The Lost Art of the Lunchtime Pint

When I was growing up in Glasgow, it was perfectly normal to see guys in suits hoisting a couple of pints at lunch time. Pubs in London would be full of swiggers over the noon hour.


It never made sense to me. A pint at lunch would put me to sleep by two. Three pints at lunch and I'd be writing headlines filled either with typos or faux poetry. Beer and work have never gone together for me.

I remember a report in the late 1980's that talked about the Martini trade. Sober stockbrockers waited until after lunch to pounce on booze-created stupidity by some of their less temperate competitors. Even in Britain now, the vast majority of businesses have banned lunch time nips and are ready to test their employees.

I arrived in America well after drinking at lunch was socially acceptable. It was always something you saw chain-smoking guys wearing fedoras do in black-and-white movies - right before they ducked, covered and rolled. A whole culture of Three Martinis and a quickie were just things we read about. If a waitress asked us if we'd like to see the wine list at lunch we'd laugh about it.

But the habit of partaking in a pint of the amber nectar or a glass of vino at lunch is alive and well in New Zealand. It was quite a shock to the system at first, going into a pub and seeing all these guys in pinstripes ordering a pint with their lunch and then heading off to work.

I'm not being judgmental. Actually, I think it's quite nice.

Nobody looks the worse for wear as they leave.

Come to think of it, though, it might explain the general animation of Question Time in Parliament.

Gossip Rags

My old newspaper buddies might appreciate this. Or not. Today of all days I don't care.

In a genuine quest for knowledge, I asked a colleague here what the New Zealand media's equivalent of "Page Six" was.

Without missing a beat, she said, "Page One."

I needed that today.

A match for the ages - or the aged

It had been 28 years since I last slipped on some batting pads and took to the cricket field. Let me tell you, there was considerably more exercise than promised. But today I played again.

When I left the house this morning, Amy asked me why I wasn't wearing my cricket whites. I had to tell her that if you walked through the streets of Glasgow in whites you were likely to be chased by a rabid mob of Glaswegians who were convinced that cricket was an English game for toffs.

I recounted this exchange to a couple of my new team mates. "Oh, I don't think you'd have to worry about that in Wellington," one of them said.

"Not sure about that, mate," another replied. "I was drinking with a bunch of Scots last night. They seemed like the chasing sort."

On Sunday I was invited to take part in a match between the New Zealand Parliamentarians and the Wellington diplomatic corps. (For a shield, no less.) We'd been warned that the pols were notoriously ... how shall we say, loose with the rules. Being a diplomat, all I'll say is that the Kiwi pols are remarkably young - and fit.

As you've probably already determined, we lost and lost good. By 60 runs. Now for my American friends that's not as bad as it sounds - but it's plenty bad.

It didn't begin well. Our fearless captain - who shall remain nameless, but was an Aussie - announced before we ran out onto the pitch that he had been out until 5 a.m. He did concede that he hadn't been drinking Guinness all night - he'd switched to whisky around 1 a.m.

"Thanks for the inspiring speech," one of our already dispirited team members said, as our captain threw him the match ball. "Oh crap, you mean we're playing with a real ball?"

The cricket ball, as I rediscovered too frequently, is really hard.

My personal highlights were that I was the only one from our team to bowl anyone out, ending with two wickets in two overs - which, for you non-cricket aficionados, is pretty damn good. And not at all reflected by this video. The batsman wasn't ready, I wasn't baulking, in baseball parlance.


What is reflected in the video is my general creakiness. Still, bowling out two people (one of them in front of my family), made up for the sunburn.

"Oh, it's such a distant memory," said one of my teamcmates after he'd dropped an easy catch.

"What's that?" I asked.

"My athleticism."

Lunch time - yes, we stopped for lunch for the obligatory cucumber sandwiches - was a bit more somber. We paused for a minute of silence for the miners of West Pike River (hence the duct-tape black armband on my shirt).



The suspiciously young (oops, I did it again) parliamentarians left us with a hefty total of 178 to chase in 30 overs. Our opening batsmen seemed to think they were playing in a five-day test match. To say they were lethargic would be like calling a sloth hyper. By the time it was my turn to bat, we needed 20 runs an over - that's more than three a ball, for you non-cricketers, and I was told to swing for the fences. My batting was appalling, but I swung for the fences, and was caught for two.

With two balls left, we needed sixty runs. Someone helpfully called this stat out to our batsman.

"She'll be right, mate," our Aussie captain said matter of factly. Apparently he was still a little soused.


I can't believe we lost to this rag tag, if young, bunch. Actually, I can.

