Day Five – Chasing the Clouds

Sitting in the Auckland airport was a precursor to Christchurch. A plane delay for over an hour because of storms and once in the air the cloud dodging bumps were excellent training for rodeo bronc-busting or riding the bull at Gilles in Austin, Texas. For an hour we put up with the pilot who obviously missed his fighter pilot days as he banked the 757 around, over and under every cloud he could find. But good news awaited us in Christchurch. My percolating fears about long distance car rental arrangements over the internet proved groundless. The car was waiting for us at the front door and the folks were exceedingly pleasant. The car, a White Toyota Something I’ve Never Heard Of, was much newer than expected. This Toyota Platz would soon come to be known by another name however. Kristine is quite susceptible to motion sickness and if one adds up several conditions we were to encounter, short wheelbase, narrow curvy roads and a total lack of flat, level ground on these Islands, her sensitive tummy tolerance was tested hourly. Our Toyota Platz was affectionately re-named the Toyota Puke as we flew over the top of a hill and bottomed out while sinking into the valleys. But I get ahead of myself. Car rental prices in NZ are partially based on their age and mileage and so RK expected a 1962 Corvair based on the low price I paid. When asked if I had any experience with driving on the left (wrong) side of the road, I pooh-poohed their concerns citing my extensive touring in Ireland and Scotland. I promptly drove out of their driveway in the wrong lane. I was unable to see their reactions but did hear some distant laughter. Maybe I should have taken out more insurance?

Actually it all came back easily and the 10 mile drive into the center of Christchurch amidst a driving rainstorm was uneventful. Our hotel was adjacent to the City Centre and when Kris pleaded poverty they not only reduced the rate but also gave her a room on the twelfth floor with a view of Christchurch’s famous Cathedral. Wow! Got to love her negotiation skills. Drawing open the curtains in the room revealed a stunning view… of the twelve-story building next door. But wait… yes, there it was… just above their roof, a tiny 15 foot section of the Cathedral’s tallest spire was clearly in view. Kiwi sense of humor no doubt. However, we were able to walk to the various sites labeled as “Do Not Miss” by our Eyewitness guidebook giving our raingear a decent baptism. 5:18 PM this day is Kris’s actual birthday and we were seated for her birthday dinner with strong drink in hand at the appointed hour and minute. Don’t remember her grouper plate but I had a deliciously tasty and tender Lamb Rump roasted rare over spinach and green beans smothered with a Chipotle sauce next to a side of crusted sweetbreads. YESSSSS… lamb not mutton. Screw all you Saudis who fed me mutton for all those “lamb” dinners I was forced to attend in the Middle East. The news talks about flooding in the southern lowlands due to the first of the winter blasts up from Antarctica. Remembering how altitude decreases temperatures, I idly think about crossing the Southern Alps here in a day or so but dismiss any great concerns. After all this is their fall. Real winter is still a month or two away. I sleep soundly but dream of narrow roads, single lane bridges, and icy mountain passes.

Day Four – Chasing the Rare Kauri Gum

The decision has been made. We ride the passenger ferry two miles across the bay to Russell rather than taking the car ferry which is located about 22 clicks (kilometers) back down the road we came up yesterday. The only reason (according to Rick who actually worked here many years ago) to have a car in this tiny tourist enclave is to ride up Flagstaff Hill for the view. It is a goodly steep hill but easily tramped by folks such as we three athletically inclined seniors… ooops… correction… two seniors and one who is one day shy of being a senior. We arrive after a 20 minute ride on flat seas and are just in time to catch all the shopkeepers either sweeping away remnants of last night’s bacchanalia or rummaging through their purse to find the keys to open up shop. We decide a walk up the famous Flagstaff Hill is in order before we look for breakfast. The Famous Flagstaff is normally visible from anywhere in town but this morning it is obscured by an errant cloud. My amazing analytic powers kicking swiftly, I immediately think, “Hmmm… cloud, hill.., uhh… altitude?” This bit of critical thinking ends in my asking Rick one more time about the hill climb. “No probs, old chap,” he blithely replies. This has been his mantra since we arrived in NZ. And for the most part he has been right. We start up the hill and at the first bend in the road it suddenly turns into an asphalt paved cliff. Rick’s response is “Hmmm, don’t recall this, must be a new road.” My retort is “don’t you think a new road would be a little less steep than the old road, Rick?” No response from Rick except for a little wheezing. Another 100 yards and 200 feet higher, the wheezing is now in stereo. I will admit, my steady diet of butter, sausage, and Egg McMuffins is on my mind as the old ticker works harder. Rick is stopping to admire the foliage on the side of the road and leaning heavily on his umbrella about every 6 or 8 steps now and I am hoping the Famous Flagstaff has a cold beer spigot attached. OK, OK we make it to the top and the view is worth all the carping. However, although the flagstaff is tall, it is sans any hint of a flag. Apparently not many folk volunteer to run it up the flagpole anymore, as they say on Madison Avenue. We admire the view and once breathing and heart rate are reduced to double digits we head down the hill with a lilt in our steps. Rick and I find a great cup of coffee and Kris finds nothing she can’t live without in the shops and we are quickly back to the ferry.

