Defense of the Homeland - Ft. Opau

The spookiest sight I've seen in New Zealand is Fort Opau. We were out on a pretty little hike, appreciating coves and cliffs and the opalescent waters when we came across these maudlin ghosts of times gone by.

Up on the cliffs of Makara stands what remains of the two-gun installation and barracks. The moss-covered concrete is so out of place against the long azure basin of Cook Strait and the snow-crested tips of the South Island. But they are also a stark reminder of the intrusive realities of the world we live in.


While New Zealand had declared war on Germany before the United States did, it wasn't until the shock of the attack on Pearl Harbor that she felt any real sense of vulnerability. The Japanese attack changed all that. Suddenly they were roving the Pacific with malice in their hearts and the Kiwi fighting troops were in North Africa and Europe.

In quick order the Home Army was built up - reaching 100,000 men and women at its height. Over the years, a total of around 100,000 U.S. Marines were stationed in New Zealand, bolstering the security of the country and making a lasting impact on it, both culturally and militarily. Women New Zealanders joined the WAAC, Wrens and WAAF.

These defenders of the homeland stretched from North to South (this one, at right, is in Seatoun) and all points in between, watching for aircraft and enemy ships and monitoring signals. Camps and Forts like Opau were built to British designs. Perhaps that's what made the sight of them so reminiscent: I'd seen dozens of these "Dad's Army" posts and pillboxes around the Highlands of Scotland, looking equally forlorn and home to as many sheep as Opau is now.

You can almost hear the long-gone whispers of the bedraggled patriot warriors shivering in the windy rain and bitching about the Huns or the Japanese - chain-smoking and checking their Alpina watches to see if they'd be done before the pubs closed; never sure if they wanted something to happen or if the tedious inaction was a better state of affairs.

There were 42 coastal artillery installations up and down the unending Kiwi coastline.

None of them ever fired a shot in anger, though one of them accidentally sank a fishing boat. Ft. Opau, which had two six-inch Mk7 guns, was closed in 1944 and now sits as a mute guardian high above the entrance to the Cook Strait.

It's certainly a Fort with a View:

2010 - a year of great change

Flag Day, 2010. A very good day indeed, if not the best of hair days.


In 2009 we made the big gamble. In 2010 we got the big pay-off. You might call it the long con. It certainly feels like we were real lucky.

Having tendered my resignation from a good job in a struggling industry and putting my eggs in the basket of a not-yet-offered second career, and having sold our house, things looked a little bleak for most of 2009. Not that Amy and I would ever confess to that at the time.

We moved into Mum and Dad's beautiful North Carolina vacation place. The kids enrolled in a new school there. And we began the long wait. It was truly amazing to be living close to our family for the first time in 20-plus years. But sometimes I felt like a star-struck teen-ager, checking email and voicemail a dozen times a day to see if the State Department, my great unrequited love, had called and wanted to get together.

The call eventually came - nine months after I'd quit my job - and so began a new adventure for all of us. The beginning of the new career was certainly a hell of a lot more fun for me than Amy and the boys; I went to D.C. for training and met the most amazing group of people in my fellow classmates. They finished off school and packed up the house, still in a sort of limbo.

On Flag Day - the day of Global Roulette when new hires are given the flag of the country in which they will serve their first assignment - our nerves, put plainly, were raw.

The ceremony is filled with staged drama and that made matters considerably worse. One after another of our top choices passed us by. But then the flag of the crown jewel of our bid list, New Zealand, was being held aloft ... and my name was called. By the time I returned to my seat, Amy was in tears and the boys were on their chairs high-fiving each other. It was a sight that warmed my heart. It had been my gamble, but they had also paid the price of losing their house and their friends and moving to a strange new community.

And, as the readers of this blog know, New Zealand has been a remarkable voyage for us since our arrival in August.


Mum and Dad came up for graduation day, at which Secretary Clinton spoke.

-----


North Carolina was not just a waypoint for everyone, though. Both of the boys did really well at school. Morgan grew into himself and continued his music with gusto. He's becoming a damn fine guitarist, and developing a little flair to go with it.



Ewan had a slightly rougher transition, missing his friends and the happy cul-de-sac in Pennsylvania - but mostly his tremendous soccer team and wonderful Chilean coach. It eventually came together for him, and his North Carolina team won the championship. He scored an amazing 28 goals in seven games and that made things good.




Amy went with the flow. She set up and perfected her business out of little Tryon, North Carolina. She organized the Rubik's cube that is the packing up and shipping out of a household across the world. She's beaten the house here into livability, despite being given precious few raw materials to work with - and most of them pink. She's taken to Kiwi life well, even volunteering at the boys' school's tuckshop and making a couple of fast friends. But, more than anything, she's made sure the family was happy and together by being upbeat, organized and keeping it together on a hundred occasions when she would quite happily have run screaming into the mountains, never to be seen again.


