Travelogue

Bula bula!

Hello and greetings from AUckland, NZ. We flew out of
the moist, humid tropics with their flagrant
vegetation and bright flowers to this beautiful city.
Auckland is on an island, with grey skies, excellent
cappuccino, and meat pies on every corner. The
architecture looks like it came from rural England;
the space between buildings looks like the American
Midwest, and even the nicest grey-haired grannies
drive like the wildest Bombay taxi driver.

Scott has a new game he is playing: Currency
Exchange. He is collecting coins and bills from the
various places we've visited.

Carrie has a new game she is playing also: Currency
Exchange II. She is collecting no coins or bills from
any of the places we've visited. Instead, she
calculates exchange rates in her head and that
tightwadded little heart of hers goes pitter-patter
whenever the American dollar's strength makes some
deal even better than expected. (the NZD is a 2-for-1
discount currently -- heh heh heh!)

Auckland is paradise in other ways too. There are
clean public restrooms everywhere and I love it.

We look like the natives and speak the language, so we
no longer have this big invisible banner overhead:
"QUOTE ME YOUR MOST EXPENSIVE TOURIST PRICE AND ASK ME
IF I WANT TO BUY SOMETHING RIGHT NOW!"

It is also out of the tropics, which means 1) we did
laundry 2) it got dry 3) really really dry and 4) did
not acquire fungus or funky smells overnight before we
could put it on.

Very strange, though -- the sun rises in the northeast
and after a very pitiful little hop, sets in the
northwest, and twilight takes forever. In Fiji it was
20 minutes from bright to dark, in a country where the
streetlights were not always present or working. Here
you get an hour or so to get home, plus the
streetlights work.

Our last report is the No Ozone Idea. There is No
Ozone Down Under. None. Forget the reports that
there's a hole in the ozone as big as Australia.
There's no hole in any ozone -- there's no ozone!

Scott got really badly sunburned in Fiji from sitting
in the SHADE for half a day. I got bizarre-looking
ankle sunburns -- I wore Tevas in Fiji, and where
usually socks would cover my ankles were only bright
white patches...soon to turn bright red. At least
Scott's _looks_ like a respectable sunburn. Mine just
looks like I have some funky tropical disease of the
legs.

At any rate, that's all for now. We are trying to
work out how to get to the South Island to ski before
all teh snow there melts ... and possibly renting a
motor camper to motor around in. If I dare drive on
the roads with all these grannies on them!

Love love love and a big bula bula to you all!

-- Carrie, Scott, and our CLEAN DRY laundry!

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September 1, 2000 - Kiwi loving: Queenstown, New Zealand

Hello all and greetings from Queenstown, NZ!

We are about 45 degrees south of the equator, halfway
to the South Pole, and approximately the same latitude
as the Twin Cities. It is late winter/early spring,
with a few brave buds coming out of trees and the
ground, and a few manic winter sports addicts getting
in their final runs of the season. Imagine you're in
Minneapolis on March 2. Same idea, except not so many
blond people here and more cigarette smokers. Very
strong coffee and a brisk wool garment industry.

We are staying at Scallywag's, a little hostel with a
beautiful 180-degree panoramic view of the Remarkables
and other moutain ranges. There are tons of shredders
(snowboarders in big baggy pants) and ski bunnies in
town, and a big lake with a harbor. This is near the
river which hosted the 1860's gold rush for NZ. The
owner of our hostel has a little parrot with a big
mouth and Scott and I are teaching it to do catcalls
and to say "Hello love." I want to move it into other
things like "Kiss me darling," but if we can get him
to do a really good catcall as somebody walks into the
room I'll be happy.

Yesterday we went into a Kiwi House (it's dark inside
b/c Kiwi birds are nocturnal creatures) and saw them
running around. They are brown and shaped like
lightbulbs and really FAT! They are maybe 18" high
and have these long straw-like bills they stick into
the ground in search of insects and other yummies.
They also have these tiny little vestigial wings
(which are about as useful for flying as our human
tailbones are for use as a tail). Scott was stunned
to learn there are 5 or 6 species of kiwis, and I was
stunned to learn the female kiwi lays an egg which is
20% of its body weight. (How much would a newborn
baby weigh if it were 20% of mom's weight? ouch!)

Having a blast and learning to eat mutton in all
varieties. I highly recommend New Zealand for
travelling, especially b/c just as we arrived the NZ
dollar tanked again, giving over 50% discounts on
everything. Do not beware the jabberwock, but do
beware the mutton curry.

Miss you!
Carrie (and Scott, currently in seventh heaven as he
is snowboarding until his legs can't take it anymore!)

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September 1, 2000 - Kiwi Quiz -- test yourself on your knowledge of Down Under

Hello beautifuls -- you've been waiting for this one:
the New Zealand Kiwi Quiz!

1. If somebody is asking you to "dob it in," they are
asking you to:
   a) turn in a grossly polluting vehicle to the smog
police
   b) score a point in nerf basketball in a local bar
   c) put your backpack underneath the bus in a hurry
so the bus can take off

2. "Wahini" is:
   a) a Maori woman
   b) a zesty Middle Eastern sesame dip which is
really quite good on mutton kebobs
   c) the name of a local snowboard half-pipe
especially made for doing aerial tricks

3. Long Black and Flat White are:
   a) specialty coffee drinks served in numerous
cafes
   b) minor league rugby clubs where young athletes
hope to be chosen as a New Zealand All-Black
   c) premium varieties of New Zealand wool

4. A Tuatarium (too-a-TAHR-ee-yum) is:
   a) an incubator where they hatch tuataras, which
are real-live baby dinosaurs who escaped extinction
because they were on this island
   b) a thrill-center run by a Maori couple in which
you can bungy-jump, paraglide, and jet-boat all in one
afternoon for 49 US dollars
   c) a large vehicle filled with tar and other road
sealant which they use to fix the damage caused to
roads in the winter

5. Due to the Coriolis effect, the water in the drain
swirls
   a) whichever direction it wants to
   b) clockwise
   c) counter-clockwise

BONUS.
*** "Are ye makin' the poo now?" This quote was:

   a) overheard by Scott in the men's room as part of
a loud and involved conversation between two
6-year-old boys
   b) overheard by Carrie in our hostel as part of a
bizarre one-sided conversation between Evan, the
owner, and his prolific parrot (who was, indeed)
   c) overheard by Scott and Carrie in a local lunch
spot, shouted by the waitress to the cook, who was
stirring a large pot of mutton stew (which is locally
referred to as 'poo' because of its color and
texture).

------------------ answers below ----------------

Answer: A in each case. (did you really think we'd
eat something which the locals called 'poo'?????)

Love, C+S

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September 5, 2000 - Be a hero/heroine -- for free!

Hello all with dry clothing and clean towels!