I ask Rick where he left his umbrella and when he tells me he left it up on the hill for the next poor soul who is caught up there in a downpour without an umbrella, I nod in awed admiration of his compassion and generosity. I am convinced (read coerced) to not mention his generosity to anyone else, however. (read Judith) This type of arrangement is generally acceptable behavior amongst men of the world. It is called bribery and can often prove to be lucrative to the bribee. (me, in this case) We spend a delightful few hours in one of the oldest Kauri forests in NZ and take turns having our picture taken in front of the largest known specimen not cut down and carved into faces with protruding tongues. In the photos, each of us can be recognized by our different color rain jackets. They appear as the small miniscule dot of color at the lower left of each photo. Think “The General Sherman” tree in Sequoia National Park.

Another of Kris’s desires is to find a piece of Kauri gum which resembles amber. It is very expensive and exceedingly rare we are told by every store clerk selling it. We find a small piece she likes for her jewelry-making endeavors and I purchase it for her as a small birthday gift. Tomorrow is her birthday after all, and I like a dolt, thought this trip was her present. Male stupidity raises its ugly head. Luckily my return plane ticket is pre-paid. A torrential downpour soaks me as bad as the sales clerk when we run back to the car and I assume God (She Who Is) is washing away my Sin of Omission. An all too brief stop at the famous Kauri Museum is the one sour note of the day. The museum is a fascinating tour de force in Kauri amber sculpture and the history of the Kauri tree in NZ’s economy. It includes displays of 67 different chainsaws, 41 early steam engines, a thousand other machines I cannot identify, and a working sawmill.

The saw mill brought back memories of helping my father work our small mill on the old dairy farm back in central Wisconsin. It was equipped with a 60 inch diameter blade boasting a hundred or so insert teeth and I learned most of my swear words from my Uncle who also helped us with the cantankerous machine. To this day I cannot believe we sawed enough straight boards from the oaks we cut down to build an entire new barn without a hand or foot or worse being lost to that singing five-foot saw blade. We kept the Kauri Museum folks as long as we could (we arrived only 40 minutes before closing, that being the one sour note of the day) and deeply regretted leaving. Rick is planning a return soon. No such luck for me. A late dinner of an aromatic and delicious stew is once more waiting for us at the Clarke’s thanks to Ann’s hospitality. We pack for the flight to the South Island city of Christchurch in the morning. Our days of having a personal guide are done. So be it. Let adventure reign.

Day Three - Chasing the Elusive Kiwi

Retired Rick sent Judith off to work about half an hour ago and now the remaining three of us are on the road driving north into the heart of historical Maori territory for a two day excursion around the Bay of Islands and the upper most portion of the North Island. Our quest for NZ history however is also fueled by Kris’s desire to espy a real live Kiwi of the feathered variety. Being nocturnal and in major decline due to heavy predation by the country’s many dogs who are often left to roam without leashes, seeing an actual Kiwi is a rare occurrence. Ergo, one of NZ’s few live Kiwi exhibits is our first destination at Whangeri. (N.B. “wh” in Kiwi talk is pronounced “eff”) We arrived about 11 AM and Kiwi Keeper Kevin told us the two birds normally would be out and about their paddocks at this time, but so far they had not appeared. We were welcome to have a look for them and if they were not out we could come back any time during our walking about the grounds viewing the other exhibits. I paid the $20 NZ apiece for us and we went into the viewing area. Not quite sure why I didn’t make the connection earlier (before I paid the money) but inside the viewing area it was TOTALLY black. They ARE nocturnal birds after all, thus only come out at night. (duh!) There were a couple of 5 watt red bulbs in the viewing area but unfortunately, I am as blind to the red spectrum as the Kiwis. Hence much bumping into Rick, Kris and the glass wall separating us from the Kiwis slightly bloodied my nose. Three people standing in total darkness looking through a glass wall into total darkness trying to spot the elusive nocturnal (and dark colored) Kiwi bird. Hmmm. I did an internal sanity check and was not happy with the results. Those two however, were able to determine there were no Kiwis running around in the paddock, so we left to see other exhibits mumbling something to Kiwi Keeper Kevin that we were sure this was an NZ scam and there were no actual birds in the paddock. He looked quite aghast at our accusation and swore there WERE two live birds in the paddock. He was genuinely apologetic about the birds not appearing for us. This was a great story as far as I was concerned. Dumb Americans taken in by Kiwi scam. I could eat out on this story for years to come.