On this particular occasion we had to run to the hills to retrieve Amy.

------

Life was not just peaches and cream in 2010, though. My dear, dear friend - and happy stand-in for distant family - Marianne Stenvig suddenly became badly sick. She didn't make it. Almost from my first day in Aberdeen, Marianne adopted Amy and me. She was one of those rare people who just made you feel better - always. She laughed easily, smiled eternally, and was a true and loyal friend. When she took over Alonzo's restaurant at The Ward Hotel, the three of us would spend hours on end talking. I don't remember about what, but I do remember the laughter, the happiness, even when things weren't going well. The last time we saw her was when she visited us in State College. Always the foodie, she put on the best spread of any tailgate party in the 110,000 people crowd at the Penn State game.

But it wasn't just in the good times that Marianne shone. She was a sort of den mother to our circle of acquaintances in Aberdeen. She always took in the strays and made sure they were alright. Whenever any of us were in trouble - real or imagined - it was to Marianne we went. We always came away feeling that life was something to be treasured, not dreaded. We can't even think of Aberdeen the same way anymore. Not with Marianne gone. She has left a gaping hole in so many peoples lives.

-----

The year had begun on a similarly dolorous note. My good friend Nick Givotovsky had died in July of 2009 in a terrible accident. It was another death that savaged my life. Nick was the most brilliant and visionary guy I'd ever known. We went to St. Andrews University together and had only recently been back in regular touch when he died. The last time I saw him we'd reconnected as if we had seen each other every week since university. I was in Costa Rica when he died and was unable to go to the funeral. Neither was my other great friend from those days, Pete. We both felt so far removed from the reality of his death that, though we ached, it felt disrecpectful.

There were a couple of other St. Andrews friends of Nick's, Chris and Austin, who also wanted to get together. So Pete went to work. Remarkably, the only weekend on which we could make it to New York, close to Nick's home in Conneticut, was when Eric Clapton was in town. (There's another very long, very funny story behind that - but best left for another day.) We went to the concert at Madison Square Gardens and remembered the old days.

The next day we went up to Nick's house to meet with Laura, Nick's incredibly brave and infinitely sad widow - a word that seems too old for her and for us. She has struggled not only with the realities of his death - they had two children - but also the practicalities. She took us to the spot behind their house where Nick had died. A simple cairn of rocks in a forest that doesn't care marks the spot where my friend's life ended. Nick was the most alive person I've ever known - both physically and mentally. He never stopped. Until that spot of time that is marked by this little pile of stones and the unsentimental silence of the woods.



In his own magical way, Nick probably would have appreciated the poetry of the place. The rest of us just cried.

-----

The other big change in the family's life came for Mum and Dad. Perhaps because Amy and I had set up shop in their mountain retreat in Tryon, N.C., they realized just how much they loved it. Rather than selling it, as had been their intention at the beginning of the year, they decided to sell their main residence in South Carolina instead. They embarked on a massive remodelling project to convert the old farmhouse into a place in which, as they said, they could comfortably enjoy their dotage.

The place is, simply put, spectacular, and they are blissfully happy there. My brother, Jamie, at right by the new outdoor fireplace in Tryon, has moved back to New York City and we had an amazing weekend at Tryon together. Jamie's move back to New York also brings him closer into the fold - just as we left for the other side of the world - and he seems as happy as I've seen him in 15 years.

------

Last, but not least, my sister Lucy has been a star and in 2010 she was finally recognized for her astonishingly hard work of the last couple of years. She was invited into the program she's been chasing so hard for so long and is on her way to a brand new career. We'd always made fun of her mathematical ability, or lack thereof. She's made us eat our words - and we couldn't be prouder. Here she is on her graduation night.

Amy and I are hoping to see as many of you as possible in New Zealand over the next 18 months. We wish everyone a very happy, successful and wonderful 2011.

Kiwinglish 4 - Good words cut short

New Zealanders are not generally in a hurry. Yet they can't seem to wait to finish their words. Like the Aussies, the Kiwis are great abbreviators.

To the newcomer it can be quite bewildering. You get a sense of what you're being told, but you don't grasp it immediately. As if you're speaking a foreign language, you have to get the meaning from the other words.


When someone crashes their ute, you know it's bad, but you don't know exactly what has happened. Ute is short for utility vehicle.

You've got truckies (truck drivers), journos, trackies, diplos and posties - all very self-explanatory - until you run across more than one of these words in a sentence.

How, for instance, would you react if somebody asked you if you liked pokies. First thought had to do with jails. Wouldn't make sense. Something to do with poking? It's sort of an odd question for a stranger to ask. If you google pokies, what comes back is slightly embarrassing. I won't elaborate, except to say it has something to do with headlights (high beams).