Will make this brief because I know you are busy and
important. Scott and I are in Te Anau, near the
Fiordlands National Park, which would be lovely,
except it's really bad weather and we can't see/do
anything. I don't dare venture too much outside for
fear my few dry clothes will get wet!

So we sit here in youth hostel, in front of fire,
hoping for sun and pining away for our friends back
home.

Here's where we want to ask for help from each and
every one of you on sctravels. Surely you have done
something interesting today? Something exciting in
your life? Did you eat anything novel for breakfast?
Or have any good gossip to share? What is happening?

We'd love to know! Please oh please if you have the
urge -- drop me an email and let me know how your life
is. (For the extremely brave, go ahead and post it to
sctravels also ... for everybody else, I'd recommend
just sending it to me carrie_beam@yahoo.com or Scott
scottwynter@yahoo.com).

Thanks! Love and miss you all
-- Igor, Queen of the Mildew and
Scott, King of the Reused Plastic Bag

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September 9, 2000 - The wet city of Dunedin

Hey gang,

Well...we decided to escape the wet of the east cost
and run to the west coast (because, everyone here
knows that if it is raining in the east, it is dry in
the west). Well, it is still pissing rain here and it
doesn't look like it is likely to let up. Everyone
here is very surprised at this turn of events, and
they believe this is a record of rain since records
have been kept in the south island. Being Sunday, we
went to church to ask if we could see the flaming ball
of gas in the sky (despirate, a bit). Should I sound
like we are suffering, far from it.

At the moment I am sitting in a bar called "Shooters",
having a jug of beer (1 liter) and an hour of internet
for $10 NZ (about $4.75 US). Yesterday we toured the
Speight's brewery, which ended in a tasting (pour your
own mates...I'm in no rush). Needless to say I was
enthralled. The south islanders looks at themselves
as the US wild west of NZ. And they LOVE their rugby,
especially the All Blacks (which the aussies are quite
keen to remind us haven't won jack for years). I
would call it a religion, but it doesn't fully cover
the depth of emotion that is felt. It is lambing
season now (when the cute little lambs come shooting
out of their mothers ....er....you get the picture).
The amount of sheep in the country is unbelievable,
they are everywhere (I believe there are a flock or
two under our hostel). There is so much sheep here,
lamb this, mutton that. They seem to put most of them
into these things called pies (think of a chicken pot
pie, with a different meat and less runny). They also
have deer farms, so venison steaks are around and
really good.

Thanks for all the notes from home, it has made our
"suffering" much easier to bear (grin). No, no quiz
from me, except where the hell is my hostel (strong
beer + little brain + strange foreign city = lost
american).

Good on ya mates!

Scott

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September 13, 2000 - Tales of Old New Zealand

Hello all! I have the most interesting book here and
wanted to share a bit with you. It is a bit longer
than most emails but (I think) well worth the read.

----------------------------------------------------

Note: "Pakeha" (PA-kay-ha) is Maori word for
Englishman; "Rangatira" (RANG-a-tee-rah) is Maori for
respected chief.

Excerpts from "Tales of Old New Zealand," published in
1887 by F.E. Maning, an Englishman who came aground in
the 1820's and lived as a naturalized Maori for
twenty-some years, until the Treaty of Waitingi in the
mid 1840's established NZ as a Dominion of the British
Empire.

Below our hero recounts his exploits near Auckland,
NZ, in the 1820's:

"Every Englishman's house is his castle...I now
purchased a piece of land and built a 'castle' for
myself. I really can't tell to the present day who I
purchased the land from, for there were about fifty
claimants, every one of whom assured me that the other
forty-nine were 'humbugs' and had no right whatsoever.

The nature of the different titles of the different
claimants was various. One man said his ancestors has
killed off the first owners; another declared his
ancestors had driven off the second party; another
man, who seemed to be listened to with more respect
than ordinary, declared that his ancestor had been the
first possessor of all, and had never been ousted, and
that this ancestor was a huge lizard that lived in a
cave on the land many ages ago, and sure enough there
was the cave to prove it.

Besides the principal claims, there were an immense
number of secondary ones -- a sort of latent equities
-- which had lain dormant until it was known that the
pakeha (Englishman) had his eye on the land...One man
required payment because his ancestors, as he
affirmed, had exercised the right of catching rats on
it, but which he (the claimant) had never done, for
the best of reasons -- i.e., there were no rats to
catch, except, indeed, pakeha rats, which were plenty
enough, but this variety of rodent was not really
counted as game.

Another claimed because his grandfather had been
murdered on the land, and -- as I am a veracious
pakeha -- another claimed payment because his
grandfather had committed the murder!

...

It took about three months' negotiation before the
purchase of the land could be made; and indeed, I at
one time gave up the idea, as I found it quite
impossible to decide who to pay...This turned out to
be the right move.

The day being now come on which I was to make the
payment, and all parties present, I then and there
handed over to the assembled mob the price of the
land, consisting of a great lot of blankets, muskets,
tomahawks, tobacco, spaces, axes, etc; and receive in
return a very dirty piece of paper with all their
marks on it, I having written the terms of transfer on
it in English to my own perfect satisfaction.

...

One old rangatira, before whom a considerable portion
of payment had been laid as his share of the spoil,
gave it a slight shove with his foot, expressing
refusal, and said, "I will not accept any of the
payment, I will have the pakeha himself." I saw some
of the magnates present seemed greatly disappointed at
this, for I dare say they had expected to have the
pakeha as well as the payment for themselves.

But the old gentlemen, being a person of great
respectability and also having twenty good fighting
men at his back, was, in the opinion of all the
natives, making a far better thing of the land-sale
than any of them.

The fact of my having become his pakeha meant:
1. At all times and places, he had the right to call
me 'his pakeha.'

2. He had the general privilege of showing up
unannounced and I would be obliged to lay out a great
pot-luck meal before him and all his company

3. My owner would from time to time make me small
presents; I would then be obliged make him big
presents of five to six times the value.

4. I must purchase everything the chief or his family
wanted to sell, whether I wanted them or not, and give
the highest market price, or more if I could afford
it.

5. The chief's pipe must never go out for lack of
tobacco.

6. All desirable jobs of work, and all advantages of
all kinds, I must first offer to the family of my
rangatira before letting anyone else have them, and
moreover I must pay about 25% more than going rate.

In return for these duties and customs, the chief was
to:

1. Stick up for me in a general way, and not let me
be bullied by anyone but himself;

2. In case of my being plundered, the chief would
come in hot haste with all his family to my rescue,
after all was over, and when it was too late to be of
any use. He was also bound on these occasions to make
a great noise, dance the war-dance, and fire muskets
(using my powder) and to declare loudly what he would
have done if only he had been on time.

3. If I lost anything by theft, my rangatira would
get the stolen article back if he was able, and keep
it for himself for his trouble, unless I gave him
something worth more.

