae whenever we wished - and we didn't have to use the front door anymore. And if that means not having to face another Taki, I'm happy indeed.

To the Lighthouse

That's a goat, by the way. Not a sheep.

He's running, not ski jumping.


In 1968 the ferry "Wahine" hit a reef at the entrance to Wellington harbor. In the slow-motion disaster that ensued - and was captured on TV - 51 people died.

Morgan and I set out to find the Wahine Memorial, near Eastbourne. We arrived in a parking lot and saw a "Wahine Memorial" sign pointing straight at a mountain. OK, a bit of a hike then. It was windy, astonishingly windy, but the walk around the eastern side of the massive bay around Wellington is gorgeous. We didn't really have a timeframe in mind, but were driven on by the splendor of each new cove and gusts of up to 100km an hour.

Before we knew it, we'd walked for an hour and a half and the Pencarrow Lighthouse beckoned from the hill ahead. It was built in 1859 with cast iron shipped out from England. I say that as if I knew it. I didn't, of course. Had to look it up.

Now cliffs, sheep trails and 100km winds are not a good recipe for successful hiking. On the way up, Morgan and I had to cling to the side of the mountain so that we weren't blown into the water a couple hundred feet below - I have the gorse splinters to prove it. On the way down, we actually had to hold hands. We figured it would take quite a gust to blow 400 pounds of us into the great beyond.

The view from up there was awesome. You look east and, with Lake Kohangapiripiri - go on, say that out loud; it rocks - down below us, there were miles and miles of nothingness. Difficult to believe, with a big city sitting right behind us.

With light fading, we strode back with purpose. After walking 10 miles and climbing a mountain we returned to the car park - and found the Wahine memorial right there, not 10 feet from the car. The sign had not, in fact, been pointing to the top of the mountain, but, rather, at its foot. That is seriously idiotic. But neither Morgan nor I cared. The hike had been too damned good.

"On 10 April 1968 the 9000 ton inter island ferry "Wahine" was carried onto Barret Reef by a violent storm and sank by Steeple Rock. Of the 51 people who lost their lives that day, 49 were cast onto this shore," reads the simple message.

Earthquake

Gutsy spot to build a house, especially a wooden one.

Pretty colors, but can you say landslide? (Or slip, as they call it here.)


A 7.4 magnitude earthquake hit the South Island today, causing widespread damage to Christchurch. Luckily, no deaths have been reported and only minor injuries.

We slept through it here on the North Island, though Amy had a dream about an earthquake and, supposedly, there were a few shakes this side of the Cook Straits.

We live on a massive faultline here and there are trembles pretty regularly. In fact, Reuters says there are 14,000 quakes in New Zealand every year. The country's worst quake came in 1931, when the towns of Napier and Hastings were flattened and 256 people died. It was so massive, the very landscape changed. Hillsides disappeared, massive fissures gaped open for miles.

As you can see by the pictures above, the Kiwis build gravity- and common-sense-defying structures on the sides of, or underneath, mountains. It pretty much sums up their que sera attitude about life. You do things, bugger the consequences. In fairness, and as can be seen by the limited loss of life in Christchurch, they do have pretty strict building codes here.

We're definitely happy that we live on top of the mountain, but have decided to freshen up our emergency kit in the wake of the disaster in Christchurch. Amy won't let me put beer in it, though. She says it wouldn't last the night. Whatever.