ALL IT TAKES

At the end of the day, Wanganui, NZ was clean, orderly and welcoming. By the time I checked into the hostel, unpacked what I needed and ate something, it was bedtime. The next morning, low clouds and rain greeted me as I checked out. In reflection, it’s amazing how many little things become strung together, like beads on a string, in the dot to dot passage through a day. Connecting the dots is what I have been doing and all it takes is for an insignificant little dot to turn the world around, even if for only a day. That said, it was the fact that my hostel charged too much for wifi and I put my internet work off until the morning, when I could get a free connection at McDonald’s. After a breakfast sandwich, I went to work on the computer but was in no hurry. The rain had put a damper on my plans for the morning. I wanted to see the Tasman Sea but studying the map and satellite photos, between the road and the weather my trip to the beach got shelved. 

Then my connection cut me off. Seems McD’s free wifi was free as advertised but only for half an hour. Too many kids downloading games and videos so they put a limit on it, just enough to get you through your meal. I learned, the library has free wifi and no time limit. I got there at 9:05, just after they opened and the wifi area was already full. Only one spot remained at the last carrel table. I set to work, but not without noticing the young woman on my left. She was working. You can tell when someone is really working on a computer, something about the quick tempo and frequent pauses to think and check notes, then rethink and push on. She was working. My 120-240 volt adapter was too big to fit between other plugs on the power strip and she offered her spot on the end; said her battery was full strength and she could work off of that. Something amazing about eye contact. There may be nothing there but then it may be an invitation to frame a question that leads to more questions and into a conversation. At either end, the framer chooses not to let it end just yet. 

Sarah Tocker is a trim, thirty-ish lady with a healthy sense of curiosity and willingness to share. In two sentences, we let our work go and were talking about what we do and why. She is a partner in business with her mother; consultants, facilitators and implementers in leadership training. Turns out, we share a great deal relating to educational, environmental and social issues. Interesting, in NZ as well as Canada, libraries allow conversations; none of the hush-hush, pin-drop silence that is enforced in the USA. Had we been in Grand Rapids or Kansas City, the conversation could have never taken place; only an approving nod and back to work. 

Wanganui is a coastal city of about 40,000 on the west coast of the North Island. Just over midway down, between the two main cities, Auckland and Wellington, her work calls for a lot of travel. Then she concedes that if not for her ‘house-husband’ Aneurin, she couldn’t get it done. She is the bread winner and he manages the house and kids. It works and everyone is comfortable with it. The fire alarm goes off and even though it’s only a drill, we walk away from our work and go outside with all the other people. Fire trucks and first responders all over the place and they want us all to move up the street. The rain had stopped and continued our conversation; went up into a small park area were many knee high, white crosses were carefully arranged in rows. ANZAC Friday is a holiday observed in NZ in late April to honor service members who lost their lives in wars, serving their homeland. Early in the morning in every community, people turn out for a somber ceremony of remembrance. Each town remembers its own defenders by name, all the way back to when NZ was a new nation. Each cross had a local name on it and in the early hours of that Friday morning, that’s all that is going on in communities all over the land. Businesses remain closed until 1:00 p.m. It’s a very important holiday for Kiwis. ANZAC Friday: the ceremony was scheduled for the next morning. 

Back inside, we got to our work. Outside, the sun came out and blue replaced the clouds. Sarah had a lunch date at 1:00. As she was getting ready to leave, she said, “It will be beautiful now down at South Beach.” I admitted I had already decided to go there. Then she gave me a piece of paper with an address written on it. “If you’re still in town, we’re having dinner at 5:30 and we’d love to have you join us.” How often does that happen? I couldn’t do anything but accept. I got back online and rescheduled my reservations for the night; drove back to the hostel and checked in for another night in Wanganui. 

The drive out to the beach went past the airport and turned into a sandy two-track that wound around through sand dunes and pools of standing water. I stopped where other cars were parked and ventured on foot through the gap, over a crest and down onto a wide, sandy stretch, full of drift wood and chunks of pumice, all the way down to where the tide was coming in, off the Tasman Sea. The sand was a blend of brown, gray and darker gray and it was so fine even the lightest breeze rippled it out on the leeward side of every piece of wood, flotsam and even the smallest, sandy deposit. I walked, took photographs and met more German students on holiday. They had their surf boards but the waves weren’t quite big enough to take a ride. A teenage girl with her Border Collie was their guide for the afternoon. Straight out, if you could only see so far, we imagined the Great Barrier Reef. 