Under the above regulations, things went on pleasantly
enough....

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September 18, 2000 - A Walking Eyeball -- what's it like to be here?

Hello lovelies! We have solved one great mystery.

We have wondered why it is raining so much on us ...
bad luck? poor karma? improper behavior in a past
life?

The answer: our location. We are near the Franz
Josef Glacier, in an Antarctic rain forest. It has
rained so much on us because we're in a rain forest,
which gets 10-15 feet of rain per year, usually in
this pernicious fine mist which chills you to the
bone. Mystery solved.

Next destination: somewhere else!

     ****************************************

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote of being a 'walking
eyeball.' Below are some 'walking eyeball'
observations of my own about what it is like to be in
NZ.

(For a truly authentic Kiwi experience, I'd recommend
dipping some cotton socks into cold water and putting
them on, and then drinking some hot water with
Vegemite dissolved in it, before reading further.)

What's it like to be in New Zealand?

* the showers do not work like I hope they will. Most
hostels have five-step written directions on how to
make the hot water work. The rest have cold showers
for me.

* the second language written everywhere is Maori, not
Spanish

* a 'manly' lunch would not be burger and fries, but
rather any of these: steak+kidney pie; mutton pie;
steak+cheese pie; chicken+apricot pie, or toasted
cheese and tomato sandwich, occasionally with
pineapple

* sundials point south

     ****************************************

In Kiwi territory, the heroes are different from
American heroes.

In the US, our heroes are sports champions, movie
stars, and the very wealthy, and there is little
prestige given to second place. Only the winners
count -- the fastest runner, the best-selling actress,
the richest billionaire.

Some heroes as they appear around town here:

* British royalty -- nobody here admits Princess Diana
is dead; pictures of her as a young woman are
everywhere. Princess Anne signed a visitor's permit
to some park, which ended up framed and displayed
prominently on the wall. Huge trees have a little
plaque saying they were planted 150 years ago to
commemmorate the marriage of one of Queen Victoria's
children. Pictures of the Queen Mum, as a chubby
7-year-old or a pink-clad 100-year-old, are on stamps,
flags, in restaurant windows, on
magazines...everywhere.

* All the soldiers who fell in WWI (1914-1918) are
canonized -- every town has its monument to the "Great
War" in which they list the names of those "who made
the Supreme Sacrifice for the Greater Glory of the
British Empire." WWII and the Boer War do not rate as
high. (The American in me always wants to ask, why
bother going halfway around the world to die for
somebody else's war and somebody else's King and
Queen? And the answer is...it was _our_ war, and it
was _our_ King and Queen...and it still _is_ our
Greater and Most Glorious Empire. Well, sort of.)

* The All-Blacks Rugby team, despite having lost every
major athletic contest this year to Australia

* Robert F. Scott, a Brit who died in March 1912 on
his way back from the South Pole. The monuments
always show him looking South, wearing a big jacket
and a stern expression. They monuments always omit
the rest of the story -- that 1) Scott was racing
Norwegian Roald Amundsen to the Pole, and 2) Amundsen
got there first, came back alive, and used sled dogs
instead of horses and people-power to pull his heavy
equipment.

     ****************************************

Other notes from NZ:

* A Kiwi hostel owner who had been to Chicago told us
in all seriousness that Americans are not resourceful
or creative. On what, we asked, did he base this? 1.
The fact that today's young Americans don't grind
their own replacement car parts to repair vehicles
like he did when he was a kid, but rather take the car
to a mechanic, and 2. his numerous and varied
experiences with people working in the fast-food
industry.

* The Great Southern Albatross' favorite food is
octopus and warty squid. I hope I don't get
reincarnated as one of those!

* In Christchurch, a huge botanical garden had about
half of its plants imported from abroad, with little
plaques saying where they were from -- Brazil,
America, South Africa, India. The other half of the
plants were native plants, with little plaques saying
how endangered each plant was from all these foreign
plants.

* If you've ever been to the DMV in Sacramento, there
are these beautiful primrose trees outside the
entrance which bloom in springtime. There are similar
ones here, in bloom in the spring. It's beautiful!
(and probably killing some native plant...)

* A local TV show on foreign adoption said Americans
are baby-sellers with extra money being charged for a
certain gender or hair color. (Sort of like they
charge an extra 25 cents for catsup at restaurants
here.) Same program reminded viewers how we all own
guns and flashed images from Baywatch and a profile
shot of Michael Jackson.

     ****************************************

...and the more things change, the more they stay the
same! Can you place these quotes?

"Intense bouquet with hints of lemon and melon on
buttered toast, elegant and restrained."

"Soft and creamy but youthfully vibrant."

(answer below)

...They ain't describing fahion or jam, or even
foreign flowers...they're the wine critics, every bit
as silly as the pompous creatures we have in the Napa
Valley!

Well, enough for now ... wish us luck in our little
rain forest ... and oh yes, you can take your cold
cotton socks off now!

Love
Carrie (and Scott, who is out walking around
somewhere in this mist!)

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September 22, 2000 - The Mobile Gourmet: recipes from the Edge of the World

Hello all. Greetings from Nelson, NZ, where

1) we are staying in a hostel called "Dave's Palace"
which is on top of a hill with three somewhat rickety
flights of stairs leading up to magnificent views of
the city

2) there is a Wearable Arts Festival in town this
weekend (see http://nz.com/tour/Nelson/WearableArts.html if you
want to check out previous year's winners)

3) and the combination of 1 & 2 means our hostel is
full of artistic people frantically threading beads
onto wires and sewing feathers onto leather. Sort of
nice (except this morning when the communal butter had
an itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny little hot pink feather
stuck in it...)

     **      **      **      **      **      **

There's a cookbook in the kitchen and I thought I'd
share some of the recipes travellers have written in
it.

These are verbatim, and arranged in order of
difficulty. The easy ones are up front (for Scouts
and other easy-does-it chefs) and the most difficult
one is at the end (for the truly accomplished).

***********************************************

1. Easiest
   Eggs on Toast (anonymous; very neat red writing)
   Put toast in toaster until cooked
   Put eggs in pan and cook
   When cooked, put the eggs on the toast.
   Eat.

2. Intermediate
   Jam Sandwich (requires coordination; from Andrew
from Canada)
   Take 2 pieces of bread (any kind will do, it
     depends on what suits you)
   Take one piece in your left hand
   Take one piece on your right hand
   "JAM" them together. Tada!
   You now have a tasty jam sandwich!


