Snail Mail

I don't think "Snail Mail" accurately describes the postal service from Kenya. I have gotten three emails in the last two days saying that the postcards I sent in November had just arrived. Goodness only knows where they've been these past FOUR MONTHS! (In that time I've been to seven different countries on three different continents.)

The Cast of Characters

The service trip that just concluded was filled with quite the cast of characters.

There was our fearless leader (class of '06, god help me!), who had volunteered with Safe Passage a couple of years ago and had lived in Antigua for many months, but after a week here, still turned the wrong way out of the hotel when she was going to walk me to my homestay.

There was the Bowdoin professor who was quiet but lovely, and who slowly but surely sipped her way through more tequila shots than the rest of us.

There was the 24 year old 6 foot 3 inch former football player (yes, Bowdoin has a football team) who was dubbed "Sparkles", for he was covered with glitter for about half the week. He regaled us with stories about his semester in Argentina, telling us about a hotel he had heard about which you could rent by the hour, which had covered parking for privacy, and at which you could rent various toys. He concluded his story with "It was awesome."

There was the woman ('06) who looked like Madame X from John Singer-Sargeant's painting, who instantly became my Food Buddy, because neither of us had any shame at digging right into whatever was put in front of us (and each other, and anyone else's food on the table).

There was the guy ('93) whom I knew of because he was in the same frat as some friends, who had me in stitches the entire week, especially when I watched him attempt to salsa. (I know you aren't supposed to laugh at people, but sometimes I just can't help it!)

There was the mild mannered doctor ('92) who managed to shatter the sink in his bathroom pretty much just by looking at it, and who was called upon way too often to tend to various medical needs in the group. (One brings those first aid kits on trips, but never pulls them out. Ours was pulled out five times, and there were at least two other instances where they could have been put to use... like when I was standing on a patio, being amazed at how windy it was and watching the tin roof blow off. And then the cinder block which was supposed to be holding the roof down fell on me. I broke its fall with my shoulder and hip. No blood, but a really good bruise!)

There was the woman ('92) whose first question was how to get out of the hotel in case of fire. Always good to have a safety nut in the group so that we are held accountable for all our actions.

There was the woman ('84) who was so wonderfully sarcastic that I couldn't help but smile every time she opened her mouth.

And there was the man ('76) who couldn't open his mouth without creating some diplomatic crisis, but whose heart was absolutely with us and the Safe Passage kids.

Everyone got along with everyone (not my experience with all service trips!), and there isn't a one of them that I wouldn't be happy to call my friend for a long time. Yea for us!

Bowdoin Service Trip

The week-long service trip with alums from my college has just come to an end. I haven't had so much fun or laughed so hard in months and months (no offense to those I've seen in the last few months, but this was seven days of banter and laughing and being with nine other really smart people). The point of the trip wasn't necessarily to connect with alums (we ranged from class of '76 to '07) but rather to work with an organization in Guatemala City called Safe Passage, which works with families who are garbage pickers in the city dump.

While I was pretty overwhelmed by our trip to see the dump, and in disbelief that there were people whose job it was to chase down the garbage trucks and sort through their loads as soon as they dumped them in search of recyclables (hoping not to get buried, run over, or fall over the edge), I was not as moved by the school or kids as the others were. I'm not sure why exactly. Perhaps school is school to me, and I couldn't get over the bedlam that ensued in the classrooms. (Apparently the ship I run is tighter than I thought.) I had to keep reminding myself that, for the primary and highschool kids, this was more of an after school program, as they already go to school for half a day. And, as many of us know, after school programs tend to be a bit manic.

