Halloween 2010

I've never bothered to disguise my disdain for Halloween. I hate dressing up. I hate little kids coming to my door taking away perfectly useful chocolate. And, now that I'm missing seeing my kids dressed up and out and about having fun, I hate that too. As usual, Amy outdid herself in the costume department. Halloween is gradually becoming more popular in New Zealand, but it's far from as huge as it is in the states. Anyway, I hope the boys save me some candy, though I highly doubt it.

All Black - literally

Not sure this sort of store set-up would work in the states. Rather unappealing to the American eye - not so to the Kiwi eye, of course. The whole store is just black shirts, black shorts, black hats ... well, you get the picture.

Funnily enough, the guy working in the store was delighted to hear that I'd just moved here from the States. He whipped out a piece of paper from his back pocket and said, "Tell me all the states you've lived in."

Turns out he was having a competition with the other bloke working there to see who could serve an American from each of the 50 states first. Apparently a beer is riding on it.

I was sure I'd be able to help him with South Dakota. Nope, been there, done that, got the T-shirt (black, naturally). A little deflating, actually.

So, if you're from Utah, Wyoming, Kentucky, Vermont or Tennessee and you're in Christchurch, pop in to the Champions store on Colombo Street. You'll make somebody's day.

Yeah, right, like somebody from Tennessee would ever come to Christchurch.

Christchurch institution

I found this amazing relic of times gone by in the heart of Christchurch. It was like walking into a store in pre-war London, complete with white-coated grocer monger - I know, wrong use of the word, but it seems appropriate. In any event, his name is Colin Johnson.

The place has been around since before the first world war. Colin's father, apparently, bought the place in 1949. He's been there since the early '50s and looks like he's still having fun - a man who just makes you feel better about your day.

The whole place was teeming with brands I grew up with back in Scotland. Old
Mr. Johnson, from behind the counter, greeted everyone as they came in. As I put my Frys Orange Cream on the counter, he said, "Time for a little treat is it?"

And it was.

Christchurch - the City of Gardens

Despite suffering more than 2,300 aftershocks since the September 4 earthquake - some of them registering at more than 5.0 on the Richter scale - Christchurch is in remarkably good shape. Symbolizing the great recovery from the 7.1 temblor that damaged or destroyed more than 500 buildings, spring has sprung here in all its eternal glory.

The place is awash in blooming cherry trees, daffodils and carpets of bluebells and
the city's many public gardens are just plain showing off. The banks of the lazy flowing Avon are garlanded with weeping willows as the stream-river winds its way beneath well-crafted, hump-backed stone bridges. This natural splendor complements well the stately, country village feel of a place that has deep roots in old England. The clickety-clack of the trolley cars transports you not only across the city, but to another time

The city has hidden its scars well.

Yet you don't have to look too closely to see the wounds. It seems as if every
church was hit. Steeples have fallen, walls are being propped up. The magnificent Christchurch Cathedral had been earthquake-proofed recently and survived major damage. Cab drivers will tell you the stories of the vacant lots and of the heartbreaks of the folks who lost heritage buildings.

Still, it's remarkable that no lives were lost. Hardly any of the modern buildings were fatally damaged, showing that proper planning works and can save lives, even if
it raises the cost. Simply put, it's astonishing how much work has been done in the seven weeks since the quake struck. The mayor of Christchurch has declared the city open for business. It sure feels that way, except the ground beneath has not quite settled down. The briefing from the bellhop at the hotel was sobering. "Just be ready for a few wobbles. You'll have some, but you'll be right."

We'll see about that. Or, hopefully, we won't.

Playing some sheepskin

Every living creature in New Zealand, it seems, is Rugby crazy. Even the sheep play. In the States we have pigskin. Here it's more like sheepskin.

How to use your coconuts

On the way back from Cape Palliser, and apropos of nothing, Ewan informed us that we simply had to divert to Graytown to pick up some coconuts. They were to be had cheaply, he said, at the roadside store with the big apple. Having already driven six hours, we were under-motivated to accommodate his request.