The Last Family on Earth

Even just a few kilometers from our house, it is possible to get lost in the glorious isolation of nature. The last people on the planet. There's really no such thing as going for a little stroll in or around Wellington. It's mountainous. The sun in this ozone-deprived environment is hard; you can almost feel it taking chunks out of you. But the payoffs are simply spectacular. The air is pure. The views take you out of yourself. And your body feels strengthened for the exercise.



Perhaps New Zealand, the newest land on earth - geologically speaking - is where the Creator went just to do some showing off after he'd finished all the useful bits: the rainforests and insects and the freshwater lakes and the fertile soil. New Zealand was playtime, a purple passage, the flashy guitar solo at the end of the mandatory song structure. The World Expo where he could display just what he was capable of. It sure feels that way. Just when you run the risk of scenic overload, of being numbed by the sheer random beauty of things, you turn the corner ... and there's more. Even the sheep - usually God's only audience out here - seem impressed.


But we soldier on, not wanting to disrespect. Even though Ewan's feet were hurting and he's usually more impressed by the fineness of a chocolate bar, he grumbled appreciatively at times. It is only polite and reverent.



There are a seemingly endless number of hikes in or around Wellington. But the locals don't just wander around the Tasman staring uselessly like us. Once we came down from the mountain there were dozens of spearfishermen snorkeling off the rocks. They were bringing in their daily limit of five abalone - or paua, in the Maori - even though it's not quite summer yet. It was a perfect calm day for it. And we liked watching them - even if we suddenly weren't the last folks on earth anymore.

The wee Kiwi churches and the Jedi

I'm no great student of religion or religiosity, but I have been struck by the simple beauty of many of the small churches in New Zealand. The Kiwis are not an overly religious folk. There's certainly very little ostentatious churchiness on display. The New Zealanders don't really like anything overtly fundamentalist - religious or political or even sporting (excepting anything to do with the All Blacks). They like their intellectual space and the freedom to make up their own mind.

This manifests itself at many levels. They think of themselves as can-do people and prefer being left to their own devices. Nobody is believed to be inherently better or more advantaged than anyone else. But this cult of egalitarianism also leads to the tall-poppy syndrome, where people who rise to great heights in any field get chopped off at the knees. New Zealand is stuck comfortably somewhere in between the old British class system from which many of their ancestors decended and the American belief in striving for success.

In any event, the last census showed that just over half the population claimed to be Chrisitan. But regular church attendance is much lower than that, perhaps around 15 percent and about 30 percent claim no religious affiliation. I once heard someone say that that makes most people in New Zealand atheist. I certainly don't buy that, but I would say that it appears most people here are passively religious.

Before the arrival of the pakehas - the Europeans - the Maoris were animistic but converted or were converted to Christianity. There are about 40,000 Muslims in this land of 4.5 million people.

As if to underscore the casual attitude towards religion, more than 53,000 people listed themselves as Jedi in New Zealand's 2001 census (about 1.5% of responses). If the Jedi response had been accepted as valid, it would have been the second largest religion in New Zealand. Their responses were not accepted, which strikes me as some sort of religious discrimination. But I'll leave it at that, because I know what can happen when you start getting into religious disputes. Especially with Star Wars freaks.

There are, of course, big churches, too. Below is a picture of Christchurch Cathedral, one of the country's most beautiful edifices. Luckily it had been earthquake-proofed before the recent temblor there. It sustained only minor damage. And I still prefer the wee churches of New Zealand.

Happy Thanksgiving, I guess

While I wish my friends and family in the States an unabashed Happy Thanksgiving, it seems a little strange, in the light of the mining calamity here, to be counting our blessings.

The country is in mourning, flags are at half staff, and newspapers are filled with the pictures of the 29 dead - including Joseph Dunbar. He had just turned 17 the day before the disaster. In New Zealand you have to be 17 to work in the mines. So that fateful Friday almost a week ago was, literally, his first day on the job.

The stories are heartbreaking, each and every one of them.

So we'll be keeping it respectfully low this Thanksgiving. And we'll be grateful that we don't have to watch the Detroit Lions.

But I thought I'd try to give you a little guilty pleasure. Below (yes, it's another Haka video) is how bad you can look if you don't know how to perform the hooker, as he calls it. Denzel Washington, one of the great actors of our time, can't hack it - pun intended. He's trying to keep up with All Blacks greats Michael Jones, Frano Botica and a few others. Happy Turkey Day.