Anyway, none of that matters, for pokies are Poker machines or what used to be known as one-armed bandits.

If somebody asks you if you're going to take something to Sallies, don't ask who Sally is - for she is the Salvation Army.

Just as you're getting into the swing of the new lingo, it'll throw you a new curveball. See all those woolies, I was asked the other day. I tried to figure it out from abbreviated words I know, declining, expanding. A wooler? A woolard? A sweater?

No, overthinking it. A woolie is a sheep, usually an unshorn sheep. And it might be near a Fergie (a Ferguson tractor).

Well, that's the lesson for the day. By the time you all make it out here for a visit, we'll have you speaking fluent Kiwi. Now I'm going to gap it. (Get out of here.)

Mt. Whatever-The-Heck-That-Name-Is

And we thought the Welsh were bad when it comes to place names. Turns out the Maoris had a similar tendency, though not the same disdain for vowels.

Not a particularly good picture of the map on top of Te Mata but, to be frank, there was a different weather system at the end of the name than at the beginning.


The Maori name for Mt. Taumata would put Welsh railway station names to shame.

Anyway, Mt. Taumata­whakatangihanga­koauau­o­tamatea­turi­pukakapiki­maunga­horo­nuku­pokai­whenua­kitanatahu is the Māori name for a hill in Southern Hawke's Bay, New Zealand.

It is the longest place name in any English-speaking country in the world.

It is also a grandiosely pompous name for a mountain that's barely a thousand feet tall. The topographic equivalent of naming your baby Lawyer or Countess - or, worse, Contessa - pretension of the European sort.

If you want to know how it's pronounced, it's in the intro to this Quantum Leap song. They do a remarkable job, I think. But I also strongly recommend that you don't listen to the rest of the song. It's really, really 1970s pop. And, even before hindsight, there was never anything good about that.



The hill is referred to these days by the more drunk-friendly name Taumata. Tourists and other visitors are very grateful for that. By the time you'd be done asking for directions, you'd already be late for your appointment.

The mountain - more of a bump, really, by New Zealand standards, is named for Tamatea-pōkai-whenua (Tamatea the explorer of the land). He is said to have explored widely around Aotearoa. Should've had a bigger eponymous mountain, if you ask me. Just so that we couldn't afford to ignore this wonderful name.

Here it is again, just because:




A fairly random, but nice picture of Ewan; you can probably see Mt. Whatever from here. We were in the region.

Cuba St. - Bohemian, with an edge

Cuba Street is Wellington's equivalent of what the socialite with a predilection for liquor becomes after a few snifters - a little wild and a little trampy. Wellington is a beautiful city on a gorgeous harbor, but it is also the diplomatic and governmental hub, so it can be a little dull and staid at times.

Cuba Street is her bohemian side that likes to go a little crazy once in a while. It's a wonderful neighborhood - named after an early settler ship to New Zealand - and a registered Historic Area.

An eclectic place, with incense shops, tattoo parlors, strip joints, vegetarian restaurants and old record stores close on top of one another, it's fine and fun during the day, but can get a bit bawdy and wild at night.


While much of the street is modern and definitely Kiwi, there are even some buildings that reminded me of the crumbling beauty of Havana - including a bar called Floriditas. It even looks like Bar Floridita, Ernest Hemingway's favorite hangout in Havana. The Wellington version is not quite as grand, but still has a nice sophisticated feel to it: white-tiled floor, marble-topped bar and, of course, it serves mojitas.

Cuba Street itself has a bit of a split personality. The ground floor stores look new and modern, with neon signs and slick advertising. But many of them are in old and historic buildings that have seen better days. There's a charming tattiness to the place that adds to its street cred. The same can be said of some of its denizens, the artsy, disheveled types who add to the flavor of the place.



Twenty years back the area was the center of Wellington's red light district. You can still see traces of it. In fact, we spotted "Morgan's Building" and were about to tell him to stand in front of it so we could take his picture, when we spotted the large neon sign that said "Striptease." It housed a business called Peaches and Cream which, to put it politely, is a parlor, but not of the ice cream variety. Perhaps not appropriate for the next Christmas card.


Prostitution in New Zealand has been "decriminalized," which somehow is not the same as being legal. It's a distinction, frankly, that I have not spent much time investigating.

This might not be the best segue, but there's something for all the family on Cuba Street. Morgan went into the Slow Boat Records store and found a, to him, really old John Butler Trio CD; it was from 2001, but he acted as if he'd just discovered the Dead Sea Scrolls. There were buskers on every corner that he could critique. Ewan, our mysterious vegetarian, felt validated by finding a vegetarian and vegan restaurant, which we had to immediately patronize - even though we'd just had lunch.