Our group worked with a bunch of 14 year olds to make plaster masks one morning. I don't speak any spanish (yet... I start a week of Spanish school tomorrow at 8 am), so I was not in charge of anything educational. Even though I spoke no Spanish, I could tell that the entire introduction to the lesson and directions consisted of "We're going to make masks," and then the 10 volunteers descended upon the faces of these kids. In the afternoon, when we were going to lead a first grade class in making birdhouses, Spanish or no, I just took over. I could envision that madness that was about to ensue, and I knew I wouldn't be able to stand it. So I showed them how to make the house, reminded them, of course, to put their name on it, and viola, they all could pretty much do it without any adult interaction, and the activity that was planned to take an hour took all of 20 minutes. (Oops!) So then I dragged the kids over and taught them one of my favorite songs, Waddlyacha, while the others got the paints and glitter (o-rama!) out for decorating. It all went pretty well, and it felt good to be bossing kids around again. My fellow alums went on and on for days about how well I did, and how apparently I was born to be a first grade teacher. (Tom, are you reading this?) It was nice to hear, and reassuring as I think about what my plans are for next year.

We were supposed to go into the program on Wednesday and Thursday as well, but we had what I am calling Guatemalan Snow Days. On Tuesday afternoon, three bus drivers in the city were killed (gang violence, I believe), and another two on Wednesday, so school was shut while things calmed down so it would be safe for the workers and volunteers to come in. (Don't worry, all was totally fine where we were staying, and where I will be this next week. We are about 45 minutes outside of Guatemala City in a lovely old colonial touristy town called La Antigua. I won't be going into the city except to the airport, and I assume that's not actually in the city at all.)

Instead of working those two days, we had time to explore the area we were in. We went to a Mayan textile cooperative on morning, and hiked up an active volcano in the afternoon. Yes, I saw lava rolling down a hill. It was hot and very, very neat. We were all absolutely filthy (and lots of us had cuts on various appendages) after four hours of walking around in lava dust, but everyone adored it. On our other free day we had a walking tour around Antigua, which was neat. It's funny to me that this area was colonized so much before the States. Life was trucking along here about 200 years before we got our act together up there. I guess it was easier to colonize the warm spots first. Or else the Spanish were just a lot more active than the Brits back then.

On Saturday we took the first graders on a outing to a zoo/pool/amusement park. The kids were all well-behaved, but having 13 kids in an olympic sized pool with 200 others, as well as running over to a kiddie pool, and only five of us had bathing suits (no bathing suit, no entry into the pool area at all) was pretty much one of my levels of hell. While the others got in and played with the kids, I stood guard and watched them run between the two areas and I counted, counted, counted them again. We managed to lose only one kid on the field trip, and that was as we were leaving and his aunt was there so he just stayed with her.

As I said, working at the project wasn't actually all that moving to me. However, getting the chance to spend a week with an amazing group of people moved me greatly. I know that my group of friends from Bowdoin is awesome, but this reinforced that they pretty much all are. From the cutie 24 year old guy to the dryly sarcastic 54 year old guy, every single one of them made me think, smile, laugh, and generally feel good about myself and life in general. On more than one occasion we had a Bowdoin Love-fest, where we all talked about how amazing it was to be with such a fantastic group of people (only a couple of them knew each other before, and not necessarily well).

Now that they are gone and I am here for another week, I think I will be sad and will really miss them. But I'll be busy taking Spanish classes, so at least I'll be able to send them emails in Spanish saying that I miss them.

I'll put up pictures tomorrow, hopefully, and post a blog about all the ridiculous things that we did, said, and saw. As night is falling, I need to head out to dinner!

Racial profiling

When I was on the gangway getting onto my plane in Miami to come down to Guatemala, there were some immigrations officers (as well as a cop with a drug-sniffing dog, all with big guns) who were pulling people out of line. They grabbed the guy ahead of me and pulled him aside. When I looked at the line of people that they had accumulated, they were all Hispanic. That was the first time I'd seen racial profiling in action, and it made me really uncomfortable. (Not sure what the immigration guys were looking for, as this was a plane back to Guatemala.) I wasn't terribly proud to be an American at that moment...

GRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!