The tale of a lost hat regained

The old memory banks are often generous, if not always reliable, and so we are burdened to live perpetually in the shadow of the Halcyon Days. In reality, of course, the gnawing worries of the past have merely been replaced by newer agonies.

And, because the old worries have now resolved themselves, we figure they were never that bad in the first place.

The truth, we know, is different. We live and love and suffer in the present. And worry, always, about the future.

Two related events have sparked this. I have just bought tickets to the USA-Russia Rugby World Cup 2011 game. This took me on a nostalgia trip to Sydney, Australia, 23 years ago when I went to a couple of games at the first ever RWC. Coincidentally, while unpacking our stuff upon arrival in Wellington recently, I stumbled across my photos of that time.

The pictures of four young lads spilled across time out of an envelope. We looked the very embodiment of young, cocky happiness. But I also had flashbacks to the reality, which was very different.

My dream in life for many years had been to emigrate to Australia and become a famous journalist. I headed over there after graduating from university to a good management-trainee position with a large textile company.

After a few months it became apparent that I wasn't going to get a newspaper job, far less be allowed to stay in Australia. In a moment of existential angst and petty outrage, I quit my job, maxed out my credit card to buy a bike, camping equipment and panniers. I'd met a guy up the coast at Christmas who ran a small banana plantation. He'd said I could work for him.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Turns out he was a long way up the coast. But I cycled up there and worked long enough to earn enough money to head up to Cairns, 2730 kms from Sydney. There were a lot of adventures and characters on the way.

The loneliness, though, was hard. I'd ride into a small town or village - which grew increasingly far apart - set up camp for the night and head to the nearest bar. Nobody ever knicked my stuff, and I'm not sure how happy I was about that.

When I got to Cairns I looked around, thought it was nice, but wondered what was next. What was I really going to do with my life? So, like Forrest Gump, I decided I'd had enough, sold my bike and hitchhiked back to Sydney with a fellow vagabond. In the manner of all great adventures, it ended with a vague sense of achievement, but no satisfaction. The adventurer's great woe: accomplishing his goal.

Now broke as hell, Jon, my new traveling companion, and I were forced to share a room in a doss-house in King's Cross, Sydney's red light district - one used by the hookers. Professionally, I mean. I got a job at a factory distribution center with bad hours thrown in just to rub in my change of station.

I'd have to leave for work in the middle of the night, walking past the same women on the same corners night after night. We nodded at each other in mutual misery.

Then for no reason other than it was King's Cross, I ran into two old school friends. On different occasions. None of us had known the other was down under and this made the bond more fast. We spent a couple of great weeks together, seeing things we should never have seen. Jon, who had a long-term girlfriend, fell in love from a distance with a prostitute he dubbed Clementine, who worked across the street. When I came home from work, he'd be staring out the window mournfully telling me of her doings. There's a longer story there, but not the one you're thinking of.

When it came time for the Rugby World Cup I was so broke I had to pawn my camera and my knock-off Akubra hat. Who the hell pawns a hat? But we went to games - including the US-England game, where, as all good Scotsmen will, we cheered heartily but in vain for the U.S.

But, looking at the pictures today, I remember the train ride back from the last game. It was a painful journey, on a number of fronts, as the picture above partially explains. We all realized that the time we'd had together had been, in a strange way, magical, but that we were really just losers waiting to happen - losers without hats - and that we needed to get a life of some description, far less achievement.

Jon's girlfriend came for a vist and dragged him away from Clementine. The others moved on too. It gave me time to save some money - even if I had to shoulder the full cost of the dosser myself. The day I left for the airport to return to Scotland, I had enough money to redeem my camera and my hat, which, for some strange reason, no one had bought.

And now my 14-year-old son Morgan wears it.




And that, I suppose, is the moral of this very long story.

Second explosion - No hope

A second explosion has been reported at the Pike River Mine. Authorities have said that the force of the blast was such that none of the trapped miners could have survived.

The rescue mission has turned into a recovery mission. The long, hard fight is over and so many hearts are broken.

So final. So sad.

No Signs of Life

For the first time officials involved in the Pike River Mine disaster are using words like "grave" and "bleak." The possibility of some deaths is being talked about. A camera entered the mine and picked up no signs of life. No noises have been heard. The very real possibility of a new explosion is keeping rescuers frustrated and on the sidelines.

The hopes of a Chilean-like miracle are fading.

Camera lowered into mine finds no signs of life | Stuff.co.nz

Help is being flown in from all over the world. But even many Kiwis, who are usually relentlessly upbeat, have begun to think of the worst. People apologize when they give voice to their fears. "I'm sorry but ..." they'll begin. Noone argues.