But he persisted. He bought the coconuts. After hours he stripped them of meat and has been doing his best Monty Python and Holy Grail impressions ever since.

These are the sort of terrible consequences you suffer when you think you're bringing up your children to understand the things that are important to you. Casual exposure to such nonsense can have wide-ranging fallout.

We now have horses clippety-clopping around our house and there's nothing we can do about that.

Is a slip worse than a slump?

Cape Palliser lighthouse, built in 1897,left, looks out over a year-round seal colony. One of whom was checking out Amy. (In the background.)

We headed out to Cape Palliser, the southernmost point of the North Island, leaving behind a grim and windy Wellington. But once we crossed the mountains into the Wairarapa it was a blue-sky day. Funnilyl enough, Cape Pallliser is located 50 kilometers from Wellington, 100 kilometers by road - not the sort of stats you often hear in the States.

Like apparently every square inch of New Zealand, parts of the spectacularly shaped rocky outcrops of Cape Palliser were filmed for "Lord of the Rings." Yet the drive was considerably more easy on the nerves than some we've had. While there was still some of the obligatory driving along the side of a cliff with spectacular views of our potential demise all too evident, much of the drive out to Palliser was alongside fields of grass - even beside the ocean.

We were still sporadically warned about the danger of slips, which any good reader of this blog knows is the government-mandated euphemism for landslide. But this time we were also warned to beware of slumps. Not knowing what this was, we tried our best to keep everyone's spirits up - "You look great, Morgan;" "Amy, you sing so well." Thus we arrived at the cape in great moods, which only enhanced the natural splendor of the place.

We saw dozens of frolicking seals - obviously also compensating against the risk of slumps - on the way to the lighthouse. Then it was 264 steps up to the top - a good workout to go along with our great moods.

Just before the Cape is Ngawi, home to an army of bulldozers used to move large
boats into and out of the water. I've never seen anything like it and it is especially strange as the distance covered is no more than a dozen yards. OK, it is thick, volcanic sand, but you'd think they'd just build a launch or a slip. The small community makes its living off crayfish, and we saw dozens of divers don wetsuits and head into the waters for abalone and sea urchins.

It turns out we may have needlessly been kind to each other as, best I can determine, a slump is some sort of permanent slippage, a sort of institionalized landslide that lives in a certain place - a destructive artist in residence, if you will. This is obvioulsly not a geological explanation, which will follow. Still, as you can see by the happy video below, it was simply a gorgeous day for a drive.

Please drive carefully

I think some wag added an extra zero, because that is a serious cliff, an unserious guardrail and a 90-degree turn we're heading for.

Really rather civilized

There's a radical traffic concept in New Zealand, and I don't mean driving on the wrong side of the road.

No, here the crosswalks are actually used by pedestrians, and cars respectfully stop at the approach of what are, in America, an almost endangered species.

I nearly caused a ruckus at Auckland airport just after we arrived in New Zealand. We were wheeling our bags to the domestic terminal and, tentatively, approached this zebra crossing.

To begin, I looked in the wrong direction. Cars came to a halt. I wondered what the matter was and checked to see if there was a policeman motioning for them to stop. After a few seconds, with the line of cars now quite long, another passenger crossed in front of us.

Wow, people actuatlly stop here, we all realized. I'm used to the opposite. In the states, particularly the north, when drivers see pedestrians approaching the extremely rare pedestrian crossing, they actually speed up, trying to get through the crossing before the walker reaches the curb. Shades of Death Race 2000.

It's quite extraordinary. Cars will skid to a halt at the sight of an approaching and hallowed pedestrian. I like it.

Unfortunately, Ewan and I were lost today and being shouted at by our suddenly Irish-sounding Tom-Tom navigator. (I don't know how that came about. I was rather fond of Katrina the Kiwi) Neither of us saw the old lady taking her rightful place at the edge of the road. As I blew through the crossing I saw her instinctively take her first step into the roadway. She had a horrified look on her face as we roared passed, a mixture of shock and disgust at the outrage to which she had just been subjected.

Dang, that could have been nasty. I believe an older woman was worth 200 points.