Dinner time, I found the address and was met at the door by a huge Kiwi with a full, grizzly beard. He had a little, blond girl on one arm and another one hanging on his leg. Aneurin introduced himself and I asked him to spell his name but at best, with the accent, I was still at a loss. The house was a simple, one story cottage with a small yard in a neighborhood of other similar, clean, well kept homes. The floor was strewn with doll houses and toys. Olivia is 6 with fine features and straight blond hair. Sylvia is almost 3, with cheeky, Shirley Temple dimples and curls. I had my hands full. We worked at conversation in between toys, games and puzzles. Aneurin is a surfer and my knowledge there is quite thin. I did know about surfing in Alaska, off the coast near Yakutat. He checked it on his I-pad and was impressed. I felt good to have contributed something, anything. 

The girls helped arrange the place settings and we sat down to fish, peas and a salad. The meal was awesome and the company was grand. For desert we had a local fruit that looked something like an avocado but with tart, white flesh. Sarah had baked it like sliced apples and it couldn’t have been better. We talked while the girls broke out new toys and tried to entice us into the living room. I begged off but promised we would blow bubbles when I finished my desert. Then I ate slow as we continued to talk. Sarah and Aneurin chose to live in a smaller city, out of the mainstream and when they meet people they find interesting, they invite them to dinner and the chance for the girls to broaden their experience as well. I took that as a great compliment.

Bubble blowing was outrageous. Olivia had it down pat to begin with and Sylvia came along fast. I coaxed them to blow the bubbles up in the air and count them on the way down. I had as much fun as they did. Later, I shared some photographs on my computer and the evening wound down gracefully. Getting ready to leave, Olivia friended me on a piece of blue paper with drawings and my name. She also slipped a bubble blower into my back pack to remember her by. I told her I would keep it in my guitar case, with other treasures; can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed an evening more. All it takes is for one unexpected, unprovoked, seemingly irrelevant dot to line up with another and you let the magic run its course. What if it hadn’t rained or I got my work done at McDonald’s? What if there hadn’t been a fire drill or my adapter had fit in the first place? But it did and I didn’t; there was and it didn’t fit. It doesn’t matter now because I sensed I was just a piece of the puzzle and it was coming together nicely. 

TAUPO - WANGANUI

The drive from Auckland to Taupo was an exercise in stress management. There were only a few face-offs with other vehicles in the same lane, but time and distance were in my favor and nobody died. I’m sure I drew plenty of, “WTF” looks but my attention was on mirrors and staying in the left lane. As it turned out, Taupo was an upscale, tourism center; all about well healed people, big boats and lake front property. The lake was beautiful as I left town. It took an hour to get it out of my mirror, an indication of its size. Shortly, the divided highway devolved into a two-lane blacktop with yellow stripe, no passing zones; no problem. I drove better than I expected. As the road got more hills and curves, traffic slowed down and oncoming traffic was less threatening than earlier. Modeling others, I took some courage. 

We went through areas that had been clear-cut with not a shred of green in sight. Logging trucks passed in both directions, with and without loads. Most notably, large tracts had been replanted in evenly spaced rows, several feet tall and well established. Whole mountain sides of mature trees were arrayed in herringbone patterns where row cropped tree tops were aligned with great precision. Other than length of growing season and size of the plants, it’s really not much different than farming peanuts in Georgia. But what would the world be like without pine boards and saw dust? I picked up a couple of Austrian hikers. Cedric and Benedict were on a last fling before starting college in the fall. They had to do a year of public service after high school and were three weeks into a three month sabbatical. Cedric’s English was pretty good; Benedict said, “Yaa, yaa” a lot and depended on universal laughter. They were both smallish and skinny. How they trek those huge back packs, I don’t know. I let them out in a small town to get groceries and went on my way.

Off the main line, GPS sent us off to the southwest on a road that narrowed and then narrowed even more as it went. Ups and downs, curves all got steeper and tighter; drop offs were almost vertical. Oncoming traffic almost nonexistent but when they did show, I hugged the left edge and we passed without incident. It was sheep country and it was slow going. The mountain sides were mostly bare, with little foot paths running horizontally. Sheep walk even the steepest face, imprint a path only a few inches wide and eat as far as they can reach, on the high side. When they get to a turning point, they circle back at the next level up. After many generations of sheep eating on the same grid, they looked like geological formations rather than foot trails. 

My rental car is an underpowered, high rpm Mazda hatchback that sounds like a leaky muffler. All the cars here sound like they have leaky mufflers and I suspect it’s something to do with emissions standards or the lack of. We pulled into Wanganui at about 4:00 p.m. I'd comment on the name, Wanganui but then I'd have to say something about Climax, Michigan and Peculiar, Missouri. In the end there's a story there, just not the one I'm working on. It’s just a short ride to the coast and the Tasman Sea. I want to see it before turning east. 