For the Kiwis, who love to grab life by the reins and take charge of their own destiny, sitting around powerlessly is anathema. People want to do something - anything. Instead there is more of this interminable waiting.

And, because noone can do anything, optimism is dying. It's a slow-motion crushing of the collective soul. Now there is only prayer.

Pike River Mine Disaster

The whole of New Zealand is focused on the Pike River Mine. It's just been announced that there will be no rescue attempt tonight - the fourth night since an explosion closed down the mine and left 29 miners unaccounted for.

It's still too dangerous to send in robots and other equipment. The bore hole into the mine should be finished overnight and that should allow cameras and listening equipment to be deployed.

But the silence coming from the mine is ominous, though everyone involved in the rescue mission remains optimistic.



This is the worst sort of primal nightmare, to be trapped deep underground with no knowledge of what is going on in the outside world. Offers of help have poured in from all over the world and a crew stands ready to go in whenever the environment is deemed safe enough.

Hopefully that will be soon.

The Tyranny of Distance, The Ache of Beauty

Newly arrived Europeans felt, rightly, as if they had come to the ends of the earth when they arrived in New Zealand. Thoughts about how far from home they were, and how unlikely a return was, were crushing. Letters took months, news came slowly and too late to react to, for, by the time it came, a new, unknown reality had already taken shape.

It still takes a long time to get to New Zealand from the states - usually a full two days - but what is that compared to the early travellers? The internet, phone calls - even of the video variety - and email have taken the edge off the tyranny of distance.

This makes it easier to enjoy a life in New Zealand, even if it is a long way from family and friends. You can actually contemplate a fond re-union.

The ache of beauty, though, that's another thing. The sights and sounds and smells of the place - the very purity and freshness of the air - create a different kind of pain. I have stood on mountains here and looked over the roaring Tasman and felt a stab of something. A weird twinge of not belonging? Of knowing it is only temporary? Jealousy? The regret of knowing that a return to city life is just around the corner?



There is something awesome about feeling as if you could be the only person on the planet - a sensation you get often in New Zealand. I felt something similar in West River, South Dakota, where you look out over an empty landscape and know that it has been unchanged for millennia. It's a haunting sense of awe and, perhaps, a little jolt of misery about modern life and our urban ways.



My friend Aric, who's been backpacking and hitchhiking his way around New Zealand has just posted some spectacularly beautiful pictures of his time on the South Island. It hurts to look at them. It makes me look forward to early December when we'll all be heading down there to tramp around the back country. Here are a couple more of them.

Up yours, Dylan, I'm back

I had to ask for a blogospheric intervention - which isn't as painful as it sounds - from my friend, Jim.

Yes, his comment at the end of my last entry was planted.

I beg your indulgence while I explain.

It's lonely out here in the publishing netherworld, this alternate reality where you can reach everyone, but really connect with no one.

I've been religiously writing this blog every day for two months now, more than 70 entries and still have not had as many page views - forget readers - as I would get for a single one of my columns at any of my newspapers, large or small.

It's easy to believe it's all a giant waste of time and that I'm turning into the writer's equivalent of the dishevelled homeless guy on the street nattering away madly to himself. The guy that people won't make eye contact with. The guy they cross the street to avoid.

So, for the last two weeks or so I've been writing my blog entries under headlines that are Bob Dylan songs. Just to see if anyone would notice. Nobody did and, to keep up the literary masturbation, I found myself tailoring my daily observations to the next song title. (Although "I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine" was perfect.)

The point of this blog was being skewed. Particularly in light of the fact that the next Dylan song in line was "Arthur McBride" and that I had 12 more pages of song titles to get through. I don't know any Arthur McBrides and, frankly, he doesn't sound like any type of fellow I'd like to meet.



It's a fine song, all right. But what the hell are you supposed to write?

So I had to ask Jimbo to plant the comment, brilliantly pointing out my ruse. Just so that I could stop. I needed help, y'all.

Now today my petty vanity, my need for affirmation, was kindly and coincidentally filled by a string of kind friends (three, actually - but out here in The Land of the Long White Cloud that's all it takes) making appreciative noises about my musings. (Thanks, John. I know you have worse things to worry about in Haiti than my blog.)

In other words, I'm OK and over my little problem.

The seeds of this existential crisis were planted years ago by something my journalism mentor Conrad Fink once said. As editor of the local paper I had just rolled out some changes to our business section. I was expecting a stream of negative feedback. Fink called me about midday to ask how things were going.