I just wrote a long post about being in Guatemala, and the freaking computer ATE IT! I think it will have to wait for another day, for I'm tired now, and don't feel like writing it all over again. Maybe tomorrow I'll bring the usb cable with me, so I can get pictures uploaded at the same time.

Until then, I'm in Guatemala, doing fine, and having fun. (But pissed at the computer.) More later.

Cayman Islands

I am just finishing up my four days in the Cayman Islands with two of my friends from work. I arrived in the Miami airport at 5 am last Wednesday, and promptly became one of those people you see, who is curled up on the floor trying to sleep. It was going all right for me until someone opened a door or something and an alarm started to blare. No one came… And no one came… And no one came. (So much for security in the Miami airport!) I think I lay there for about 10 minutes listening to this constant wail, for my body was incapable of moving. (I’d gotten about half an hour of sleep on the plane from LA, and not slept enough the previous three nights, so I was a wreck.) I found a new spot, dozed a bit more, and eventually gave up around 8 and started wandering the Miami airport. (Brookstone foot massage chair…. Gooooooooood.)

DeAnn and Claire arrived from St. Louis around 9:45 and there was much rejoicing. We talked, we laughed, we caught up, and, when we got on the plane to the Cayman Islands, we fell asleep. We stayed with a friend of Claire’s who emigrated to Grand Cayman not too long ago. (It’s good to have friends with friends in nice places.) Trevor was an excellent host this week, driving us around the island (literally… we drove around the entire island this afternoon), taking us to fancy restaurants (all you can eat Brazilian beef on swords) as well as good old dives (doner kebabs).

The famous (although I’d never heard of it until I arrived here) Seven Mile Beach was just a few minutes’ walk from the house, so we headed there each day. Being with two pasty people who haven’t seen the sun in months (poor souls), we sought out shade, but there were trees conveniently located along the beach. One time, though, we apparently set our towels in the wrong place (just in front of a sign that said “no trespassing beyond this point”), and this Irish (although Claire thought she was Scottish) woman proceeded to try to tell us that the beach was private. She kept saying something about the water’s edge, but I wasn’t understanding exactly what it was she meant, so I asked her to repeat herself about three times. Of course, it could just be that I was distracted by the fact that this woman, while nicely telling us to shove off, was, to all intents and purposes, fondling her large aqua bosom (as Claire put it).

Yesterday we had a fantastic day (despite the lack of large aqua bosoms—we three don’t quite add up to six lentils nailed to three boards). We went on a five our boat tour through North Harbour. First stop was to conch dive. Masks and fins donned, into the water we went. DeAnn wasn’t so sure about going the 8-10 feet down to get a conch, so we compromised. I got the conch, then went back under water 3…4…5…6 feet so she could get it from me. She claims she could see me smirking even with the snorkel in my mouth as I held the conch deeper and deeper and made her swim for it, but I don’t know what she’s talking about. From there we went to the Coral Gardens for some proper snorkeling, then to Stingray City, were we got to swim with, hold, and even kiss some stingrays (apparently it brings 7 years good luck, so we’ve got 21 good years coming our ways). Last stop was lunch, where we ate the conchs we caught. (We got to keep the shells. Claire is VERY kindly carrying mine home, as I certainly am not willing to shove that massive and heavy thing in my backpack and take it to Central America.)

One might think that the day couldn’t have gotten better after all that fun in the sun (and a scorching sunburn on my back. Haven’t had one of those in decades!), but it did. We went out to dinner at a relatively non-descript place, but the music that they had playing was fantastic. Every late 80s/early 90s song that we knew and loved, starting with, of course, Ace of Base (or at least that is when I focused on the music, for I can hear “The Sign” from miles away). It was not a karaoke bar per se, but we had a good old raucous sing-along for about an hour, probably much to the amusement of those around us—certainly to the amusement of Trevor. (No we were not in our cups—they’d each had only one beer, and I’d had nothing to drink.) The best part was that a number of times we mentioned a group or song, and soon thereafter it would play. It was freaky, and we actually looked around to see if there was a microphone listening in on our conversation, but we decided that we just would be really good friends with the DJ, for clearly we all had the same taste.