For me, and for another day, there was a wonderful Irish pub flying both Scottish and American flags that seemed to be calling my name. And Amy found some truely intriguing and somewhat bizarre stores. I'm not saying she went into this store (at right), but I can only imagine what they were selling. I just hope it wasn't a second-hand store.

Cuba Street used to be a haven for Wellington's homeless until it became a (well sign-posted) Alcohol-free zone. Amy and I spent some time looking for the free alcohol - unsuccessfully. Whatever it is, the homeless have found better places to hang out.

At night the street becomes a little more disreputabe, but every city needs a little of that, right?

The Tale of a Post-Coital Cormorant

The boys and I were quite happily kayaking around Abel Tasman Park on the South Island. We'd stopped at a nice beach in Split Apple Bay and were having a bit of a break.

Our female guide disappeared off into the bushes. We were with a bunch of Kiwis, so we didn't ask. After a few minutes she arrived back.


"Shags just weren't meant for trees," she said cryptically, nodding her head back towards the forest that climbs down to the beach. She carried on to the water to tend to the kayaks, leaving me a tad startled, and thinking, "Wow, what an athletic young lady" or words to that effect.

One of our fellow kayakers, perhaps noticing my bemusement, added, "It's the webbed feet."

"Oh, of course," I said, as if all had been explained.

There being children around, I bided my time. When it came, I asked innocently, "So, you were talking about tree shags ...?"

Perhaps noticing my non-Kiwi accent for the first time, she started laughing. "You might know them as cormorants," she said. "I just meant that they're sea birds, yet they nest in trees. But with their webbed feet they always look as if they're about to fall out."

"Of course," I said again, wishing I had the slightest tidbit of cormorant knowledge that I could throw into to the awkwardly stalled conversation. Something like, "Did you know that the lesser-crested Norwegian cormorant nests in church steeples and eats its young?"

But ornithology, along with nuclear physics, is one of the greater knowledge gaps in a brain that is teeming with Glasgow Rangers results from the mid-70s.


It did explain some things, though. Like the name of the hostel we'd seen coming into Kaikoura. It showed a, to me, rather post-coital bird luxuriating in a beach chair thinking of having a smoke. I'd sped by the place, hoping Morgan and Ewan would not ask embarrassing questions that might lead to a spontaneous birds and bees conversation.

Since the release of "The Spy Who Shagged Me" most people in the States now know what the word means. But prior to that, hordes of Brits and other Commonwealthers were reduced to mindless giggling at awkward times during coversations with Americans.

My first linguistic smack across the face (a shag slap, if you will) in this arena occured on my first night in Athens, Georgia. I'd just arrived from Scotland, via a year in Australia. Sitting alone and grumpily at a dance club trying to make friends, I was approached by a comely young lady from South Carolina, who said - and I'm not making this up - "Do you know how to shag?"

What a remarkable country, I thought to myself. This sentiment turned to confusion as she led me to the dance floor, where, as usual, I was covered in embarrassment.


Not many people in Britain would publicly claim to be a shag champion.

These linguistic giggle fests continued as I seemed to be permanently engaged in conversations about shag carpets. This being pre-Austin Powers days, I usually ended up giggling rather stupidly to myself. "What?" my American friends would ask. There never seemed any point in explaining.

In an attempt to now redeem this post with some bits of information you can use, let me tell you that 12 species of shag are found in New Zealand and 8 of these are endemic. (Now I'm sorry, but that still sounds funny to me.) According to Wikipedia, "Members of the shag family belong to three groups, based on the colour of their feet: black, yellow or pink. Outside New Zealand, the black-footed shags are better known as cormorants. Shags have webbed feet but also fly underwater using their wings, as penguins do."

No, I'm still giggling after all these years. Perhaps I should have a Lazy Shag, which is also a drink here, and chill out - or grow up.

Boxing Day - Hey, it's a Holiday

My American friends in New Zealand, glad for the holiday and not complaining, keep asking me what this mysterious "Boxing Day thing" is. Having been born in Scotland I'm supposed to be some sort of keeper of the secrets of all British arcana. Even though I'm a proud, and somewhat useful, American citizen now, it's still "you guys" this and "you guys" that.

This is sort of funny, because when they say British they mean English and the Scots, as is well known since "Braveheart," are, shall we say, ill-disposed towards the English.

In fact, the Scottish national anthem, "Flower of Scotland," sings of the great victory over the English - in 1314. Yeah, the Scots can hold a grudge. Still, I know part of my official job description is building bridges, so I accept the swami-like mantel and hold forth.

When I ask what my interlocutor (for, since WikiLeaks, that is what I have. Not friends or acquaintances. I don't have chats, either, but only briefings, apparently, or, rather lewdly, debriefings) what they think it means, the first answer is "Does it have something to do with the Boxer Rebellion?"