3. Advanced
   Nasi Goreng (Maria from Holland, via Indonesia)
   1 diced onion
   500 g pork butt, cubed (cheap cut of meat best)
   6-8 tbsp ketjap maris (sweet soy sauce)
   2-3 tsp sambal oelek (hot pepper stuff, to taste)
   1 tsp garlic (or more if you like garlic)
   1 tsp ginger powder
   1/2 tsp each turmeric and cumin
   oil for frying
   2-3 cups raw rice

   * fry onion in oil. Once slightly soft add the
cubed pork butt and fry until browned.
   * in a separate pot start cooking the rice
   * add the ketjap maris to the pork and then the
other spices.
   * turn heat to low and simmer until the rice is
done, making sure not to boil off all the liquid. If
it is getting dry either add more soy sauce or if the
rice is almost ready you can just turn off the heat.
   * Once the rice is cooked add it to the pork
mixture and mix through.
   * Serve and eat as is or you can sprinkle peanuts
on top. You can also serve sliced cucumber at the
side which helps if you put in too much pepper and it
is too spicy.

4. Double Black Diamond -- Experts only
   "Andrew's Best Bowel Basher" (Andrew from Britain)

   Wander down to the Victorian Rose (local pub).
   Drink 16 pints of Guinness.
   Stumble back (up the bloody stairs) to Dave's
Palace.
   Eat all the free food you can find in the kitchen
(i.e. 1/2 a tin of mustard powder and a rotten
parsnip).

   Wait 10 minutes.

   Get in dashing distance of the loo and let off a
f***ing nuclear explosion.

   If correctly done, it should have a good gloss on
it.

(comments from peanut gallery upon this recipe:
'Wow, that's great!!!'
'Why have I never thought of that before? You're
awesome!'
'Thank you for sharing, Andrew.')

Bon appetit! Love and miss you all!

Carrie (sticking to pasta and tomato sauce) and
Scott (currently super-pleased with the $3.00 possum
tail he bought at a roadside rest stop)

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September 28, 2000 - Great Tramps

Hello all! Great Tramps -- look out Heidi Fleiss --
not just for frat boys in Nevada anymore!

Seriously, greetings from Picton, NZ...Scott and I
just did a piece of one of New Zealand's Great Walks,
in the Abel Tasman National Park. It's backpacking at
its best (the locals call it 'tramping' and the best
walks are the 'Great Tramps').

You can see where we were at

http://webnz.com/AbelTasman/

I will now describe to you what we did:

Day 1:
Wake up and walk to Marahau Boat Ramp. Water is
beautiful, turquoise and green with little
cappuccino-like foamy whitecaps.

Wait a while, talking to American hippie who moved
here 20 years ago and married a Kiwi lady with whom he
plays music and homeschools their two kids. He is
training to be a Tasman park guide. We feel macho -
we don't need no stinkin' guide!

Water taxi pulls up to boat ramp and we get aboard for
our scheduled two hour boat ride up the verdant coast.
After a few minutes, the water no longer looks so
beautiful; now it just looks blue. The boat is
rocking, front to back, front to back.

After one hour, the Japanese tourists are all seasick.
The water looks really ugly - whoever thought foam
could be pretty??? - and as people are throwing up out
the back of the boat, the waves add in a special
side-to-side motion as well. There is a big blonde
lady with an employe's shirt on who is cheerfully
holding people's heads and mopping off the back of the
boat with this large whitish mop. I no longer see
turquoise or green or blue ... it's all come to one
long drawn-out war of attrition: keep your eyes on
the horizon, American travellers, keep your eyes on
the horizon.

After two hours, the boat people tell us it's too
rough to take us as far up as we'd planned to go --
would we be too terribly disappointed if we were let
off one stop early?

We got off early, at Awaroa Hut.

We are actually ahead of schedule - this is where we'd
planned to hike to this evening.

That evening, the hut had 35 bunks and five visitors:
Scott, me, a nurse from Perth, Australia named Dave
who had a big fight with his girlfriend the day before
and was now travelling solo (and telling everybody
about his fight), and a Japanese slacker couple.

Their limited English was enough to get across the
following information: they were 26 years old, had
spent past 3 months snowboarding in NZ, planned to
work in Tokyo to save up for 3 more months of
snowboarding in Canada, had parents who were very
displeased with their slacker children and wished
they'd get a real job, and were hiking this five-day
trail without hiking boots, water purification
systems, flashlights, tide tables, or a stove. Their
lack of tide tables meant they'd finished their day
hiking through high tide and their feet were wet.
They did, however, have ten tea light candles and
enough white bread and strawberry jam to feed an army.

Day 2: Get up to frost on the grass. Wait until 11
am until the tide goes down enough to let us out. The
tides here are unbelievable -- high tide means high
tide; you are STUCK until it goes back down again (or
you can be like our snowboarder couple and just walk
through it...ick!!)

Standard beautiful hiking through many and varied
terrain. See the web page at top for 'postcards.'

The real action took place that night, at Hut #2, Bark
Bay Hut. This hut had 25 bunks in it and by 7 pm
there were 35 people who wanted to sleep in them. The
most interesting was a group of Israeli youths.

I will here morph to an Ally McBeal-type moment. Your
five senses are:

Sight: it's dark, save for the illumination of one
tea candle you bartered with the Japanese guys from
last night (traded some rum for it). 7 pm; sun gone
down, the hut has no electricity.

Sound: lots of noise. There are, after all, 10
people in excess of the Fire Marshall's recommendation
in this hut.

Smell: smoke. wood smoke. a little bit of sweat.
and more wood smoke as people try to light the
fireplace and a fire too.

Feel: crunch crunch under your feet. People's hiking
boots have gotten sandy mud in the soles, and when
they walk around inside the hut, the little square
things fall out. And you crunch them in your stocking
feet.

Taste: nothing yet. But you are hungry and looking
forward to dinner.

You have just rolled our your sleeping bag and this
slender guy walks up to you and points:

"Hello there, miss. My name is Sammy Schmeckelman and
I'm part of this group of 7 Israeli backpackers. I
know I have this really cool James Bond accent, and
James Bond haircut, and James Bond glasses, but that's
because I grew up in South Afrca. My parents moved to
Israel when I was a kid and now I'm Israeli like the
rest of us.

There are seven of us total, two guys and five girls.
We are excited out of our minds to be here on school
holiday -- we just finished one year in university
after getting out of the army -- and I'm doubly
excited because there are more girls than boys in my
group.

We missed our turnoff to this cabin today and walked
an extra five hours but that is a small matter to you
when you've served in the Israeli army.

We are going to stay up very late tonight playing
cards, singing songs, and arguing with each other. We
do that everywhere.

Excuse me for just a moment, if you will. I see the
other 6 people in my group are trying to light the
cooking stove. It's not my stove. In fact I've never
used a stove like it, but I would like to go argue
loudly in Hebrew with the guy holding the match in
just a moment.

But for now -- I see you and your husband are sleeping
on those two bunks. There are only six bunks to the
side of you guys, and seven of us, so I was wondering
if you would mind moving over a bit so we could
squeeze all seven of us in here?"