Today was a somewhat lazy day, but really, when you are on a Caribbean Island, what day isn’t a lazy day? Tomorrow we head off at the crack of dawn and head our separate ways… they back to STL and I to Guatemala. It has been really great to catch up with them (to get the gossip from school) and just to hang out with people I know. It has been confusing again, though, for me, and I have wondered where I was many times. (But not which direction I was facing as I watched the sun set into the ocean, as DeAnn did.)

Tomorrow I return to my life as a nomad among strangers. Hopefully this interlude of two weeks with friends and loved ones will have been good and won’t set me into a homesick spiral. (Anyone know how to say “homesick” in Spanish?) But the light is burning pretty brightly at the end of the tunnel. I think I’ll be home in two months (and wondering what to do next… suggestions welcome).

Hiatus

Sorry about the long gap between posts, but I had a brief hiatus on the West Coast (of the US!), and didn’t seem to get around to writing anything. But now that I am in the Cayman Islands with nothing to do but sit on the beach and get sunburned with two of my teacher friends from home, I think I probably can find the time to jot something down.

I arrived in San Francisco after about 30 hours of traveling (ugh) and was met at the airport by a friend of mine from college (same friend I called when I had my little meltdown in the town square in Christchurch, so I was happy to thank him in person, as well as to show him that I came through all right). I managed not to fall asleep in the subway, so was coherent enough to appreciate when he said to me, “You’ll like this…” and pulled a dead bird out of his backpack. (No, nothing to worry about there—I don’t think. He’s just a bit of a bird nerd. So you never really want to go diving into his freezer in search of ice cream. Of course that could just be his ploy to keep the ice cream all to himself.) Although he was pretty busy with school work, he managed to find some time to hang out with me. (And when he couldn’t, he distracted me with a large pile of saved NYTimes puzzles.) He’s pretty calm and quiet, so let my stories pour forth as I saw fit. Luckily (I guess), he doesn’t read my blog, so all of my stories were new to him.

After just two days with him I headed back to the airport to go up to Portland, Oregon , to meet my mom and see some other friends. When I checked in at the San Francisco Airport, I saw that the gate assigned on my boarding pass was different from the one on the board (but only by one). I headed to gate 48, and there was the flight to Portland. Out of curiosity, I checked to see where the plane at gate 49 was headed. Saint Louis. I smiled, and checked my ticket to make sure that I was indeed heading to Portland.

While standing outside of security in the Portland Airport awaiting the arrival of my mother, I was surprised at how unexcited I felt. It’s not that I wasn’t looking forward to seeing my mom, I just wasn’t as giddy as I’d expected. Mind you, it could have been that I had absolutely no feelings whatsoever at that time, for jetlag was seriously kicking my butt, which really hasn’t ever happened to me before. I wasn’t managing to fall asleep until 2 am, and then my friend and his housemate were both up and functioning (and therefore I was as well) by 7 am. Ugh. But when my mother did appear, we both got a little teary-eyed, so I knew that all was well in my world.

We had a nice few days up there (COLD! I haven’t been in cold weather since England in October. But mom had brought me jeans), although I did try to get in on the wrong side of the car a number of times. On Sunday I went back to the airport (another flight… sigh) and flew back to San Francisco for a couple more days with my friend. Getting on the plane (Alaska Airways) in Portland, I had to walk out onto the tarmac… in the hail. I gave the guy ahead of me a good long headstart to get up the ramp into the plane, but I still was way faster than him and was standing in the rain and hail trying to protect my head with the Sunday Times (but not the magazine… that was safely tucked away from the elements so that the puzzle would be undisturbed). Once on the plane, I heard the guy behind me say “Let me try to get this hail out of my ear.”