"Brilliant," I said. "I haven't heard a thing from a single reader."

In my mind that was roaring approval from our beloved subscribers.

Not in Fink's.

"That's not necessarily a good thing, Pratt," he said.

My heart sank. "How come?"

"It might just mean that nobody's reading you."

Well thanks for that, I thought, and, apparently also for a lifetime of literary insecurity.

Possible Dylan headlines for this particular lament? "Beyond this lies nothing"? "Don't Fall Apart on Me Tonight"? "Desolation Row"? "Disease of Conceit"?

No, I'd have to go with "It's All Good."

And it is. And, oh by the way, New Zealand. I had to mention it. It is, after all, what this blog is supposed to be about.

All I Really Want to Do

For the last two months I have been rhapsodizing about New Zealand.

I've written about the people, the places, the sense of humor. I've admitted to being a fan of the place.

Well, just to prove that, in the lingo of the British Foreign Service, I haven't gone native, let me tell you everything I don't like about Kiwiland.



Well, for one, they don't have Coors Light here.

And ... well, that's about it. But that's enough, right?

Without sounding vaguely alcoholic, it's a Friday night and all I really want to do is to have a few Coors with some old friends. It has nothing to do with the fact that I'm sitting here with four kids - two of whom I've inherited because it's ladies' night out and Amy's on the town with her buddies.

Funny, the conversation I'm having with the four-year old son of our great neighbors reminds me of many late nights from days gone by - except nobody's yelling "last call" at me.

He's telling me about a truly terrifying turtle that eats people. It has sharp claws, big teeth and a poisonous tail. He's obviously very concerned, because the story, captivating as it is, has been going on for some time.

Actually, now he's just talking to himself.

So, where was I? Oh yes, if I were in St. Augustine, Fla., I'd be on Sutton's deck or in one of the Tiki huts at the Conch House. Perhaps talking about mad turtles that eat people. Perhaps not. It never seemed to matter much back then. The views were too good, the living too easy.

In Athens, Ga., it was always the Washington Street Tavern on a Friday night. We were newsroom people back then, so what we said was always important. We would have argued for hours about whether turtles ate people, but it would have meant something.

In South Dakota I'd be sitting at The Ward with a group of friends - two of them now, unbelievably and heart-breakingly, no longer with us - and the turtles would be funny. Because in South Dakota, when it was -20 outside and worse with the wind chill, there wasn't anything scary. Not a damn thing.

The turtle wouldn't be all that funny on our deck in Costa Rica. At night, after the sun went down and we were alone at the top of our dark hill, we always imagined that the creatures of the night, the snakes and the scorpions and the poisonous toads, were just beyond the pale light of our lamps - stalking us. Come to think of it, though, they don't have Coors Light in Tilaran either. So that doesn't count.

In State College, the turtles would have been too scared to go to the Hotel California. Mean they might be, but stupid not.

Then, of course, there is the porch in Tryon, North Carolina. Friday nights were always good there. As the night descended and we became one with the forest, nothing else mattered. For it was home. And there was family.

And Coors Light.

A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall

For the first month in New Zealand, Morgan joked that the TV weather report was exactly the same every night. The labels with town names would be sticking out from underneath a vast white cloud that covered the entire country. Sure, they’d vary the temperature up or down a little, and the wind speeds – you have to justify a paycheck somehow – but, other than that, it was Groundhog Day for weathermen.

Now don’t get me wrong, the weather isn't bad here. We’ve actually been spoiled since we’ve been here. We’ve had many glorious days and not nearly as much rain as threatened. It’s just that everything changes here so quickly. The infamous wind can come roaring in and take the clouds out to sea in seconds. Suddenly gloom is gone and hints of summer warm the cockles of your heart. Then, just as suddenly, more clouds arrive and with them the aggrieved rain.

Last night, though, the weather report showed nothing but a green New Zealand map. It was the first time we actually saw the shape of the two islands. The weather reporter boldly predicted a clear, fine day – all day. I looked at Morgan; he shrugged his shoulders. Somewhat dismissively, I thought.

Before I went to bed, I laid out my running gear for my early morning outing. Shorts. T-shirt. That was it.

Next morning I headed out the door - and into a hard rain and an aggressive wind. A portentous shrug, it appears.

The Shape I'm In

Despite being grotesquely out of shape, I've decided to run another half-marathon because, to be frank, this one just sounds like the coolest little race I've heard of.

There's so little information available about the story behind the race that it has taken on
mythical proportions. Here's what I know: In 1994 a group of runners were doing their thing along the Matai Valley outside Nelson when they were attacked and chased by a wild boar. Now, as you can see by the pictures, the wild boar is nothing to be sniffed at.