...ah, for fantasy. The actual conversation went
something like this:

Me: roll out sleeping bag.

Him: "Ehmmmm..." (yells over shoulder in Hebrew.)
"Ehmmmm...you are not going to use all of that space?"
(looks pointedly at me.)

(I had to learn the rest from judicious observation
and small talk during the course of the evening).

Day Three will come later ... enough typing for now!

BTW -- weather was beautiful while we were hiking ...
and it is raining again ... Hope all is well back home
- miss you guys!

(return to top)

September 29, 2000 - Great Tramps Day 3

Hello all.

When we last left our hero and heroine, they were just
bunking down in a crowded hut with many trampers, the
most memorable a bunch of energetic Israelis.

We followed this piece of advice from a wise and most
revered list subscriber:
"...discretion is the better part of international
relations, tramper-style...And remember that it's
extremely poor taste to wake up a group of
slumbering, late-night-partying,
just-released-from-the-army Israeli youths with shouts
of "Allah Akbar!"" Duly noted with many thanks!

Day Three was beautiful, sunny, clear. We had a
lovely few hours' hike through hills and dales,
overlooking turquoise beaches where we saw lots of
kayakers, some fur seals, and a gazillion birds (which
were also heard, and, in Scott's case, felt (bull's
eye right on his head!))

Arrived at pickup spot for water taxi. To fully
duplicate this experience at home, you will need the
following:

* sandbox
* bread, cheese, sausage and one large knife
* industrial-strength fan
* relaxing water-and-wave background noise music
* postcard of any beach
* Windex-type spray bottle full of salt water
* a watch or clock
* two five-year-olds

1. Put on two or three layers of clothing and sit in
the sandbox. Make sure you are facing the fan. Turn
it on full blast. (NOTE - aim it high enough so it's
only blowing air, not sand, at you. Full on in the
face -- so you have to squint your eyes -- is
perfect.)

1.5 Tape the postcard at eye level in front of you.
Look at the beautiful sandy beach.

2. Turn on the background noise music. Try to relax
into the waves, feeling in harmony with nature.

3. Sprinkle just the tiniest bit of sand on your
cheese and sausage. Make sandwich and begin to eat.

4. Give one five-year-old the spray bottle and
encourage him to spray it into the fan stream, so the
water droplets hit you in the face every so often.
(for more advanced do-it-at-homers, offer him a
chocolate if he can get you square in the eye.)

5. Give the other five-year-old the watch and tell
her to say "WATER TAXI HERE!" when it's one o'clock.
Begin the game about 11:30 am, and make sure she
doesn't really know how to tell time very well.

6. Play like this for two hours, until approximately
1:30. Give the kids their chocolate - they've earned
it. You have to wait for yours until you get on the
boat (below).

               * * * * * * * *

We caught the water taxi at low tide, which meant the
following Olympic-inspired events:

1. TRACK AND FIELD: a 100-m dash with full backpacks
over the mud flats out to the taxi depot

2. GYMNASTICS: keep backpack on; stand on one foot
in one inch of water, balance carefully and pull off
boot and sock on other foot. Repeat on other side.

3. STEEPLECHASE: hold boots in one hand, ensure
backpack is still on back. Walk through knee-deep
water, up metal ramp swaying to and fro, and sit
delicately in small watercraft. Balance is especially
key here because if you do it wrong your backpack will
go over the side with you attached to it. (This is an
automatic DQ from the event).

               * * * * * * * *

The ride back to the Marahau boat ramp (from whence
we'd departed Day 1) was lovely relative to the
Vomit-Comet ride out. Smooth seas, turquoise waters,
and a really yummy chocolate peanut candy bar with no
sand in it. (This is your chocolate from previous
exercise!)

To disembark at low tide was truly incredible. The
tide was totally gone out. On Day 1, the boat had
come right into shore to pick us up; now there was a
1/2-mile mud-and-sand flat between us and shore. We
got off the boat (reverse-steeplechase event) and
began the walk to shore, holding boots high in hands
(for maximum style and grace).

Have you ever seen a mud-and-sand flat at low tide? I
hadn't until just now. They have in them:
squishy, cold, sandy mud. Occasional tidepools which
are 1-3" deep. Seashells everywhere - big ones, small
ones, pink ones, white ones, alive ones, dead ones -
all of which will cut your feet if you aren't careful.
Shy little crabs which scuttle into their holes when
they see you (and give the impression the surface is
alive and crawling with bugs). Scattered slimy bits
of green seaweed. But mostly just mud and sand, which
squish up between your toes and make the most
satisfying noises when you take a step.

The Japanese couple with the jam and the Israelis with
their stove were great, but we now found a new object
to people-watch. Scott noticed them first. A lady
and her husband -- she was fortysomething and had a
dour look on her face and a big knobby ring on each
finger and a _really_ expensive camera with a large
lens around her neck. Her hubby seemed the good-type
of guy, jovial, ruddy, chubby, perhaps a bit tipsy
from beer on the boat. Both were wearing really
expensive clothing which should never be worn over a
mud flat.

We got off the boat and began the walk towards shore.

She carried only the camera; her husband carried all
the rest of their bags. He was patiently picking his
way to shore; as soon as her pedicured feet hit the
mud, she stiffened. She didn't like it at all.

She began to run - foot caught on something slimy -
fell - face first - beautiful camera lens immersed in
gunk - got up - took three more steps - husband
suggested she walk instead of run - she told him to
keep his suggestions to himself - she ran again - fell
again - and she finally walked the distance to shore.
Husband brought up the rear like a patient pack animal
- big and warm and dry.

We said a cheerful good-bye to her at the shore but
she didn't say anything very nice back to us.

            * * * * *

And that, my dearies, is our backpacking trek. In
case you are wondering why the sudden outpouring of
text after a week of silence, why, it's raining in
Picton today!

Actually, it's pretty cool - I have become a
connisseur of rain. This is quite good: lots of water
plus gale force winds to blow the rain up and under
your raincoat make for quite the adventurous walk in
the rain.

Instead of going to local wineries and doing wine
tasting today (US$ 40 for 2 of us), Scott and I have
decided to go the local grocery store and spend the
money on bottles of local wine and some cheese if
there's any left over. We'll do our own winery tour
this evening at our hostel, where I'm learning to
juggle and Scott is contemplating learning to eat
fire.

Love-n-kisses from the Land of the Mud Flats

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October 4, 2000 - Tales of Old New Zealand II (esp for history and war buffs)

More from "Tales of Old New Zealand."

Background by Carrie: (a rough grouping of all the
different history accounts I've been able to piece
together - please forgive me if it's not perfectly
correct!)