Two more days of calm and quiet in San Francisco, and then I was back on the road. It was nice to be home (of sorts), I think, but it was a bit weird. My packing system was all thrown off. My sleep was a mess. And I constantly was confused as to where I was. (That has, surprisingly, only happened ONCE thus far, until now.)

And I did have many times where I wondered about the fact that I had thrown myself off the merry-go-round of life, and whether I would actually be able to get back on. Has my job gone by, and do I care? Do my friends still remember and need me? It may seem silly, but it’s true. But seeing my friend in SF, and getting to talk to friends on the phone whom I haven’t spoken to in months really helped allay my fears. I think it will be all right. And even if I can’t get back on the merry-go-round of my former life, I think that will be okay.

But I’ll deal with that all later. Now I think there’s a bottle of wine being opened by DeAnn and Claire (it’s 4:15, and I am colada behind them)…

random

The problem with having a blog that people actually read is that when I see my friends again, I'll have nothing to say!

The Longest Day

March 9, 2009 was the longest day of my life. Literally. It went on for 48 hours because I crossed the international date line. 30 of those 48 hours were spent in transit from Auckland to San Francisco (via Fiji and Los Angeles). I thought it would be the day from hell, but it turned out to be the best day of my trip thus far.

On the first flight from Auckland to Fiji I was seated next to a very friendly, interesting, not-hard-to-look at guy just a few years older than I, who has spent the last 3 months traveling through New Zealand. We chatted away and had lots in common, so that plane ride went by in a flash. He was making the connection to LA as well, so the whodunnit that I'd bought for the 6 hour layover looked like it might not get read.

When we got off the plane, we were hit by a wall of heat and humidity. The thought of six hours in a transit lounge again became unappealing, so when the airport people said we all needed to go through customs and then check in again (because the layover was just a tiny bit more than six hours), I didn't mind too much. I was looking forward to getting a Fiji stamp in my passport, and I thought I might escape for a while and see what I could see of the town or island. (The handsome man on my plane was right behind me in the customs line, but an airport guy came and said that we could actually check in, so he must have wandered off with the rest of the people after I went through.) So I changed my remaining $25 NZ to $22 Fiji, and went out to find a taxi. I told the taxi driver I had $20 and loads of time, and to please show me what he could show me until the money ran out. He seemed somewhat reluctant (I think $20 probably would have gotten me to the town of Nadi and back, but I didn't care), but agreed.

I introduced myself to the driver, Vinod, and we headed off. He suggested that if I had a bit more money, he could show me some really beautiful places. Nope, $20 was all I had to spend. I asked him various questions about Fiji and the town and we chatted. He drove me by a Hindu temple (he, like 35% of the Fijian population, is Indian) and asked if I had a camera. I duly took a photo of this colorful temple, so not to offend. He drove me through town, telling me that it was a public holiday (Mohammed's birthday, so there's another religion. I saw a church as well somewhere along the lines). Then he drove me into a little residential street, honked the horn in front of a somewhat ramshackle house and gate, and asked if I wanted to come to his home. Ummmm, okay.

So I got to meet Vinod's wife, Asha, 15 year old daughter, Arusha, and 20 year old son (whose name I promptly forgot, but it means rain). They gave me a cup of tea, and I shared the remains of my wasabi peas and half a candy bar which I had in my little pac. After half an hour or so, Vinod said he needed to get back to work, but I would stay with his family and they would make me dinner. Ummmm, okay.

I went outside with the son to get some leaves for dinner. No, we didn't go to a little garden plot and pick some spinach. He got a big knife (think machete), chopped down a large branch off of a tree (I kept asking if it was a tamarind, but everyone said no, even though it really looked like one to me), and picked off the little leafy branches. Asha cleaned the branches (smacking them a few times against her hand to shake off the bugs, I assume), then chopped up the leaves. Meanwhile the son cracked a coconut and shredded the meat.