CHILLY NIGHT

APRIL 23, 2014 - TAUPO, NZ

By definition, “Adventure” requires an element of uncertainty and at least the perception of risk. I am over that hump, full engaged with adventure. Yesterday, I picked up my NZ, Mazda rental car and fully realized that I was going to have to drive it, on streets and roads, with other vehicles, and everyone driving on the other side of the center line. I’ve been a passenger on the other side, but when it got emotionally challenging, I could close my eyes. Yesterday, I had to pull out, across two lanes of busy traffic, turn right and keep out of trouble. 

Skip the terrifying details; I averted the grim sounds of metal on metal and breaking glass but my psyche was over drawn. I returned to the rental agency and took a break, closed my eyes for a while. Another foray and I took courage; no less challenged but at least a shred of experience to my credit. Southbound out of Auckland, the highway was manageable; terrifying, but manageable. The slow lane is on the left, as well as exits. Then, it’s very easy to be lulled into a false sense of confidence and forget the challenge of going back onto streets. Every time I try to signal a turn, the windshield wipers come on and I keep looking for my mirrors in all the wrong places. Unconsciously, I center myself to the left of center in my lane which results in warnings from the rumble strip but maybe I’ll do better today.

I arrived in Taupo after dark. Found the night-life, entertainment district along the lake shore and parallel parked without curbing the tires, a first. It was about 7:30 and I’d already eaten. Too late or too risky, (driving after dark in the city) to search for a hostel, I acquiesced to sleeping in the car.  Crowds at every venue, no place to get wi-fi connection, I walked for a while. By 9:30, the public lot that had been packed earlier had more open spaces than parked cars and I pulled in for the night. The chill coming in off the lake had already drawn my attention and I knew I’d wake up cold and have to run the heater several times through the night. 

Sleeping in the car makes sleeping late a punishment rather than a reward and you pray for daylight. By 6:30 a.m. I was ready to be up. The BP station/convenience store, less than a block away stayed open all night. They treated me well and I noticed the electrical outlets along the wall in their eating section. Fast food places advertise heavily on their free wi-fi but none of them have access to electricity. They don't want you taking up space and time on the internet, so you have to spend battery. I try to save it, never knowing when I'll get to charge it up again. So here I am at the gas station, fueling my metabolic needs as well as gasoline. This a.m., fuel cost $2.15/liter; that’s $8.60/gallon. Coffee was $4 for a 12 oz, (approximate) cup of dark, hot, brown water. I know it’s rude to complain so I’ll chalk this up to a simple observation; nobody brews coffee, anywhere I’ve been since I left San Francisco. I remember the instant coffee we got in Chile; a small packet of powder, stirred into hot water with a plastic stir-stick. I think I’ll just see if I can get hot water from now on. 

I’ll do some searching on line, see if there are good photo opportunities nearby and see if I can make reservations in Whanganui, south of here, for tonight. The thought of streets and highways, putting myself in harm’s way again is not as disturbing as it was yesterday. No new photos yet, my photo for the day is from 2005; Torres Del Paine National Park, Chile. I’m hoping what I photograph today will measure up as well. 

INSADONG

Struggling with allergies, today was the first day in a week I’ve felt like exercise and outside. There is a major bus hub at the gate of DanKook University, only a few blocks away. You can catch a bus there for just about anywhere in the greater Seoul area. It’s like Santiago, Chile; learn the number of the bus you need and it’s also the one to get you home, from anywhere you can get on. Number 8100 goes all over the place from DanKook but it finds its way into the middle of Seoul (10 million +) a couple of million more souls than New York. Thanks Google, for satellite view and zoom on your maps. I wanted to go shopping on Insadong St., where Westerners go. It runs at an odd angle to other streets and narrows down to a pedestrian thoroughfare, not that hard to find.

Imagine shuffling cards from different decks together. In this case shuffle the Amish flea market in Shipshewana, Indiana with Royal St. in the French Quarter. Sorry, it’s the best description I can do. I you haven’t been to Shipsie or the Quarter, use some imagination. I’m shopping for gifts to take back so I was looking at everything. The walk was good and I found some good stuff. Time to head back, wandering side streets that narrow down, just wide enough for two people walking to pass, I started looking for Jackie Chan to come somersaulting out of a second story window.

Insadong is probably the best place to see Occidentals and you notice the native tongue, even on passing. Something about the rhythm and timing, you don’t need to understand, just enjoy the meter. People behind me had that rhythm and I tried to listen. Then I heard, clear and perfectly phrased; “Goat cheese...” They were close and I didn’t want to turn around so I stepped aside and let them pass. They looked to be middle age, Korean ladies but they weren’t speaking English. I realize that context is everything and I didn’t have any. Goat cheese... give me a break; I’ll think again next time. 