Well, this image, should be answer enough. That's a no.

The next, and perhaps more obvious, question is, "Does it have something to do with boxers?" Britain, they believe somewhat correctly, used to have some jolly good pugilists. Queensberry rules and all that. Sure, there were a few. Henry Cooper. Jack Broughton, below, come to mind.



But why would the day after Christmas, the day Chrisitans celebrate the birth of Christ, be dedicated to these - or any other - martial fellows? Good point, I'm told.

The next guess - always - has to do with our canine friend, the bejowled and bescrunched-faced Boxer.



Same question - why? Same answer - no.

So then, great keeper of the knowledge of all things weirdly odd about the rumpled and idiosyncratic race of Britons we know as cousins, what is this strange thing that allows us not to work and to drink beer for no apparent reason?

Well, as has been the case so often on this blog when I attempt to answer questions about the cultural disparities between nations, the answer is, "It depends."

This is one of the things about history in general, and British history in particular. It depends on what you read and whom you believe. It's a pitfall of having too much history and too many literate people to record it. People - perhaps in an early attempt to get published - made things up. It's a proud tradition that continues to this day in America. See, most recently, James Frey.

But I digress for the sake of trying to fill a whole blog post on December 25th, a day on which, underpant bombers notwithstanding, nothing much happens. (Quick check here of The New York Times website. Just to make sure. Nope, so far so good.)

Here's what I believe. It was the day after Christmas when the well-to-do in their cumbling estates, in a burst of post-glutonous guilt, remembered the little people who got so annoyingly underfoot polishing ones boots and dusting ones brandy decanters when there were fascinating monographs about moths to be written and colonial matters to be harrumphed about. (See, this is precisely the sort of bigoted account of history you're going to get if you ask a Scot about anything even vaguely English. I'm aware of my tendency. It's in the genes.)

"By Jove, Marjorie, the helping folk in the servant's quarters seem to be getting a bit on the restless side. What say you we bestow something upon them? Just to make sure they don't leave us high and dry? Otherwise, who's going to make the toast?"

Thus was born the tradition of giving money and other gifts to those who were needy and in service positions. And so, in the 19th Century, tradesmen and servants came by on December 26th to collect their "Christmas boxes" for their good service of the previous year. There are other versions, but mine, having been written here, is the one we'll go with.

Hey, you don't have to look too far for a justification to have a day off, do you? If it's a choice between historical accuracy or a couple of beers by the barbie, what are you going to go with? I thought so.

Wishing family and friends a very

The biggest drawback to expat life is being away from friends and family on special occasions. Christmas is the worst time to be on the other side of the world. So, from afar, we wish everyone we're missing (and even a couple of you we don't) a joyous holiday season.

Amy's done an amazing job cobbling together a house that feels wonderfully like Christmas - even if it's sunny and reasonably warm outside and it doesn't get dark until Santa should be half-way through his delivery duties.

Had I been in charge of packing our stuff up to move to New Zealand, the thought of Christmas decorations, tree ornaments and wrapping paper would have fallen somewhere between very small rocks and nail clippers. Yet Amy had forethought, and now the house feels a lot like it should at this time of the year.

Still, it's bloody miserable being away from family. Christmases have always been very special and it feels wrong at this stage in life to create new traditions - like going to the beach or grilling shrimp on the barbie.




Out of necessity we've had to adapt, though. Turkeys cost about $1,000 each here, so ham it is. Our house doesn't have a chimney, so Amy's bought a fake fireplace and, for some reason, put the picture of a very fat lady in it. Makes some sense, I suppose, and doesn't look that ridiculous - except Santa might be in for a bit of a shock if he does use this particular means of entrance.

Anyway, we all wish we were closer to family, and hope the rest of you have a great holiday season and a wonderful New Year. Maybe see you in New Zealand in 2011?

At the risk of becoming maudlin, here's another one of our Christmas traditions we will be celebrating apart. It is Billy Connolly, so fair warning:

The serendipity of running

The Koru, a Maori symbol of new life, seems appropriate for the season.

There are always so many reasons not to get out of bed early for a run. A howling wind that was roaring through the valleys at 140k and was shaking the doors and rattling the blinds was my excuse today.

I've always managed to conjur up better reasons to rise and run than to stay and sleep. South Dakota instilled this in me. There we ran in a crew, because when it was -25 outside and pitch black there just weren't any reasons good enough to get up. We'd go to each other's houses at 5:30 a.m. and ring the door bell. You couldn't roll over and go back to sleep when you had four shivering muppets in your driveway who might literally die if you didn't open the door to them.

That generally worked. Kimmie's coffee was another lure.