When it was all said and done, that became a delicious something, which was served along with rice, roti with dal, some breadfruit curry, dal soup, and a dish made with potatoes and something I hadn't heard of. It was all amazingly delicious. And there I was, a random stranger sitting in their living room, having this Indian feast.

Vinod came home about 8 and the whole family, including the upstairs neighbor and her two young kids, piled in the car and drove me back to the airport. They asked if I would be coming back to Fiji some day. ABSOLUTELY!!!!! As I checked in again, and all the way into the transit lounge where I found the handsome man again, I had a huge grin on my face. What a wonderfully serendipitous day.

If you ever land in Nadi, Fiji, I highly recommend the taxis.....

Lake Taupo

The mice and rats in Taupo eventually did all arrange themselves as they were supposed to, if a bit late. I had just booked myself into a youth hostel, made my bed, chatted with two German girls I'd be sharing with, and was heading into town, when my phone finally rang. My hostess's phone was again working and she's just gotten my pleading email with my phone number.

So I headed back to the hostel, folded up the sheet on the bed, and (quite luckily) got my money back. I did see the two German girls and I thought about explaining that I was going to stay with a local, but I thought it would be more fun for them to postulate on what had happened to me.

I sat out front, wondering what sort of car my hostess would arrive in. At first I thought it would be a sedate little grandma-like car, like my two previous hostesses (this woman, as with the previous two, had been a student of my aunt's 53 years ago). But then I thought how my aunt had said that one of the pleasures of staying with this woman would be to have your bath in the garden, so I decided she might have a bit more of a clunker. Perhaps a beat up old station wagon. Datsun or Subaru. Lo and behold, about 10 minutes later an aged Subaru (which she pronounced su-BAH-ru) station wagon pulled up, and I gave myself a little pat on the back.

I was taken out to the house, which was amazing. It reminded me of an Italian villa, but then, as I was reading The House of the Spirits which is set in South America, I decided it was actually more Spanish. There was a central courtyard, bits and pieces of sculpture all over, and an absolutely amazing garden full of exotic trees. I went for a little wander through the garden, and was amazed (and sometimes startled) by all the sculpture around (the large copper leopard in the tall grass made me jump). I did some mental planning of what I want when I grow up and have a house of my own. (I typed "hose" the first time. Much more likely.) And yes, there was a bath in the yard. It was a hot-spring fed tiled pool, surrounded by bushes and ferns. Oh yes, I did my fair share of late-night, under the stars, skinny dipping, as well as some not-too-early morning dipping.

WAY better than any hostel!

As happens sometimes, I was not the only visitor to the house. My hostess's Kiwi goddaughter was arriving with her American husband and kids. It turns out that they live not half an hour from where I spend my summers. As he was my age, we started playing the name game. I began with all the people I knew growing up, but that got us nowhere. As he is a cabinet-maker, I went into the carpenters I know. My farmer-boss doubled as a carpenter, but this guy didn't know him. He did know another farmer though, so he tried out her name on me. I knew OF her, but didn't know her. Then I started listing off the names of farmers that I knew. (I spent 13 summers working on a little organic farm in coastal NH, so I knew a couple.) We had lots of luck on that front. He had been good friends with one of the farmers who lived in my house for quite a few years. He said to me, "You don't live in that farm house near the horses that lots of people rent out?" Yes, I was half way around the world, and I met a man who had been in my house. (Then again, who HASN'T?)

One day my hostess decided to take me down to the Hawkes Bay region to see Napier, an Art Deco town (it was destroyed in an earthquake in the 30s, so was completely rebuilt in the Art Deco style. Alas a lot of that has been pulled down to make way for more modern--read "ugly"-- construction) and go to a couple of wineries. Out of the garage she drove her 1962 Cadillac. I was excited to get in the right side of the car again, but was a bit dismayed to see that there was a leopard-print cloth covering the whole front seat, so none of the three of us (who were sitting abreast without touching, the car was so big) had seat belts. It's not like the roads in NZ are only two lanes, hilly, and windy or anything.