Alas, ten minutes later Kevin came running up to us as we were searching in vain for geckos in the gecko exhibit (they also apparently were shy and nowhere to be found in their little terrariums). Keeper Kevin breathlessly informed us that both Kiwis were out and about. Come quick. We did and once more into the pitch black viewing room. Kris and Rick immediately spotted the amazingly quick little suckers, (actually about 16 inches tall) as they ran from one side of their respective paddocks to the other. I, of course, saw nothing but black. Only after about 5 minutes did I begin to make out a dark brown blob moving back and forth in a dark brown environment. I was assured it was the elusive dark brown Kiwi. Ruined a damn good dinner story, I am sorry to say. We left with Kris proclaiming the entire day a huge success because she saw an actual real live Kiwi in the almost wild.

Later in the day in our quest for cultural enlightenment, we toured the ancestral Maori meeting house where about 30 ten-foot high carvings of people’s faces with their tongues sticking out, were used as pillars to hold up a spectacularly varnished wooden roof. The old British Government House on the same site was of typical Brit design with about an equal number of rooms for the family as for servants. The servant’s rooms were about one third the size of the family’s rooms. Big surprise there. We topped off the day with a delicious fresh fish dinner at the Pihua Chapter of the NZ RSA. (New Zealand Returned Serviceman’s Association) It’s their version of our VFW Post. Dinner was accompanied by the melodious tones of a young woman calling out bingo numbers. I thought it a most perfect day when Rick poured some stiff (very) Gin and Tonics while we watched the sun disappear over the western hills and the water of the Bay of Islands glowed beneath our second floor balcony veranda. We’re off on the ferry in the AM to the small city of Russell, formerly known as the Hellhole of the Pacific. (second in infamy only to Port Moresby)

Day Two – Chasing More Boats

Because RK cannot get enough of boats and things water-y, Rick has agreed to take another trip downtown today while Judith is at work. We’ll visit two of Auckland’s five-star tourist traps. Since it is so close to the Southern Ocean’s ice continent, New Zealand is the natural stepping off place for most Antarctic expeditions and supply trips. It is a logical choice to slip into Kelly Tarlton’s Antarctica Museum, replete with a sno-cat-on- tracks ride through a very large freezer room. The “ride in” freezer is home to about a hundred penguins, some King and the rest smaller versions of same. It is my personal observation that if you’ve seen one Tuxedo Bird, you have seen them all, regardless of the color of the rings around their eyes or their relative size. The characteristic waddle on ice and snow or the bullet-like speed under water looks pretty much the same regardless of the species. And if truth be known, having watched “The March of the Penguins" twice, a real life penguin simply cannot compare to the majesty of the cinematic scenes in that wonderfully personal documentary. Watching any penguins without the melodious tones of Morgan Freeman’s voice warming up the aural senses just isn’t the same. I am hoping some future trip to our Southern pole will change my mind about this.

Stepping out of the sno-cat, one immediately is drawn to the large 60 foot diameter tank that is the entrance to the aquarium and shark emporium. Unique because one walks (actually one can simply step on to a moving tread way) within a tunnel of Plexiglas (a technique and design invented by Kelly himself) while said sharks, rays and many large fish swim beside, around, and above one’s head. The white underbelly of a six foot shark or a five foot ray as it deliberately glides up and over one’s person is a bit disconcerting at first but soon, the realization that 6 inches of solid Plexiglas is a good safety barrier makes one more curious about the underbelly of such graceful creatures. Quite unlike the curiosity I have experienced while viewing the underbelly of more than one city center I have visited. Bottom line here? It was fun, a bit pricy but then after all, it is a vacation.

The short drive back to the New Zealand Maritime Museum allowed RK to once more drool over the sleek hull lines of Fay’s 133 foot unsuccessful challenger to Connor’s Cat while Rick and Kristine blissfully sailed past me into the Maritime Museum. It is built over a 300 yard quay harbor side and is a marvel of multiple floor heights. One of the things I hate about getting old is not recognizing small changes in floor elevation, stumbling repeatedly and looking quite foolish… not to mention OLD! Granted the exhibits were spectacular including, I believe, a detailed model of every ship, boat, canoe and hollowed-out log that ever arrived on the shores of this maritime nation. Surely only the Maritime Museum in Lisbon, Portugal could claim to have more extensive display of exquisite miniatures. My only complaint (beside the floors) was an incomprehensible display methodology. Neither chronological nor geographic in nature, it was all a bit of a jumble including the Peter Blake exhibit in the furthermost hall of the buildings.