So I rose reluctantly this morning and headed down to Shelly Bay, thinking I'd maybe put in a few miles and call it good. And, boy, was it windy. I'd perfected the horizontal running technique in South Dakota's rampaging prairies, but this Kiwi wind was a buttkicker, gusting in unexpected punches that almost took my feet out from under me several times. Worth a giggle on Melgaard Avenue. Not so funny if you get deposited over a wall, down a cliff and into the Cook Strait.


Still, it's not a struggle here. Every few hundred feet present a new view. So it blows a little. When you turn a corner and see a cruise ship coming into Wellington Harbor illuminated by the sun's rays on Christmas Eve, well, it's definitely worth getting out of bed. Even the Pohutukawa trees (at right), known here as Christmas trees since the settlers' times, were getting into the spirit.




It is always thus. This is the joy of running. You feel creaky and grumpy when you head out the door. You wonder what the hell you're doing and why. But you have your mental counter-arguments that are triggered by such thoughts. At my stage in life it's no longer about Olympic Gold, glory on the soccer fields, or Gallipoli-like courage under fire; no, it's usually about pot-bellies, blood pressure, and being able to eat an extra piece of pie a week from now. Whatever works, right?

But once you've begun and have run through the initial reluctance your body throws up in its eternal passive-aggressive ways and the pleasure drug (ed. note: initial phrasing altered due to reader complaint, so you'll have to do with this trite cliche) is flowing through you and you have blocked out the aches and are in the zone and can just look around at the simple glories of a rising sun or of a wind making waves out of the foliage above and the water below, there is nothing better.



It's a sort of happy drug, the athlete's Ecstacy, where a simple salute from a passing bus driver suddenly means all is right with the universe. When a passing inquiry about the quality of your day from a stranger allows you to believe it's just been improved. When your body feels strong and getting stronger. It all comes after the battle against lethargy is won. And all you've got to do is get out of bed. The best things in life are indeed free.

Scotland's version of Stubbies

Thinking about things falling out of silly shorts (see entry below), naturally made me think of Billy Connolly's holiday in Aberdeen. Please forward this video to 4:50. He talks about Scotland's equivalent of "Stubbies." In more ways than one.

Again, it's Billy Connolly, so you've been warned. Ah, the memories:

Stubbies - World Famous in NZ

This was the visual punctuation mark to end an e-mail chain at work that had, obviously, spun way out of control.

I think I threw up a little in my mouth.

Now that the weather has turned summery I'd begun to suspect that I lived in an area filled with people of poor taste. A group happily nostalgic for the grand old fashion days of the '80s. Turns out the problem is much more widespread.


Sorry about this picture!

There is a general '80s theme going in this country, but that's a happy blog for another time. These stubbies are disturbing. They're supposed to be worn two or three sizes too small and with rips or tears in strategically disgusting places.

I'm not being critical of the whole country - there are just pockets (bulging) of stubbies wearers. And, let's be honest, the plague of lowriders and butt-crack displaying fashion that has soiled the U.S. isn't exactly something to be proud of.

But, hey, I'm here, not there.

So back to the Stubbies. It's not just throwbacks to some imagined good old days who wear their old tighties. That would be understandable. It's hard to throw out ones old shorts, after all. Especially that fine shade of brown. No, it's a problem that's crossed generations and is perpetuated by many younger sportsmen wearing athletic shorts that are tight and ... well a little short.

I'm just saying that perhaps the new generation should pick other, more worthy attributes of their elders who came of age in the 1980s to imitate. Like the haircuts. No, that wouldn't work. Well then, the music? No, there's no justifying Spandau Ballet. Frisbees? Rubik's Cube? How about the shoes? The Doc Martens are most certainly still in Dad's closet. Bloody indestructible they were.

The bottom line (literally) is that something needs to be done. Because nothing good comes out of this:




Actually everything comes out of this.

An ode to rain

After three weeks of glorious weather, the wind and the rain have returned full force to Wellington.

(Apparently it rains about 1270 mm in an average year here. I have no idea how much that is in English, but it feels like a lot.)

A full week of rain can get to the soul of most non-Scottish born folks. Having moved away from Scotland many moons ago, I've been blessed with a soft nostalgia for the sort of Celtic rain Wellington has to offer. It can make you feel a little superior to the weather whiners.

It only took two days after my arrival in New Zealand to experience a sensation I hadn't had since my last time in Scotland. It was a dreich day that quickly disintegrated into horizontal rain. But not the hard stuff. No, it was that misty, vapor that wooshed up the streets at us. Within minutes, there was that feeling again, long lost but now returned: Soggy socks.

It's a particular kind of misery that is with you all day and absolutely grotty to go through. But it reminded me of my childhood and so was good - for a bit.