The Polynesian canoes arrived in New Zealand
approximately 1000 AD from the South Pacific (time of
the Vikings and William the Conqueror/Bastard). When
the arrived, there were large (1000-lb) flightless
birds called moas, which were quite stupid, had no
fear of humans, and made really tasty eating and quite
easy pickings. The moa nesting areas were veritable
chicken-n-egg grocery stores.

By 1500 AD the people had eaten all the moas and could
no longer feed all of themselves by hunting and
gathering.

From then until the first Europeans came about 1770,
the Maori became part-farmers, part-fishers, and
all-round-great warriors, each tribe fighting all the
other tribes on the island with great ferocity and
pride. They fought over resources; fought over
insults real and perceived; and fought because to
fight was glory in the Maori culture. A shameful
death for a warrior was a peaceful one of old age; a
glorious one was a brave one in battle, and you lived
to die bravely, so your descendants could sing of your
bravery.

Because the island has few metallic natural resources,
they fought using 'sticks and stones' -- huge wickedly
pointed sticks and really fearsome stones, but still
stone-age technology which didn't kill too too many
people at once.

When the Europeans came, they traded muskets for flax
and local plants. All of a sudden the balance of
power was changed. The first Maori tribe to buy
muskets promptly turned them on their Maori neighbors
(with whom they'd been gloriously fighting for
generations) and exterminated them. They then went
further and exterminated the next tribe as well.
Everybody now wanted a musket.

--------------------

And now we tune again to "Tales of Old New Zealand" by
F. E. Maning, published in the late 1800's by an early
Englishman in New Zealand:

"Many other causes combined at the same time to work
the destruction of the natives. Next to the change of
residence from high and healthy hill-forts to the low
grounds was the hardship, over-labour, exposure, and
half-starvation to which they submitted themselves --
firstly, to procure these very muskets which enabled
them to make the fatal change of residence, and
afterwards to produre the highly and justly valued
iron implements of the Europeans.

When we reflect that a ton of cleaned flax was the
price paid for two muskets, we can see at once the
dreadful exertion necessary to obtain it.

But supposing a man could get a musket for half a ton
of flax, another half-ton would be required for
ammunition; and in consequence, as every man in a
native tribe of 100 or so men, was absolutely forced
on pain of death to procure a musket and ammunition at
any cost, and at the earliest possible moment.

(For if they did not procure them, extermination was
their doom by the hands of their countrymen who had).
The effect was this small tribe had to manufacture,
spurred by the penalty of death, in the shortest
possible time, the 100 tons of flax, scraped by hand
with a shell, bit by bit, morsel by morsel,
half-quarter of an ounce at a time.

We may easily imaging the distress and hardship caused
by this enormous imposition of extra labour. They
neglected their crops in a very serious degree, and
for many months in the year were in a half-starving
condition, working hard all the time in the flax
swamps. The insufficient food, over-exertion, and
unwholesome locality killed them fast.

As for the young children, they almost all died; and
this state of things continued for many years; for it
was long after being supplied with arms and ammunition
beefore the natives could purchase agricultural
implements and other iron tools so necessary to them.

To truly understand the difficulties, we must
understand that while undergoing the immense toil to
make the flax, they were at the same time obliged to
maintain themselves by cultivating the ground with
sharpened sticks, not being able to afford iron
implements.

Thus continual excitement, over-work, and insufficient
food, exposure, and unhealthy conditions, together
with a general breaking up of old habits of life,
thinned their numbers. European diseases also
assisted, but not to any very serious degree...the
natives have decreased in numbers over one-third since
I first saw them."

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October 4, 2000 - Tales of Modern New Zealand (not for the faint-hearted!)

Hello all.

Greetings from central NZ, where we are in the shadow
of the great volcano Tongariro (if we could see it
behind the rain clouds) in the cute little town of
Taurangi (if we could go out easily, because the wind
is gusting up to 130 kmh, approx freeway speed,
knocking down plants, billboards, and sheet metal).

Anecdotes from the road (or, other answers to the
question, "what is your daily life like?). This one
contains the following

** Mystery Lunch
** "Down Doggie" goes to the Hostel
** Red, red wine

              * * * * *

Picton, NZ. Rain as grey and all-enveloping as
Seattle ever created. Small-town atmosphere to rival
anything in South Carolina. Smoke in the bar,
Olympics on the telly, my wet feet and legs tucked
underneath me on a bar stool, and my lunch sitting on
a big white plate steaming up at me. It's not the
salad or the peanut sauce or the glass of water which
has me feeling a bit disturbed. It's the other part
of my lunch.

There are two pairs of them, two pairs of round little
balls, each ball the size of a golf ball. Each pair
has been battered and fried, and is held together with
a bit of batter and perhaps a bit of something else
also.

Scott asks: "Don't you know they serve Rocky Mountain
Oysters to foreigners in Denver as a joke? And they
eat all sorts bizarre sheep parts here, right?"

Take a deep breath. Pick up knife and fork. Scott is
looking on with great interest. Make tiny,
experimental cut into one of them ... praise be, it is
a pumpkin ball. I will never know why they come in
pairs.

                   * * * * *

I am a budding yogi, which means I do little bits of
yoga on and off for my own amusement. Generally these
bits are done in hostels: hallways, occasionally
ladies' rooms, sometimes dining rooms or kitchens,
storerooms, etc. No matter how strange the position
or how completely I am blocking the hallway, the
travellers here are always and forever so very nice
polite.

They wait for me to notice them and move, and then
walk right on by, without giving me a second glance.
As if it is perfectly normal for 1) somebody to wear a
full-length navy blue suit of thermal underwear with
no other clothes on, and 2) to put hands and feet on
the ground, and 3) hold the derriere high in the air
in the "down doggie" position for 60 full seconds at a
time 4) on the very threshhold of the mens' bathroom.

                      * * * * *

Late at night, some hostel, wild weather outside.
Scott walks into our room and says, "Did you see
what's happening in the mens' bathroom?"

No, darling, I do not generally peek there. Please
tell me.

"There's this guy in there with his head completely in
the sink. It looks sort of painful. Bizarre
position. He's shaving his head, sort of unevenly,
but I think eventually he'll get all the hair off. He
bought this buzzer and was originally going to give
himself a buzz cut. But just when he'd gotten half of
his head buzzed, the thing died...and there's no other
buzzers in town...so he now has to shave it all off."

Next morning at breakfast, sure enough, reading the
newspaper is a serious-looking pale young man with big
dark glasses and big white smooth head, just like a
hard-boiled egg. At least he left himself his
eyebrows.

                      * * * * *

Some hostel, some place in New Zealand. Lovely dinner
which was quite improved with a few bottles of red,
red wine. To bed. My beloved husband Scott has a
bladder of iron and can easily sleep through the night
after a dinner like that. I am a human sieve and have
no prayer of making it much past 2 am.