At some stage a man by the name of Trevor Ruffell came to their rescue, eventually having to drown the boar in a river. As one does.

Naturally this was a good enough reason to have a race. And so was born the Trevor
Ruffell Tusk Trophy.

But, wait, there's more!

The winner is the person whose actual time comes closest to his or her pre-race estimate. You tell organizers how fast you think you're going to run the 13.1 miles and then go for it. The plot thickens, however. There are no watches, no timers, no means whatsoever of pacing yourself other than by the finely-tuned instrument that is your body. Every winner in the last decade has been within 10 seconds of his predicted time and a couple of years ago one guy actually nailed it dead on.

So the winner could actually be someone who finishes in twice the time as the guy who crosses the line first. And wins a trophy with tusks on it.

I like that.

It's Hell Time, Man

No, not just an excuse for another Haka picture; an actual story.


Think of New Zealand and you think of the All Blacks. Think of the All Blacks and you think of the Haka.

It is the war-dance the New Zealand Rugby team uses to terrify their opponents before a game. Purists and historians will tell you it is not simply a war dance. Anyone who has stood facing a haka will laugh at that. It is an act of intimidation, a warning.

And yet this traditional Maori dance is embroiled in a most modern of conflicts: a trademark dispute involving lawyers.

A lower North Island iwi - the Maori equivalent of a tribe - called the Ngati Toa was trying to control the rights to the Ka Mate haka traditionally performed by the All Blacks. The Ngati Toa claim ancestral rights to the Ka Mate, written by one of their early chiefs. The All Blacks themselves have been using that particular haka for more than 100 years.

The dispute is said to be close to resolution.

After watching what the All Blacks did to my homeland team of Scotland over the weekend I have a potential alternative solution should the lawyers not able to come to an agreement.

The Scots put on quite a show before the match. They darkened the stadium. A lone bagpiper stood atop the roof of the stands, illuminated against the night time sky playing songs that themselves were played before wars of old. The Scottish team ran onto the pitch to a massive roar before the 50,000 on hand sang a rousing rendition of "Oh Flower of Scotland." (When I went to the Rugby games at Murrayfield all we got was "God Save the Queen," the English national anthem. We whistled vigorously during its singing, because we were rebels that way.)

Every hair on the back of my neck was standing up and I had goosebumps and was ready to take the field and run the ball down the All Blacks' throat myself.

In fact, the Scots took a 3-0 lead and it was happiness.

It was brief happiness, as all Scottish sporting-related happiness is. In fact, it seemed that all that Scottish fanfare and pageantry had fired up ... the New Zealanders. Simply put, the All Blacks destroyed the Scots - 49-3 - who looked like they had expended all their energy and aggression on the national anthem.

So, if the haka is out for the All Blacks, why not just adopt "Oh Flower of Scotland." The Scots don't need it anymore, apparently.

Blowin' in the Wind

You can't ignore the wind in Wellington. So you might as well do something good with it.

Sure, wind energy is nice (yawn!). Plans are underway to have the country produce a third of its power with wind power. That's all well and good and important, I suppose.

But the New Zealanders have also embraced their artistic side to flaunt their gusting gifts. There's a lot of wind art around. The large orange Zephyrometer pictured above acts like a celestial speedometer, bending according to wind strength. Hey, it's a lot better having fun with it than pretending it's not a real fact of life. And wind chimes wouldn't last long here. So, what about it South Dakota? Sounds like a project that could take off - literally.

Anyway, just keep the wind art away from what we've dubbed the tredges, see below.

Shelter from the Storm

New Zealand is a windy place. No two ways about it. Often the wind seems to come
from two directions at once. As it did in South Dakota, the wind will stalk you. You will run a couple of miles into the wind in one direction, looking forward to some respite on the way back. Thing is, when you turn around, the wind is there waiting for you. Looking for some face time.


The Kiwis, obviously, are aware of this issue and have created these monstrously wonderful windbreaks. They have sculpted tree lines into ginormous hedgerows that sometimes stand sixty feet tall. Creativity is needed. Wellington is located at 41 degrees latitude - the Roaring Forties. We passed a lot of wind farms on the way to Napier this weekend. If New Zealand did more of this - if, in fact, the country used just one percent of the land that lends itself to wind power for that purpose, they'd be able to create twice as much electricity as they use in a year. Think about that from behind your wind shelter.

On The Road Again

Apart from a perfectly useful three-year old trying to commit suicide, today was a great day.