Anyway, this morning started the same way. I rose ridiculously early for a run, looked out the window at the howling gale - seriously, it was blowing so hard, our curtains were moving through the closed windows - thought, "bugger this for a laugh, I'm going back to bed," when something clicked. It was the metereological equivalent of scent-induced memories.

I thought back to the days of running through muddy rugby fields of Strathallan and through the forests of the village - miserable, always - with a troop of red-cheeked, snotty-nosed cohorts cursing our parents and our teachers and all the lucky bastards who were at home watching telly.

This morning, for some reason, I missed all that. For time had made those days halcyon. I went out in the rain for my run and the dark green of the forest - made black and ominous by the weather - and the fanning bracken and the overflowing streams brought me back again to the old days. And I liked it - until I stepped into a puddle. And then all the old memories came back: the water running coldly down your back, the blisters from the now-heavy socks. And the impending jock rot rash from sodden friction.

Then I wanted to get home, and did, and now, along with the rest of Wellington, I'm cursing the freakin' weather. God the rain is awful here.

Ashes to Ashes

I know the first mention of the word cricket will lose my American audience. In a vain attempt to keep them reading, I'm also going to mention the word sex. If that doesn't work, hello Australia, England, India and, of course, New Zealand.

With The Ashes underway in Australia and, coincidentally, being on vacation, I just had the chance to do something I haven't done for decades - watch a test match. It was funny and exciting - and there was sex.

The Ashes is the name of the series of cricket matches between Australia and England that happen every two years. It is thus named after a fictitious obituary to English cricket appeared in a newspaper in 1882, when England lost a match - at home, no less - to Australia, a mere colony. The obituary said the body of English cricket would be cremated and the ashes taken to Australia, a sort of spoils of war. The next tour to Australia was dubbed as England's quest to win back the Ashes. It's stuck and remains the fiercest rivalry in cricket.

And, to my American friends, no, that's not an oxymoron. These guys hate each other. There's mind games (known as "sledging" to my Kiwi friends), intimidation, swearing, death stares - and sport.




I went to the 1986-87 Ashes. Anytime there's English sport, there are cops.


These test matches go on for five days. Yes, that is correct. (So, there's plenty of time for sex.) Five days. Often they end in a draw. That's where most Americans and cricket part company. Any game that makes baseball look quick and exciting is a non-starter, I suppose.

I'm not going to try to win any converts here. I've just enjoyed it immensely, is all I'm going to say.


I do feel for the commentators, though. Five days is a lot of air to fill. They were so authoritative and understated for the first couple of days that, like, good bodyguards, you forgot they were there.

On the third day, however, when God had commanded the waters below to be gathered in one place and when he named the Earth and Sea, these guys began to struggle. There certainly was no things on the scale of Creation going on.

They began discussing the umpire's heart rate. I am not making this up. Apparently they have these guys wired with a heart monitor. They found it amazing that one of the umpires had a relatively low heart rate of 68. Now, again, I realize that my American friends (sex), are hugely surprised that anyone who stands around watching cricket for five days has any sort of pulse, but you'd be missing the point.

Which is, well ..., well, this guy had a low pulse, for an old and pretty chubby guy.

These are the sorts of things that make cricket matches interesting. Not to mention all the wonderfully giggle-inducing terminology. There are googlies and yorkers and gullies and silly mid-ons, not to be confused with silly mid-offs, which would be a slip. And a bowler is a fellow, not a hat. And finally, yes, they do stop for lunch and tea. On separate occasions. So, if you ever have a spare five days ...

By the way, the series is tied 1-1 after three tests. That's fifteen days of playing. And I'm sorry I lied about the sex.

Kircaldie and Stains

Sending a man to Kirkcaldie & Stains to buy lipstick is about as fair as directing a visitor to Ibrox to the Rangers end to inquire about the health of the Pope.

Lamb to the slaughter. Or, in my case, man to the laughter.

But this was my mission. I was under orders as part of my wife's unofficial - but public - birthday. To make matters worse, it's Christmastime, and Kirkcaldie & Stains in Wellington is some sort of magnet for every family - especially with young children of the female persuasion - in search of the Christmas spirit. There are window decorations, Santas, trees - probably even hot chocolate, the store owner's equivalent of entrapment.


And so there I was, standing in front of a large, judgmental Germanic woman, like a sinner before St. Peter, handing her my little piece of paper, Oliver-like.

"May I have lipstick, please?"

"Ve hav bin sold out ov theez for veeks," she scowled at me.

Of course they had. And now I was stuck across the well-decked counter from the scary Un-Santa Claus and she was grilling me about lipstick. And I knew nothing and felt unworthy and wished myself somewhere else.

The only thing I know about lipstick is that if it's not exactly the right shade it's going to be returned - by me - which means a second trip to my own personalized hell. You only get one shot - do not blow this opportunity (and this is a really unfortunate time to channel Eminem).