Actually not. Ewan and I felt really bad. We did a U-turn and drove back to wave our apologies at the old lady.

She gave us an icy stare.

A dying language

The Maori language, Te Reo, is desperately struggling to stay alive.

Such crises - the dying of cultures - should be treated with urgency and creativity. It sounds so limp-wristed to simply shrug the collective shoulders and blame it on a lack of funds, as cited here: http://www.stuff.co.nz/national/4253185/Maori-language-needs-life-support

Te Reo has such a good foundation and widespread support from the non-Maori population that could be built on.

Instructive is the example of Welsh. The Welsh Language Act of 1993 made it a national cause to prevent the language from fading into oblivion. Today more than 20 percent of the population speaks Welsh fluently.

The Maori culture is so inspiring that it would be a national tragedy to let it go the way of the Moa - the giant flightless birds that grew to 12 feet and weighed more than 500 pounds. They were hunted to extinction by the Maori. "If only we knew then what we know now, the moa would still be around," is a sentiment oft expressed.

Well, we know now what we know about Te Reo. We are the ancestors that future generations will deride as ignorant and blinkered if Te Reo is allowed to die.

Dropping in

I met my first virtual friend today, and it's amazing what can drop in from cyberspace.

Heather, a friend of mine, had "introduced" me to her cousin, Aric, via facebook. He was travelling in New Zealand and she thought it would be good if we got together.

So Aric and I "friended" each other, never having met. Today, friends
for two months, Aric was in Wellington and so I invited him over for a beer and some dinner. Cyberspace is not very convenient, so poor Amy, our house in ruins with our shipment from the U.S. having just arrived, had about 20 seconds to prepare. She laid on a spread.

Aric is an astonishing guy. He's 24 and is hitchhiking around New Zealand. He's using a website called couchsurfing to arrange accommodation. People volunteer a couch. Travelers ask shelter and, bingo, things work out. He also doesn't have a phone and has been doing some intense mountain hiking. He's even done overnighters in this wild and unforgiving nature. He's been subjected to the full force of New Zealand and is loving it.

My contribution to his trip was an electric razor so he could "unscruff" himself.

He's an "Into the Wild" sort of guy who travels for four months and then returns to the States for a couple of months to work and top up his bank account. Then he heads off on his next adventure. He is a story man and thoroughly charming company.

It's funny, but as we were talking I thought that he probably does more public diplomacy than I do - and to better effect. He's meeting folks who might never see another American again and, in his quiet and unpresuming way, puts paid to stereotypes and lets people know we're not all like the guys in the movies.

He, being humble, rejected this. He's just a guy traveling, he said. He's just a guy checking out this great planet we live on. Still, he's a damn good advertisement for the U.S. And I'm glad we're not just virtual friends anymore.

The choke of time

"You know," a respected Maori woman told me today during the crush of a hectic meeting that had to break up suddenly because it had fallen behind schedule, "the white man is run by time. We" - meaning the Maori people - "own time."

I was about to respond, when my phone began vibrating in my pocket.

"No," I said. "The white man is run by Blackberry."

We laughed, and then I had to run off to another meeting, hating to prove her point.

Boxed in

There are, of course, many reasons I find my wife awesome.

Somebody once said the headline, "Best sex I've ever had" over a story about Donald Trump, was the most libel-proof headline ever. Similarly, in spousal annals, my lead may be considered something close to the best way of staying out of the dog house.

I realized yet another aspect of my wife's awesomeness today, and it has to do with packing boxes. Our house in State College, Pa., sold, very unexepectedly and, to be frank, very unwelcomly, in August of 2009. I say it was an unwelcome development because, well, we had nowhere to go and nothing to do when we got there. (Yes, I quit my job before I knew I was in the foreign service.)

Still, that's when the packing started. Fourteen months ago. Packing boxes have been a permanent part of our transient life ever since. We've basically been living out of suitcases. With the promise of New Zealand on the horizon, that may sound easier. When you don't even know if you have a job, believe me, it is very far from being easy.