As soon as we crossed the Ruahine Range the weather turned around. We left Wellington in winter and arrived to a Hastings, east coast summer. Te Mata peak had been the family compromise. I'd wanted to head to Lake Waikaremoana, but it was a little far. Te Mata would give us a panoramic view, a little exercise and we'd still be able to get to Napier for some family tourist stuff.




Napier was completely obliterated by a massive earthquake in 1931. In fact the land
I'm sitting on now was underwater until the temblor pushed it up. The entire town was rebuilt in the Art Deco style that was in vogue at the time. Along with Miami Beach, it is now considered the best preserved Art Deco town in the world and, in 2007, was nominated as a World Heritage site.

It is a wonderful little place, made for a Hercule Poirot episode. I can't really place it. The emerald green water and the palm trees say one thing; the immaculate gardens and the Boer War memorial on the town square say another. I never imagined a place such as this in New Zealand - a fondue pot of Australia, Florida, Caribbean, California, England. Well, actually that list makes my point for me. Napier is a place uniquely New Zealand.

While enjoying lunch at a streetside cafe, I saw a little girl leaning her head out
of the back of the window of a moving car, mad-dog style. By the time I'd pointed her out to Morgan, she'd already climbed out, her feet on the door, her hands on the roof rack, a little lass train surfing. Somebody shouted out to the oblivious parents in the front seat and the situation was quickly rectified. But that was a horrific accident narrowly averted.

At least I'll be spared the bad-parent-of-the-week award. For this week.

Napier is a bit of a tourist town, there's no denying. In fact, come February for Art Deco Weekend, the place is full up. Still, the point is there are lots of gaudy things to do: Segue rides around the park, mini golf - all the obligatory things you frown upon in your home town but dive into when you think you don't know anyone around you.

We opted for kayaking in a windy lagoon and had joy unabashed. The kind of fun you'd be far too mature to have at home. That's why there are no pictures posted - you won't have any proof.

I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine

One of the first times I went out with Amy we ended up at The Beachcomber in St. Augustine Beach, Fla.

Our first dates were grotesquely unsuccessful - my credit card was torn up on the first one - and this one was no exception. My ultra-cool Jeep CJ-7 was basking roofless in the sun when I picked Amy up. The sun was beautiful and the air cool as we drove out of town - a trendy young couple on the go.

Until the rains came. And continued to come.

We retreated to St. Augustine, the water in the Jeep rising as quickly as Amy's opinion of me was dropping. I decided to fall back on an old favorite, the Beachcomber: the food was always reasonable, the beer was cheap and, even on a dark, rainy night such as that one, you could hear the ocean flirting with the beach.

Obviously our relationship was not doomed to oblivion after that dark and stormy night, and I give the Beachcomber a little of the credit - it certainly wasn't my sodden features and squidgy socks.

The Beachcomber, which sits on St. Augustine Beach, one of the few strands in
Florida on which you can still drive, has been an old friend we've visited each time we return to St. Augustine.

Last time I was there, my buddy Jimbo even had a beer with his breakfast - it's that kind of forgiving place. He and I have spent much time there solving the problems of the world - so much time, in fact, that we've created a few new ones. Not once have I sat there - even though I moved away from St. Augustine 15 years ago - without meeting an old friend.

The best part about an afternoon at the Beachcomber - apart from the buckets of peel-and-eat shrimp - was just staring out to sea and dreaming of far-away places. (Now that view is obscured by dunes that were made to stop the endless cycle of erosion.) The clientele are easy-going folk in flip-flops who are in no hurry to leave and easy with a story. There is always a smell of suntan lotion in the air.

We've been looking for a New Zealand version since we arrived here. We've found some good contenders - certainly the scenery has been unbeatable. In some the food has left a lot to be desired; others have been too spendy or too upscale; another was hosting Classic American cars.

Today we stumbled upon the Bach Cafe (I know, I just discovered this word - read the entry below this one - and now I can't get away from it.) Dang, the view was fine, especially when the Interislander ferry crept in front of a snow-covered Southern Alp. The food was exceptional and time definitely seemed to lose some of its meaning there. It is certainly worth visiting again. Just to linger.

Now we just need a few friends to share some beer and stories with. The great thing about being in New Zealand is that, staring out at the water, I no longer dream of far-away places - cos look where that got me last time!

So we've renamed the place the Bach-comber. It'll have to do for now.

Kiwinglish 3

The ear on the hull was frish. Frisher than in the volley. Tramping is on my lust of sucks things to do with the cuds when they git a holiday. (For a translation, see chart below.)