Kirkcaldie & Stains has been around forever which, in New Zealand chronology means1863. It is a gorgeous place that reminds me of its glorious old counterparts I was hauled miserably through in Glasgow, like the House of Fraser. Smells the same. They even have liveried men standing around uselessly, too well dressed to be approached with simplistic questions. It's an institution. Unless you're an insider, you're supposed to feel stupid.

Don't get me wrong, the service at Kirkcaldie & Stains was first class. Obsequious even. It's just that you can't serve them that can't serve themselves. I was completely at sea. There were hundreds of women behind the counter, it seemed, and they were all looking at me. Luckily, despite the teeming masses in the store, a few of them took sympathy on me and became helpful.

It made it an almost Christmassy experience. Even through the severe animus I bear towards fellow shoppers at this time of year, I must admit that Kirkcaldie & Stains looks wonderful at this time of the year. Not that I'd ever want to see it again in December. But it has a nice retro feel to it, back to a time when shopping was an experience, where the employees talk to you and where things are wrapped for you at no extra charge. The store even smelled nice.

Shopping these days is sort of like flying. The companies view it as their job to process as many "cutomers" through the production line. "Get 'em scanned and outta here," seems to be the motto.

There is a hint of a more refined and genteel time in Kirkcaldie's. Don't get me wrong, it didn't make me want to linger. But I felt the sprouting of good will, especially when I was offered the perfect solution for Amy's present: a gift pack that had a bit of everything in it.

And, with that, the freedom of the streets.

War memorials of New Zealand

Everywhere I've been in New Zealand - places large or small - I've been struck by the War Memorials. These remembrances to the dead are usually dramatic and always well-kept and, far from being stashed away in some forgotten corner of the town, they are usually front and center - the names of the dead keeping an eye on the town they left behind.


New Zealand has a long and proud history of taking part in the wars far from its shores - usually one of the first to sign up when the cause is right.

The splendor of some of these memorials is stunning. (Seen here are memorials in Picton, Featherstone, Napier, Kaikoura and Wellington.)



It didn't take long after the first European settlers began arriving in the 19th Century and New Zealand became part of the British Empire for the country to believe it had a role to play in the affairs of the world. The Kiwis sent 6,500 mounted troops to help the Brits in the Second Boer War (1899-1902) in South Africa - New Zealand's first overseas military campaign.

There was a tremendous drive in the young men of those days to volunteer, to seek glory and fame, and many Kiwis felt a deep need to sign up for action - even if that action was thousands of miles away. More than 220 of them never returned.

That need to serve continued into the First World War. The New Zealanders contributed in stunning proportions. More than 103,000 men and women served - that doesn't include those who served with the Brits or the Aussies. At the time, New Zealand had just over 1 million people. They suffered a 58 percent casualty rate, with almost 17,000 dying and more than 41,000 sustaining wounds. It was the highest per capita death rate of any of the warring nations.


World War I was also the first time Maori soldiers fought with the New Zealand armed forces.

The series of miscommunications, mistakes and blind arrogance - on the part of the British - that was Gallipoli is the Kiwi's most profound foreign experience. More than 7,500 of them were either killed or wounded. The landing - despite its ultimate futility - is still remembered and honored each Anzac day.

Gallipoli and the horrors of World War I did a lot to cure young New Zealanders of their delusions about the glories of war - though certainly not of their sense of national duty. When World War II came, New Zealand again stepped up, declaring war on Germany in September of 1939. The Kiwis, politically, had been vocal in their opposition to what was occurring in Nazi Germany.


By the war's end a total of 194,000 men and 10,000 women had served in the armed forces at home and overseas. Proportionally, the Kiwis took worse casualties than any other country of the Commonwealth, with 11,625 killed.

New Zealand was one of the first countries to answer the United Nations call as war in Korea was stirring. She also sent troops to Vietnam - taking losses in both places. As in the States, the New Zealand involvement in Vietnam sparked large protests at home.

After that, in places as farflung as Lebanon, Rhodesia, East Timor and to this day in the Solomon Islands, New Zealand has been part of peacekeeping efforts across the globe - including reconstruction projects in Iraq and Afghanistan. New Zealand likes to say of itself that it punches above its weight. It's become trite through overuse. However, in the case of her armed forces and their sense of duty and bravery, the Kiwis really do punch above their weight. And, over the years, have paid a heavy price.


Just as the men and women of the armed forces are dedicated servants of their country, so the folks back home take the duty of remembering seriously. Not only are all the memorials I have seen immaculate and beautifully cared for, but every Anzac Day - April 25 - whole towns and villages come out to honor those who served. There are parades and marching bands and prayers.