Now we have arrived in our new home - permanent for two years - and our boxes of stuff have just been delivered. There are, once again, boxes everywhere. Add to this the fact that I was conveniently back in the states when said delivery was made and that I was still greeted at the airport with a smile, well, you get the whole awesome wife thing.

It has, of course, also been hard on the boys. There was really only one thing they were looking forward to arriving, the 42-inch screen TV for their video games.

It arrived smashed to smithereens - and still they remain unfazed by the crazy Nomadic existence which has cut all their anchors to familiarity.

I can truly say that this new life, that of a foreign service officer, is wonderful. But you absolutely have to be surrounded by a strong and flexible family. Because living with boxes turns out to be the least of your concerns.

Kia Ora

Thank God for Air New Zealand.

No, not another airline rant. I was just really happy to finish a massively long journey of 36 hours on a carrier that treats its passengers like humans. And gives them a little more than the six inches of space I had for the 15-hour flight to Sydney. (Deep breaths, deep breaths.)

Oh, yes, and with a bit of humor too. Check this out for the best airline safety instructional video of all time, featuring a host of All Black stars, and a streaking grandmother.



Amy picked me up at the airport and then we went to the boys' school to bring them home. That and the clear blue skies of Wellington made for a perfect return to New Zealand.

I came home to witness the true randomness of the packing process, our HHE
(Household effects) having arrived. The one coat I was looking forward to wearing here didn't arrive, all the clothes I was hoping never to see again did. Quacker the stuffed duck, shot near Webster, South Dakota, and a permanent embarrassment to my wife, is back on our kitchen table taunting her. Still, having hated the wretched thing for years, she protected him from the bio-squad of customs who tried to take him away and burn him. There is a kind of beauty to that madness.


Still, the house is coming together and the boys are magnificently oblivious to it. Ewan, despite boxes piled ceiling-high around him, found comfort in a "new" set of Lego arrived from across the ocean. So what if wasn't meant to be here and they smashed our 42-inch flat screen? Happiness is in the little things.

And with that, I will succumb to the two weeks of jet lag that have been keeping me functioning about as well as Joaquin Phoenix on David Letterman.

Westward ho

I had a chance to reunite with about 20 members of the 152nd, legendary all.


I'm heading back to New Zealand today. Along the way I lose Sunday and arrive Monday afternoon. I'm sure the airlines will treat me wonderfully after my recent rants. It's been awesome seeing the 152nd folks and catching a few of the familiar things unavailable to us in Kiwiland: Jon Stewart, Morning Joe on the tube. Coors Light - I know, who'd think you'd miss that - and the ink-on-paper edition of The New York Times which, I might say, looks like a child's paper, size-wise, compared to the Wellington Dominion Post.

Home to Amy and the boys and the Land of the Long White Cloud.

The fiend-ly Skies

I apologize in advance for what is certain to deteriorate into a diatribe.

There might even be some swearing.

I know that the very mention of the subject I am about to embark on - commercial flying - will spark an immediate rise in blood pressure.

I'm not going to talk about the indignity or idiocy of the security measures we're forced to endure. Those are sad signs of the time and they ain't about to change.

No, it's the sheer inhuman rudeness of the airline staff and the impunity with which they can treat their passengers like cattle - dumb, stubborn cattle at that. I've been lied to, shouted at and condescended to.

Amy and I were once treated so outrageously badly by the folks at British Airways that I actually wrote a letter of complaint - strongly worded, I might add - to the chairman of the company. (Something I had never done before or since.) I outlined the details - including the fact that I'd actually been told to "shut up" twice.

In return I received a 10 pound gift certificate for the B.A. duty free store for the next time I flew with the outfit. I sent it back. And I was born in Scotland.

The latest incident involved overweight baggage. The Lego I'd bought for my son at a stopover in Greenville, S.C., had put my bags overweight by six pounds. (It's a lot of Lego, I know, but that's another story.) The man behind the counter asked me, straight-faced, whether I had a spare bag.

Because I always travel with a spare bag. Who doesn't?

"No," I answered, not feeling the need to elaborate.