2 am. Wake up. Must go to bathroom. Am only half
awake but the need is great. Where am I? More
importantly, where is _it_? Down the hall on the
left? Outside and around the corner, so I need to put
my shoes and raincoat on? Do we have one in the room?
Oh, yes, I remember, through the kitchen, past the
back porch, and behind a green-and-purple painted
door.

Cannot find any blasted light switches in this entire
place. Feel my way through kitchen, around table,
past fridge, to The Door. Get into bathroom, switch
on light, sit on throne. Very happy.

OK! Hooray! Time to flush. Now just like every
shower is different, and every microwave oven is
different, in this country I have found every toilet
is different. Am still not really awake, and cannot
find the bloody toilet flusher. No handle on front of
it. No button on top of it. No lever on side of it.
No pedal in front of it.

A-ha! String hanging down from ceiling above it!
With great confidence I pull string down and let it
bounce back up out of my hand.

BLAM! The lights in the bathroom go out. There are
little skeletons peering at me through the darkness, a
character from childrens' breakfast cereal grinning
from across the room, and planets glowing on the
ceiling. I am now fully awake.

Turns out, the owners of the hostel have put these
glow-in-the-dark decals all over the restroom, and
then installed the string to allow users to convert it
from a business instrument to a "loo with a view."

From my perch, I eventually fished around and found
the string, turned the light back on, and located the
flusher (small square metal button on the top of the
tank, looked for all the world like a "Made for you by
Sears" tag to me).

I will never forget those skeletons.

(return to top)

October 9, 2000 - The stinky town of Rotorua

People said "Rotorua has a foul smell".

We didn't believe them.

We arrived in Rotorua.

Now we believe.

In and around the town of Rotorua are thousands of
geothermal vents, geysers, mud pools and hot springs.
They constantly belch sulphur gas. This gas does not
smell good. Imagine if you will, the smell of rotten
eggs. That is what we smell. Is this assault
constant? Unfortunately, no. Just when you have
forgotten about it, bam, it hits you. Brings tears to
your eyes. Over 60,000 people live here year round.
Amazing.

Yesterday, we went to the world famous Lady Knox
Geyser at the Waiotapu Thermal Reserve. At 10:15
every morning this geyser erupts sending 60 ft. of hot
(and stinky) water in the air. How does this miracle
of nature happen every day at the same time. Three
pounds of soap. Yes, every day this guy makes a little
speech, dumps the soap down the hole, and after five
minutes, it starts to froth and bubble. He then jumps
out of the way and it spurts into the air. Amazing,
cool, and super natural.

The great thing about this town are all the
geothermally heated spas. For $NZ20 ($8 in real money)
you can soak for a long as you like in the hot (and
stinky) pools. Before you are allowed to enter, you
are given warnings. Wear no silver (it will turn
black) and don't put your head under the water (if you
swallow any, you might get anemic meningitis, or even
worse, you hair will smell of the (stinky) water).

(return to top)

October 12, 2000 - The Value of a Dollar

Hello beautifuls.

In case you didn't hear, crude oil prices reached
US$35 per barrel this morning and all Kiwi radio
announcers are up in arms about it.

Here are a few more tidbits to show you what your
dollar will buy here.

$1 US = $2.40 NZ, or alternatively, $1 NZ = $0.40 US

           * * * * *

Very low budget: $2 (US 80 cents)

"CIAO! My name is Antonio Buzzarelli. Call me Buzz.
I am an Italian backpacker travelling the world. I
only look like a coffee machine. I make the best
coffee in the whole world. I grind the beans, make
the cakes, then filter the exactly heated water to
make perfecto coffee each time. The only thing I do
better than make coffee is make love, what are you
doing tonight sweety?"

(this is an actual sign on a coffee machine in
Dunedin, NZ, just beneath the old Salvation Army
stained-glass windows which read: "Faith, Repentance,
Salvation, Holiness.")

           * * * * *

Low budget: $15 ($6 US)

A metal test tube shaped torpedo-like thing,
containing one humidity-controlled Havana cigar from
Cuba. Available in grocery stores everywhere and only
for the most discerning smoker.

(This is sort of cool because to the best of my
knowledge they're illegal in the States. I haven't
smoked one yet...but you never know!)

           * * * * *

Medium budget: $40 ($16 US dollars)

A double room in a youth hostel, with a semi-clean
kitchen, perhaps an insta-hot water tap, showers which
have hot water in the morning (once you figure out how
to use them), possibly towels, maybe a yard to hang
out in, a fat housepet who is terribly spoiled, and
profound bathroom graffiti.

Example: "Nothing you do is useless. You can always
be used as a bad example."

           * * * * *

High budget: read on, but you could probably put
somebody through college or at least buy a new car for
this item.

Ad in the Economist magazine, Jan 22, 2000

"CHATSWORTH OF LONDON -- we are honoured to present
for sale 3 British Titles of great respectability and
standing. Ownership of any of these rare and valuable
"Lord" Titles confers substantial social and business
benefits worldwide, whilst demonstrating a continued
increase in value over the past 35 years. These
esteemed Titles are fully recognised under English Law
and include the Right to:

* use the word "Lord/Lady" in your name
* pass the Title onto your heirs
* use the Title on all your documents (eg Passport,
ID, and credit cards).

Ladies and Gentlemen of any nationality may apply for
purchase, but only those of impeccable integrity,
honour, and standing will be accepted, as the new
Lord/Lady will form an important part of British
history and tradition.

The prices of these Lordship Titles range from $18,650
to $25,600 and include all legal fees, transfer and
registration charges, Certificates, and delivery.
They each come with a comprehensive history of their
illustrious previous holders, and a detailed
description of the area in which they lie.

All transfer documents are prepared by a leading UK
law firm and we will be pleased to have the Title put
in a passport on your behalf.

All enquiries will be handled with the utmost
discretion and confidentiality. Tel.
+44-20-7665-6638, Berkeley Square, London."

          * * * * *

Miss you all! Sunday we leave for the land of Oz and
hopefully will see the sun there. There have been no
confirmed sightings but rumors that, especially in the
Australian desert, the sun may indeed come out for an
hour or two.

(return to top)

October 17, 2000 - New Zealand Quiz - terms and definitions

Hello beautifuls! Back by popular request - the
Regional Quiz!

Match the following terms with their definitions:

1. Toffee Pops Hunk

A. a rubber piece of footwear which is worn while
wading and mucking about

B. a cross between a tractor and a rubber duckie.
Machinery used to cross the sand flats at low tide
while keeping occupants high and dry.

C. a finger-sized freshwater fish which is caught in
huge nets and immediately fried and eaten as a local
delicacy.

D. a sexy, half-naked man who reclines, smiles, shows
off his chest wax, and invites readers of womens'
magazines to eat a particular brand of candy

2. Gumboot

A. a rubber piece of footwear which is worn while
wading and mucking about

B. a cross between a tractor and a rubber duckie.
Machinery used to cross the sand flats at low tide
while keeping occupants high and dry.