For those of you who recognize the name but can’t remember why, Blake was the quintessential Kiwi sailor who wrested the America’s Cup from the Aussie’s and eventually was shot and killed by thieves aboard his 85 foot yacht while on a scientific expedition up the Amazon. A sad end to a superb sailor who had much left to accomplish. He is a national hero here in NZ and rightly so. His famous “Black Magic” America’s Cup boat with its winged keel is displayed in its entirety in the exhibit and remains as impressive out of the water as she was slicing through it on her way to a convincing Cup victory. Certainly a watershed moment in the evolution of sailboat design as well as match racing.

Arriving back on the Clarke Homestead for dinner we were delighted to find Ray had obtained fresh Flounder that Judith had simply pan fried whole, one for each of us. We gorged ourselves on the delicious fish but also on several long winded dissertations upon subjects rarely broached at the Clarke dinner table, with the “weirdness” of Americans taking center stage. I am told the event was hugely successful as evidenced by the lack of a TV blaring at the far end of the dining room. Apparently the first time in over a year that Ray did not peruse NZ One on the telly during dinner. One can only hope it was the quality of this guest’s words and not the volume of same that rendered the telly silent. Those of you familiar with my audio levels at dinner might have your own answer to that question. Off to the Bay of Islands tomorrow.

Day One - Chasing the Night

It has been a few years since I have been aboard a packed trans-oceanic bound 747 but I had promised Kris this trip to the ancestral home of the Kiwi for her birthday. Being one of those birthdays with a trailing zero (I won’t mention which one) I wanted it to be memorable. Thus the 13 hour flight to Auckland out of Los Angeles was to be tolerated even if downright dreaded. Surprise, surprise… Air New Zealand personnel were incredibly friendly and their 747 seats were far more comfortable than those early days when my painful flights to Riyadh aboard Saudia Air where the port side of the plane was smoking and the starboard side was non, were seemingly unending. As the title of this missive hints, we left LAX at 9:30 PM and chased the night across the Pacific Ocean for thirteen hours until arriving in Auckland, New Zealand in pitch black at 5 AM local time. Our former boat neighbors from Marina del Rey, Rick and Judith Turrell graciously picked us up at that un-Godly hour, took us home to Judith’s parent’s farm where hot coffee and a warm welcome from her folks Ray and Ann awaited us. Rick and Judith left Marina del Rey nearly seven years ago, cruising their sailboat, Dreamweaver,” down the coast of Central America and throughout the South Pacific before turning into landlubbers just a few months ago. After years of sunshine, pristine beaches and abundant reefs, a long string of storms and a harrowing loss of their mast “took the fun out of it” as she explained to us. They are easily adjusting to the bucolic life of gentleman farmers.

After an hour of catch-up gossip, we tramped out to the back forty and picked two five gallon buckets of wild mushrooms. The ensuing breakfast of wild mushrooms, lightly sautéed and slathered over hot toast, filled up the four of us and we took off for a short tour of the downtown Auckland bayside harbor area. Boaters are invariably drawn to waterside venues and Auckland’s famous Hauraki Gulf has been the sight of some spectacular America’s Cup races, so it was a natural draw for me. Those other three were amazingly patient while I drooled over NZ 32, one of the Cup boats and Michael Fay’s infamous 133 foot sloop that lost the Cup race to Dennis Connor’s monster catamaran way back in the 20^th Century. The biggest surprise was the wicked surge in the central mooring basin. Watching the various boats rock and roll, I decided I would not want my boat berthed here.

KIWI KICK-OFF

Those of you who occasionally peruse these widely spaced postings may be disturbed to find that I will be posting a running travel commentary on this site for a few weeks beginning approximately 22 May 2010 during a New Zealand journey. Take heart however, I should be finished by the middle of June at which time I will revert back to my normal widely spaced postings on this blog site. Consider this your last and certainly final warning..

Unlike postings on my other blog, the scroll of shame, I do not care who reads this one.

To All My Relatives, Friends, Acquaintances, and Those Who Are Not...

IT'S NOT THE FLAG... It's What It Represents

My grandparents were immigrants, my father was a decorated WWII hero and I have not done enough to make them proud. I try my very best. I do not wish to behead those who pray differently than me. I do not wish to shoot people who disagree with me. I do not wish to hurt people who look different than me. I do not wish to forget those less fortunate than me. I do not wish to poison the world after me. And yet I feel I have failed the generations that preceded me.

On this Fourth of July when we Americans celebrate by flying our country’s flag, I will hang my father’s flag on my office porch once again to honor him. But more importantly, this year I am personally taking a pledge to make my small corner of this world a slightly better place. It is how my predecessors made a difference… by making their small world a better place. I am the recipient of their largesse and I owe it to them, and I owe it to all those who come after me to do no less. Won’t you join me? I want my country’s flag to once again be THE beacon in a dark and dangerous world.

I wish you all health and happiness and a clearer conscience than mine on this the 232nd birthday of the United States of America. My home, and proud of it.