"Oh well, that'll be a hundred bucks."

"For my son's Lego?"

"Well, if you had another bag, it'd be free," he said, now adding insult to idiocy.

Again with the bag.

"You can get one at the gift shop," he said. I bet you can, I thought.

So I huffed off to the gift shop - where the first bag I looked at was $130.

The lady behind this counter - clearly a frequent beneficiary of this racket - told me there was a cheaper - and rather uglier - bag for "just $46."

"Do I have to bend over too?" I wanted to ask, already taking out my wallet.

Airline-checker-in-guy, seeing me return with my new bag and thinking he'd done me a huge favor, was all garrulously friendly. "See, now it's free," he said.

"It's the same amount of weight going on the plane," I snipped. "And, by the way, the bag cost me $46."

His face darkened and I feared that my new black and orange tartaned valise would "be misplaced" on the direct flight to D.C. I've seen it happen. Piss of a guy like this or forget to tip a sky cap - and your bag is heading off to Kuala Lumpur. Not that there's anything wrong with K.L., except that you ain't heading there.

"Yes, thank you so much for that," I conceded the fight. You never win. You are powerless. You are cattle. Please enjoy your %#*&ing flight.

Just Capital

It's funny how whom you know in a city affects how you feel about the place.

I've returned to some of the greatest cities in the world but, because people I once knew there had moved on, the place felt changed - the memories that bound me to it dead or dying. The most bustling city in the world can feel cold and empty if you are there alone.

Coming back to Washington, D.C., even though so many of my friends and my wife and children have moved, felt wonderful - because I still know so many good people here.

Hell, I even bump into them on the street, home-town style.

When you know you can pick up the phone and invite some buddies out for lunch or a beer, you feel connected to the soul of the city. You're not just people-watching at a life you'll never share; it's your life too.

Spending time with some of my old friends over the last couple of days has been great - although a few of them are pissed at still being here.

The feel of autumn is in the air, with a nice crispness to the morning and a palette of colors taking hold of the trees - even if the cicadas and the frogs, those klaxons of summer, are still noisily making their presence felt.

And, as it always does, fall reminds me of South Dakota - another eternal home - and of the mixture of joy and dread that October always brought. Joy that it was cooler and beautiful and pheasant season was coming. Dread at what lay beyond: the winter's beat down that ground on mercilessly for months.

These thoughts of autumn, in turn, made me think of the upside-down seasons of New Zealand, my new home, where trees and bushes are just coming in to bloom and it is spring.

Three homes fondly remembered on a walk across the Key Bridge to work is a morning well spent.

Incontinental divide

The Pratt family haka quickly disintegrated into childish giggles.

It's funny the things you notice about a country when you've been away for a while.

My brother Jamie, who has just moved back to New York City after eight years in London has been particularly discomfited by what is indeed an abundance of TV ads of a certain nature.

Things about which one just didn't used to talk. Not in polite company. Certainly not in prime time as the family's settling down for a nice bit of PG-rated entertainment.

Hemorrhoids. Yeast infections. Erectile dysfunction. Incontinence. Male enhancement.

There seems to be trouble in the nether regions.

"What are you watching?" I asked my 13-year-old nephew as I strolled into the TV room.

"Um, you know ..." he began, when, with impeccable timing, on popped a commercial for Trojan condoms.

"Oh, I see," I said.

"Yeah," he said.

We lapsed into an uncomfortable silence as the presenter talked in completely inappropriate detail about the manifold advantages of Trojan.

"OK, then, I'll see you around," I said, as I shuffled out.

"Yeah, see you."

Jamie had wondered the night before what exactly was going on in the country.

He described the pictures of young house wives heading to the grocery store screwing up their faces in obvious discomfort, desperately trying to avoid peeing themselves.

"They're all doing it apparently," Jamie said. "It's some sort of epidemic."

The tirade had just begun. "What about the one with the guy on a bicycle with barbed wire on his seat?" Face scrunched up. Funny walks. "What the hell is wrong with us?"

And it's not just one or two. There's a whole stream of them. "Frequent urination?" "Vaginal discomfort?"