C. a finger-sized freshwater fish which is caught in
huge nets and immediately fried and eaten as a local
delicacy.

D. a sexy, half-naked man who reclines, smiles, shows
off his chest wax, and invites readers of womens'
magazines to eat a particular brand of candy

3. Whitebait

A. a rubber piece of footwear which is worn while
wading and mucking about

B. a cross between a tractor and a rubber duckie.
Machinery used to cross the sand flats at low tide
while keeping occupants high and dry.

C. a finger-sized freshwater fish which is caught in
huge nets and immediately fried and eaten as a local
delicacy.

D. a sexy, half-naked man who reclines, smiles, shows
off his chest wax, and invites readers of womens'
magazines to eat a particular brand of candy

4. Mud Wiggler

A. a rubber piece of footwear which is worn while
wading and mucking about

B. a cross between a tractor and a rubber duckie.
Machinery used to cross the sand flats at low tide
while keeping occupants high and dry.

C. a finger-sized freshwater fish which is caught in
huge nets and immediately fried and eaten as a local
delicacy.

D. a sexy, half-naked man who reclines, smiles, shows
off his chest wax, and invites readers of womens'
magazines to eat a particular brand of candy

answers below

1-D; 2-A; 3-C; 4-B.

Note for all you readers -- you too can nominate your
favorite hunka-hunka-burning-love to be the new Toffee
Pops Hunk! I belive last year's winner went on to
star in "MANifest Destiny," a local ladies'
entertainment show which (from the advertisements)
appears to be somewhere between the Chippendales and
the Full Monty.

I have not shelled out the money to go find out for
sure.

(return to top)

October 17, 2000 - Tales of Old New Zealand III (last installment)

By popular demand, another excerpt from "Tales of Old
New Zealand," published in 1887, recounting an
Englishman's exploits living as a Maori in the 1820's
and 1830's in New Zealand.

"I must now take some little notice of the other great
institution, the _tapu_ (taboo). The limits of these
flying sketches of the good old times will not allow
more than a partial notice of the all-pervading tapu.
Earth, air, fire, water, goods and chattels, growing
crops, men, women, children -- everything absolutely
was subject to its influence. A more perplexing
puzzle to new pakehas, who were continually from
ignorance infringing some of its rules, could not be
well imagined.

...

A native whose personal tapu was perhaps of the
strongest might, when at the house of a pakeha, ask
for a drink of water. The pakeha, being green, would
hand him some water in a glass, or in those days more
likely a tea-cup. The native would drink the water,
and then gravely and quietly break the cup to pieces,
or otherwise he would appropriate it by causing it to
vanish under his mat.

The new pakeha would immediately fly into a passion,
to the great astonishment of the native, who
considered, as a matter of course, that the cup or
glass was, in the estimation of the pakeha, a very
worthless article, or he would not have given it into
his hand and allowed him to put it to his head, the
part most strongly infected by the tapu.

Both parties would be surprised and displeased; the
natives wondering what could have put the pakeha into
such a taking, and the pakeha 'wondering at the
rascal's impudence and what he meant by it.'

The proper line of conduct for the pakeha int eh above
case would be to lay hold of some vessel containing
about two gallons of water. He should hold it up
before the native's face, the native would then stoop
down and put his hand, bent into the shape of a funnel
to his mouth. Then, from the height of a foot or so,
the pakeha would sent a cataract of water into the
said funnel, and continue the shower until the native
gave a slight upward nod of the head, which meant
'enough.' By then, due to the awkwardness of the
pakeha, the two gallons of water would be expended,
half at least on the top of the native's head. The
native would appear not to notice the water on his
head, and would appreciate the civility of his pakeha
friend."

Makes the Dixie Cup look like quite the right tool for
the job!

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October 17, 2000 - The Hairdresser's Tale (end of NZ)

Hello everybody!
(last Kiwi posting for a very long time):

After two months on the road, it was time to beautify.
There was a beauty academy advertising US$4 haircuts
by haircutting students, only one block away from our
hostel in Auckland, so we thought we'd be brave and
give it a try. And, as a dear friend of mine says,
"hair grows back."

The haircuts turned out fine - we still look somewhat
like our passport photos. The conversation bits below
are from my Kiwi hairdresser, a chubby cheerful
17-year-old who had a friend on a high school exchange
program in Nebraska.

On travelling to America: "Oooooh, I'd just love to
go. If I only had a day to see it all, first I'd go
to Disney in Anaheim, then I'd drive down to Key West,
and then -- time permitting -- we'd make it to New
York City for dinner. New York is so stylish,
supposed to be better even than Sydney."

On our cities: "Don't you worry about the gangs and
gunfire there? And I'd be scared to have a child
there, they always get kidnapped by these Columbian
drug lords. I hear American prisons are just beastly,
that's why they're so full. Oh, sorry, you don't have
any members of your family in a prison just now, do
you?"

On our Midwestern religious right: "My friend, she's
having a horrible time of it. She's in a small town
in Nebraska, living with this really old couple whose
kids have left home. They make her work 5 hours a day
in the cornfields and go to church every Sunday and
don't let her out of the house after dark. She's so
upset, she was hoping to get to see Baywatch filmed."

On our fashion sense: "I thought the States were so
fashionable, you know, with Kurt Cobain and Pamela
Anderson and of course Brad Pitt. My friend in
Nebraska, she's really a lovely person, but she does
have the usual piercings in her face and just one
small tattoo. In Auckland it's not such a big deal.
But her host family says it's positively disgraceful.
I can't believe you Americans are so narrow-minded."

On the British Royal Family: "I don't know, they're
just sort of there. You know, if it came to vote
whether to stay part of the Commonwealth or not, I
just don't know. I probably wouldn't vote. After
all, if we left the Commonwealth, we'd probably have
to get a President or something. And Bill Clinton --
ick!"

On Halloween: "What do you mean, it's a harvest
festival and the pumpkins and corn are all signs of
the fall harvest? October is _springtime_. Easter is
the fall festival, that's why they have the eggs, you
know, getting ready for the wintertime. Do real live
grownups really get dressed up in costume for
Halloween?"

On the American election: "Democrats, Labour,
Liberal, Republican, what's the difference? They'll
probably just reelect George, you know, George, not
George F. Kennedy Jr, oh you know, that George guy who
threw up all that broccoli on TV." (I presume she had
confused the elder Mr. Bush with the presidential bid
of "Dubya".)

[Carrie speaking again, actually editorializing:]

I would like to take this chance to encourage each and
every one of you to vote for Gore, or Ralph Nader, or
the Green party, or really anything but the
Republicans.

As an innocent abroad, I will be positively humiliated
if George W wins the election and all these nice
people Down Under think I approve!

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