I'm not drunk. Three months in New Zealand (New Zillund)and I still don't quite have the ear for the accent - or the vernacular.

I'm confused when I read that people are all rarked up because the fees at the tip are more than kerb-side rubbish pick-up. When someone tells me they're stonkered I want to ask them how much they've smoked.



Everything here is "sweet as," or "good as," and it sounds as if they're talking about someone's derriere. I don't know if flossies and floozies are the same. Or if you graduate from the former to the latter.

When I read an article about Rototuna I felt the copy editor's shock of delight when I came across a typo. The writer talked of a lovely bach. Gotcha, I thought, like all the readers who for years delighted in calling me at work to tell me how idiotic everyone at the newspaper was because of the misspelling on B-8, third paragraph.

But then she talked of a mountainside bach and I was lost. Turns out a bach is a holiday home (maybe from bachelor pad?).

I'm sure if any Kiwis read this we'll get into a stoush, but I don't know if that's a good thing or not.

Kiwi honesty

When is being surrounded by a good, kind and honest folk not a good thing?

When you're looking for a life lesson.

Morgan seems to have relapsed into his teen-aged confusion, where he's not getting enough sleep and moves around in a disconnected haze.

We spent most of Monday morning fruitlessly looking for his wallet. On a longshot, Amy called the bus depot to see if he'd left it on the bus on Friday.

"Oh, yeah, Morgan Robertson Pratt? His wallet's here," the lady said.

The misplaced item, complete with Snapper card - which is basically free cash to any bus passenger - debit cards and id's, had been turned in.

Very nice, but maybe a fluke?

Well, the very next day, Morgan left his gym bag and $400-worth of kit at the bus stop. I sprinted down there to retrieve it - but it was gone.

Within minutes, Amy called to say that somebody had seen the Scots College bag and sent it on its way with another student. The bag had arrived safely at school - with all the gear still in it.

And this is public transportation, not school buses.

There's not many other countries in the world where that would happen, and it fills you with a calm contentment about the land we're living in.

Except, of course, that Morgan can continue moving around in a daze with the Kiwi safety net of decency blithely enabling his idiocy.

I'll take it any day.

Hey, Hillary

Ewan, Amy and Morgan all had the chance to meet Secretary Clinton in Wellington. There were only three of us in a room when I met her - and no photographer. Access has its drawbacks, I guess!

And, with that, no more Hillary posts. I promise.

Back home

Reintroductions were apparently necessary. We managed to connect without too many problems at the airport. It seems I hadn't been away that long.

Hillary has left the building

Not to say that I'm tired or anything, but I just tried to open a can of beer with a bottle opener. Being part of the team that organizes a SecState visit is, simply put, exhausting. I just hope I recognize my kids when I get back to Wellington.

But it's over now. Clinton is wheels-up and on her way to Australia. Luckily Amy and the boys had the chance to meet Hillary Clinton while she was in town. You can see a nice little video of that here:

Noble Glomads: Life of an FSO family

The amount of people involved in a trip such as this is mind-boggling - and that's just for New Zealand. The process was replicated, I'm sure, in the six countries Clinton also popped in on during this trip.

She's worth it, though. She built bridges back up that had been down for 25 years and, I think it's fair to say, the bilateral relationship with New Zealand is well and truly back on the right path.

But the hours and hours of behind-the-scenes preparation are astounding. Everyone has worked virtually non-stop for the 10 days we've been in Christchurch, and for long hours in the weeks before.

Our measurements for success are all different: I just heard a Kiwi security guy say, "Hey, nobody died." A real bonus.

I started a rant a couple of days ago about the media in this country. As a former ink-stained wretch myself, I've been appalled at the lackadaisical, almost whimsical, approach newspapers take about getting actual facts and dispassionate reporting onto their pages.

This is some of the rubbish these guys put in newspapers here:

'Sexy' Clinton charms Canty - news - the-press | Stuff.co.nz

I hate this sort of "reporting." It's all about the reporter. This writer actually refers to their Earthquake minister as a Hercules aircraft because he happens to be overweight - it's a poor cousin to Letterman-like banter. Yesterday he falsely wrote - and chastised us - that Clinton would take only pre-screened questions from the audience.

Today, instead of saying "oops, my bad," he wrote that if the questions hadn't been pre-screened, they should have been. It was all a little boring for our objective friend, it seems.

Get yourself a column, my friend. But stay off the front page.

I'm not being sensitive due to my new profession, I'm embarrassed because of my old one.