These are, of course, serious problems. But really, do we have to be confronted by such things while we're trying to have some chips and salsa with the football game? It's not really on. Well, actually, it is.

Unfortunately, the whole thing rather set the tone for the weekend. The above photograph gives some hint as to the level of maturity on display.

It's no wonder we're also bombarded by a slew of ads for anti-depressants. Storms are apparently brewing in our collective underwear.

Home is where the hearth is

A guy from just up the street here once said, "You can't go home again." What Thomas Wolfe meant, of course, was that time changes everything except the memories in your head. And you can't go back in search of them, because the reality is changed and will, in turn, destroy your memories. (He also meant that, once you've written about folk in an unflattering way, they'll kill you the next time they see you, but that doesn't quite work for the purposes of this blog entry.)

I figured that, having been gone just a few months, old Wolfie's aphorism couldn't hold much sway.

How wrong I was. Mum and Dad had seemingly exploded in their delight that their squatting family - that'd be us - had left. To say they gave the place a makeover would be like saying Joan Rivers has had "some work done."

Home didn't exactly look like we had left it.

During the nine months that they kindly allowed Amy, me and the boys to live here, they realized that they actually couldn't do without the place. So, not only did they take it off the market, they decided to "upgrade" it and move here permanently. The changes they have made to the little old farmhouse on a hill in Tryon, North Carolina, are stunning. And yet they have not changed the feel of the place. It's still a beautiful old cabin - that now works.

The new heart of the place is the outside fireplace. I don't think we spent more than five minutes all day away from it. Outrageously, there's even talk - poo-poohed for now, and rightly - about an outdoor TV.

Some things, of course, will never change.
There was still the tea on the porch and the now-adopted Southern way of a Carolina afternoon spent "gettin' reacquainted."

And that's where Wolfe, from Asheville, N.C., was wrong. He said, "You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ... back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time — back home to the escapes of Time and Memory."

But of course you can - when your people are still there, even if the place has changed a wee bit.

I just wish the rest of the crew had been here, especially Amy, the boys, and Lucy. Then, Mr. Wolfe, try telling me you can't go home again.

(Another sign of the great normality of family, at right, is Jamie taking a picture of himself - us included this time. We told Dad to get his nose out of the picture, and he disappeared.)

Back in Botany Bay

It's a strange feeling landing in Sydney, 24 years after I last touched down here.

So much life has passed.

Back then, straight off a 21st birthday party with a head-full of dreams and a resume-full of crap, Australia beckoned as a land of dreams. As it turned out, a degree that included Middle High German was as useless here as anywhere else - even if it was from St. Andrews.

Australia was beautiful, but the realization that the world wouldn't just open herself up to my command came pretty hard. A daily routine at a job my father had kindly arranged stood in stark contrast to the wild wonder of the place beyond the office.

It was a little overwhelming and I behaved badly often, trying to find my way in a life whose sole purpose for so long had been ... to go to Australia.

It is fitting that, as I sit here now, I recognize nothing of the inside of the airport. But looking outside at the same Botany Bay, where the English deposited their prisoners not so long ago, the emotions of that day come rushing back.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed my time in Australia - though there are certainly a few things I still try to forget - but it was a struggle. I was still full on in a Dylan Thomas phase when that was - and is - about as productive as, well, an upublished poet seeking fame and fortune in Australia. It was very different being wild and reckless in a farflung place to which I had absolutely no connection than it was back home. The lack of a safety net or a road map forward left me in the worst kind of limbo.

Had I been able to sit down with the devil I sought out so often during my last time
in Oz and make a deal about my life ahead, I'd have taken this. Oh Lord, would I have taken this. Amy and the boys? Hell yeah. A healthy Mum and Dad and Jamie and Lucy? Hell yeah. A life of adventure in weird and wonderful places with friends I'd do anything for? Hell yeah. Interesting work in two different careers? Hell yeah.

And perhaps that is the deal I made with the underworld. A few years of struggling to find my way, taking chunks out of myself as I went. And still coming out the other side smart enough to know the difference and give thanks in the right places.