The woman was a bit of a nut, but enjoyable, and treated me like the little queen that I know I am (or would like to become), so I had a lovely stay there.

Random Kiwi thoughts, part 1

Random thoughts and observations from New Zealand, of which I have plenty, so I'll probably do this in two goes.

No, I have seen no Kiwi (birds), although I did hear one one evening (they are nocturnal). Yes, I have eaten Kiwi (fruit), which actually comes from China. I've even had a golden kiwi.

Every single Kiwi (person) feels that it is their responsibility to give you a little history of the area/country. Given how many different Kiwis I've met, I feel that I might be able to recite the Treaty of Waitangi (the agreement between the Maoris and Europeans in 1840).

When Aussies and Kiwis talk about "the bush" they really just mean the woods. Let's for a moment imagine that Robert Frost was from Down Under. "Whose bush this is I think I know..."

In small NZ towns, one shop will act as the post office, information center, local museum, gift shop, Internet center, and, if you're lucky, cafe and general store as well.

At a restaurant the other day I heard, in succession, I Will Survive, Lady (by Lionel Richie), and The Gambler. Flash back to elementary school and a sing-along-o-rama!

New Zealand money is actually printed in Australia.

I misread "AERO CLUB" as "AFRO CLUB". Common mistake, I'm sure. (I actually saw a couple people of African descent the other day. Not a lot of African blacks here, although the Maori refer to themselves as blacks.)

I still don't know about the water flushing down the toilet in reverse, but I can tell you that the hot and cold taps are often reversed. But not always. Someone please explain that to me.

Maybe they have this in new buildings at home (which I have apparently not been in), but I was surprised the other day when I went to get on an elevator, and instead of pushing an up or down call button, you pushed the number of the floor. Once inside the elevator, there were no numbers. (Yes, it was confusing to me.)

I saw a guy throwing bread to the pigeons.... but he was throwing it into the street. Trying to keep the bird population down?

The Wellington Museum tells the history of the city, and the first exhibit is a little replica of the old wharves, complete with rat scurrying along the bags of grain.

I saw four women walking down a pedestrian mall in Wellington (a couple older women, a younger one whose face was painted like a vampire) carrying a bathtub. (Not clawfoot.)

From a distance, alpaca look like giant roosters. Shorn alpaca look like giant poodles. (Not sure what I'd eaten or drunk that day....)

There are no superhighways here. In and out of the really big cities you might get two or three lanes, but in between cities and towns, the roads are two lanes-- one in each direction-- and many of the bridges are only one lane. So when looking at distances, don't think you'll be doing 60mph (or even kph!).

I saw a guy at a restaurant in Christchurch shooing away the gulls with a Super Soaker.

In the Cantebury Museum they have the Paua Shell House. This is the reconstructed living room of Fred and Myrtle Somebody. The display started with a little video. I was a bit worried when the door to the screening room closed with an ominous click. Had we just been locked in so we couldn't escape the movie about NZ kitsch?

On the way to Queenstown the bus was driving alongside a creek. I saw someone all togged up in scuba gear standing in it.

Have you noticed road signs with lots of little dents in them? I always assumed it was kids shooting the signs with BB guns or something. I saw one down here which had a hole the size of a golf ball blown through it. No idea what made that.

I didn't get to go to the Hokitika Sock Machine Museum. Bummer.

I officially turned into my grandmother when I wrapped up my extra bun-- and the free butter-- and put it into my bag for later.

They talk about pies here a lot, but theirs are made of possum, rabbit, deer, venison, goat...

I saw a sign that said "Sandflies arrive on mass."

Old bathtubs are scattered throughout fields here as drinking troughs for the animals. Where do the farmers get so many old tubs from?

Dogs like to eat crap (literally) sometimes. Dogs like to rub their muzzles against your leg sometimes. Sometimes dogs leave crap on your leg.

I was drinking water that tasted a bit funny. I asked my hostess if she'd put some herb in it (sage?). No, just lemon. A few minutes later I did see a leaf in my glass. No, wait, those are wings. And the legs are floating over here...

In Tauranga, I stayed at a house around the corner from the oldest Kiwi vines in NZ.

The people over here don't wear shoes much either. One day my barefoot host took me to a cafe, a Target-like store, the grocery... Apparently these people missed the day in biology class where they talked about all the diseases and worms that you could get through your feet. (I'm not usually one to worry about hygiene, but that always stayed with me.)

That's it for now. More later.

School Visit

To pretend that my year of playing has some professionalism to it, and to remind myself what classrooms look like, I've tried to visit schools in the countries I've been in. Today I had two quick tours of some West Auckland public elementary schools. It was Friday afternoon when I visited the schools, so I didn't expect to see a whole lot of serious teaching or learning going on, but that's fine with. One can get a pretty good idea of a school just by looking at the walls.

At the first school the main impression that I got was that the staff was ridiculously young. I like to pretend that I am still one of the young teachers, but in reality I've moved into the older bracket. Such is life. But at this school I didn't see anyone who looked over 30, and I don't think it is just that Kiwis age well. It made me wonder about teacher turnover. (Which at times is non-existent at my school. They know a good thing when they see it!)

The second school, which has a huge emphasis on technology so there were a dozen computers and laptops in every room, is only 7 years old, in a new building that has water issues. Serious water issues... like many of the classrooms had huge poles in the middle of them supporting the ceiling so it wouldn't collapse. Bummer! I noticed that the dress code at that school was pretty lax. More lax than my school used to be before Dress Code Drucilla came into existence. One guy (a sub) was wearing a black t-shirt and shorts, a camo hat, and had a mohawk/mullet hairdo peeking out from underneath. Wow. That's about all I could say. Wow.

I was chatting with the deputy principal and asking various questions. I asked about how often the teacher teams got to meet. (At my school we are required to have one team meeting a week, but on my team it was more like two or three formal ones, and myriad informal ones.) The woman proudly said that the teams had one whole day per TERM that the teachers had to meet and plan, and then pointed to the staff room behind me as an example. In it were four teachers, all sitting at separate tables, all working independently on their laptops. Good teaming! (I am hoping that the one day per term that they had to meet was just when they were released from class for the day, and not the ONLY time that these teachers met.)

It was fun to visit the schools though, to remind myself that there is a reason that people from all over the world visited our school.

Vagabond Days

Ah, the best laid plans of mice and rats...

Traveling around the North Island was supposed to be easy breezy, being passed from person to person. Alas those people have lives and schedules and aren't on holiday as well!

After a nice (albeit a bit wet-- 4 inches of rain on Saturday!) weekend with some lovely people in Tauranga, I was dropped in town this morning at 7am. (I am NOT a morning person.) No onward bus yet booked, and not able to reach the person I am hoping to stay with this evening in Taupo, I went to Starbucks to pass the time. I don't make a habit of going to Starbucks, but not much else was open at that hour, especially where I could settle in and read my book for an hour and a half.

The bus is now booked for Taupo, but I still haven't been able to talk to the woman in Taupo, so she has no idea that I'm coming. Last I spoke to her, a week ago, I had said that I didn't think I'd be able to make it down there, but would let her know if I could. The day after that call she left town for a week and I found that my hiking trip up north was canceled, so I could stay come visit. Considering how many times during the call she said I sounded beautiful, I am assuming I will be welcomed. That is if she got the email or phone message I left.

Adventures in traveling. It wouldn't be so bad wandering around homelessly if I didn't have this huge pack on my back and looked like a vagabond. (I can't wait to get to the States next week, however briefly, so I can get rid of a bunch of stuff and not walk doubled over. I've tried changing my posture so that I walk a bit more erectly, and work on my abs at the same time, for my six pack has been diminished to about two.)