It's funny, Botany Bay looks beautiful today.

The Wellington Cable Cars

We created a little make-up weekend on Wednesday. Naturally, after five gorgeous, calm and blue-sky days, Wellington returned to its gusty self for my day off. Amy had been giving me the type of looks a wife reserves for that special sort of husband idiocy that only comes along after more than 10 years of marriage. It was only later I realized that she thought the Wellington Cable Car I was suggesting we ride to the top of a hill was not, in fact, a gondola of the sort that might blow in such gusts like a poorly attached pendulum. Duly relieved, she rejoined the familial fun, but I caught her giving me these "what-the-hell-is-going-on?" looks throughout the remainder of the day. Suspicion does not die easily.

There really wasn't much going on except the giddy sense of joy of exploring a new city with family - and not having to work. It's a pretty sweet ride up the hill, with nice views of the town spreading out below us. You can also walk back down through the world-famous Wellington Botanical Gardens - world famous now that the guys from "Flight of the Conchords" mentioned them on "The Simpsons" the other day.

The only other thing of note is that we discovered we could all fit into a British phone booth. Not much you can do with that, except Morgan and Ewan will be able to tell their children that they are so old they were even around when there were still public phone booths. They will thank us one day, no doubt. Now that I look at the picture, it looks like an album cover. Everyone's looking very angst-ridden, fabulous and gorgeous. Definitely look like a rock band. Crowded House? Already taken here. Crowded Phonebooth? The Wellington Cable Cars, perhaps?

Take your "DC" and shove it

The greatest thing about having diplomatic plates on the car seems to be that the authorities will know just to send all our speeding tickets and parking fines straight to the embassy.

Diplomatic immunity here seems to mean we're immune to special treatment. Fair enough, I suppose - but you wouldn't think that should mean you actually get treated worse than everyone else.

So far we're up to two speeding tickets and two parking fines in our six weeks of driving in New Zealand. Makes you wonder...

Today was the third attempt to get "DC" plates (for Diplomatic Corps). There always seemed to be some secret paperwork that we were supposed to know to bring with us and, of course, didn't. But, we finally attached the plates, headed into town for some lunch, feeling all diplomatically and smug. We paid for two hours of parking.

After less than one hour we returned. And had a parking ticket. Aha, we said, we'll be able to fight this one, righteous anger rising in our chests.

Or not.

Apparently we'd received an extra special ticket - courtesy of our DC plates? - for parking outside the lines. I am not making that up. This even sounds like complete bullshit. A kindergarten coloring demerit. But that's what we got.

It's widely known that the Kiwis don't like "tall poppies." Perhaps this is how they deal with foreigners who are too big for their britches.

But not parking inside the lines? Really?

Great White Bait

Not quite what you expect when you're hauling in your bait net. But this is what a couple of likely lads fishing just outside Wellington harbor caught yesterday. While it's not a massive great white - coming in at around 8 feet - you always wonder "where's Mama?"

Well, there are still no snakes in New Zealand, so that's something right?

Wellington Boots

Why, oh why, are Wellington Boots called gumboots in Wellington?

Yes, these are the deep questions that keep me up at night. But "wellies" are named after the First Duke of Wellington, as is the capital city of New Zealand. The boot was popularized by the duke, aka Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington. Then rich folk, also derided in Scotland as the "yahs" for the way they pronounced the word for the affirmative, adopted wellies in the early 19th century.

The Duke, not he of "True Grit" fame, told his shoemaker to adapt the Hessian boot. The resulting new boot was fabricated in soft calfskin leather, had the trim removed and was cut to fit more closely around the leg, according to Wikipedia and for the one fashionista who reads this blog.

As if the whole gumboot scandal were not enough, the Kiwis have even changed the name of the classic Billy Connolly song, "Where would you be if it wasnae fer your wellies?" to use the offending gumboot word.

You would, in fact, be in the hospital or the infirmary.

This whole outrage makes me sad. I have, in protest, refused to wear gumboots and have been treated to a sensation I have not felt since my days as a school boy in Scotland: soggy socks. Your principles always come at a cost. Long live wellies.

As Forrest Gumpboot might say, that's all I've got to say about that.

Mana from heaven

Mana Island, off the Southwestern coast of New Zealand's North Island.

I had a fascinating discussion with some Kiwi students about whether there is such a thing as a shared New Zealand culture, a common set of values.

A female Pakeha - a Kiwi of European descent - said that, though she was white, she felt completely connected to the Maori culture. One of her contemporaries, also Pakeha, said she felt fraudulent when using Maori words or customs. She believed that New Zealand, still a young country, should still be searching for and creating a common, uniting culture.

A foreign student, who'd been in the country about six years, said that, to him, it was the adoption of the Maori traditions - the use of phrases and customs - that brought the young generation together.

Two young Maori students, while deeply proud of their roots and tradtions, said that they felt separate from the Pakeha community because of them.

While not many folks in New Zealand speak Maori (te reo), the culture is fully embraced. Only about 15 percent of the population - mainly the Maori - speak the language any more. That estimate may be high. But formal events are always kicked off and ended with Maori phrases, real-time interpretation of the Maori Party's speeches, is carried in Parliament. Students at schools study the haka and learn Maori songs and the powhiri - the traditional greeting ceremony - is a normal event.

Embracing the Maori traditions is a sign of respect from the Pakeha, though relations, stemming from the controversial Waitangi Treaty, have always been strained.

During the course of the long discussion the word "mana" kept popping up. Everybody seemed to know what it meant, but had difficulty giving a definition. When I looked it up in the Maori dictionary, I could see why. The defintion goes on for ever.

"(Noun) prestige, authority, control, power, influence, status, spiritual power, charisma - mana is a supernatural force in a person, place or object. Mana goes hand in hand with tapu one affecting the other. The more prestigious the event, person or object, the more it is surrounded by tapu and mana. Mana is the enduring, indestructible power of the atua and is inherited at birth, the more senior the descent, the greater the mana. The authority of mana and tapu is inherited and delegated through the senior line from the atua as their human agent to act on revealed will. Since authority is a spiritual gift delegated by the atua, man remains the agent, never the source of mana. This divine choice is confirmed by the elders, initiated by the tohunga under traditional consecratory rites (tohi). Mana gives a person the authority to lead, organise and regulate communal expeditions and activities, to make decisions regarding social and political matters. A person or tribe's mana can increase from, successful ventures or decrease through the lack of success. The tribe give mana to their chief and empower him/her and in turn the mana of an ariki or rangatira spreads to his/her people and their land. Almost every activity has a link with the maintenance and enhancement of mana and tapu. Animate and inanimate objects can also have mana as they also derive from the atua and because of their own association with people imbued with mana or because they are used in significant events."

They were right when they said there was no English equivalent. To me the word conjures up the feeling I get when I think about the highlands of Scotland. A sense of ancestral connectedness to the land, of nostalgic power and spiritual belonging to a part of the world that is home, in the interior sense. For the boys that seems to have transferred to South Dakota.

I may, of course, be completely wrong.

The similarity to the word "manna," the spiritual food supplied to the Israelites in the wilderness is also striking.

Hearing the young students so openly discuss such matters - without animus or gratuitous charges of racism - was extremely encouraging, though it shows that matters are not settled.

The evening ended with one of the Maori students making a speech. Every speech is celebrated by a song, and a young woman duly offered the haunting melody in Maori. About half of the large group joined in and it was beautiful.

Foot in mouth

I committed my first diplomatic blunder today - and ended up insulting a Scot. Who'd a thunk?

In my defense, I'll offer only that I've been sick and have an ear infection.

I met a lovely lady who introduced herself. It was loud in the cafe with all the clattering of coffee cups and chattering drinkers. I didn't catch her first name at all. I thought she said her last name was Cameron.

"Oh," I said, "like the new prime minister of England?"

"No," she replied sternly and with some vigour, "Like the &$^%$&*@ clan in Scotland."

There's no coming back from that.