Late in the afternoon, time to start finding my way back to a bus stop. The major bus stops, usually located adjacent to subway stations, have overhead monitors like the air port. You can see incoming bus numbers and how long it will be before they arrive. Rather than go back the same way, I go the general direction that #8100 went after I got off earlier. At an intersection, with no crosswalk or light, I realize it’s another pedestrian venue but it’s really wide. In a fabricated median, food vendors are set up with makeshift tents and stalls, grill tables and deep fry kettles. I think to myself, ‘If I see something the right color that doesn’t smell bad, I’ll eat something.’ I actually like the deep fried, Korean  empañadas, loaded with rice and seaweed. At a stand I asked the lady about some cakes; looked like hash browns with some green and orange mixed in. Several minutes later, after bubbling in the hot oil, I was fishing morsels out of a styrofoam bowl with a pointed stick. 

Caught my bus, sat in the front seat by the door and tried to recognize landmarks I noted on the ride in. The ride in is a lot faster than the way home. Almost an hour coming; an hour and a half return. They have express lanes for busses on the highway but we’re always getting off to pick up and drop off. Home before dark, already fed and feeling pretty good. It’s wednesday night, going on midnight. In 48 hours, I’ll be on an airplane somewhere over the Indian Ocean, going to New Zealand. It was a spur of the moment thing about ten days ago. My help has been appreciated here but no longer necessary and I’ve always wanted to go down under. Lots of youth hostels in NZ and plenty to see and do. Next post I’ll be talking Kiwi.

ADVENTURE

By definition, adventure can be just about anything that involves an element of uncertainty and at least a perception of risk. Much like beauty, it leans heavily on the eye of the beholder. Sunday, seven of us embarked on what I have, after considerable reflection, determined to be an adventure. At about 11:00 p.m., a hasty decision was made to drive through the night and sleep in the morning. It would ease the load on our driver/drivers as we needed to be back at the store for work on Tuesday. Jinhae is small city on the southern coast, near Busan. The Korean Naval Academy is located there but it’s their cherry trees and first blush of spring that attracts festival goers from all over Korea. 

By midnight, we were packed, loaded into the van and barreling down the highway. Korea’s version of InterState has high walls or screens that block the view. Much of the time we were in tunnels, the rest of the time it just seemed that way. With rest stops to change drivers and stretch, we reached the motel at 4:30 and crashed. The rooms were small with warmed, marble floors, vaulted ceiling, ornate woodwork and exotic art; designed primarily with discrete, private encounters in mind. We learned later, the rent was $20 for two hours, $30 for all night. 

It was noon before everyone had their game faces on and reloaded into the van. Another hour and we arrived in Jinhae. As many cherry trees as there are in Jukjeon, they are relatively small. In Jinhae they were mature with large diameter trunks and far reaching canopies, everywhere; so many blossom petals on the ground it reminded us of snow. The traffic was headed in one direction, toward the sea, so we followed along until we passed through the gates of the Naval Academy. Evidently it’s one of the few times of the year when the academy is open to the public. Sam, (Sungho) our Korean leader, was like a pied piper with his troop of ragamuffins in tow. But that didn’t last long; he looked back and his only follower was his wife, Terry. The rest of us had split, taken off on our own. 

I took interest in the replication of an ancient “Turtle Ship”, a frightening war ship from the 16th century with a dragon’s head on the bow and cannon mounts all along the sides. It was berthed at the academy and it made sense that all midshipmen would have to sail aboard the Turtle Ship as part of their training. The roof was covered with steel spikes to discourage boarding attempts. A fire box was fueled inside with the smoke being funneled up through the dragon’s head, out its mouth to create a fearsome sight. I stayed onboard, retracing my tour route several times. The wood work was simple but the scale and design were awesome. Besides ramming the enemy, the broadside cannon batteries must have been devastating. 

Then, you can’t overstate the cherry trees. It’s been a long, cold winter and everyone is ready for spring. Jinhae is nearly 200 miles south of Seoul, it warms up sooner here and the trees show it. They were all shades of white and pink while other trees were leafing out as well. A green spring is worth the wait, wherever you may be. Streets were lined with food vendors and flea market booths. I went for cob-corn on a stick. The ears were huge, with big kernels and I suspected the flavor might be bland but I didn’t want anything too sweet and I wasn’t up for boiled silk worms or mystery soup. The corn was filling and it wasn’t bad.

By the time we walked our legs out, we were scattered and Sam had to track us down with the van. Between text messaging and GPS, we were all recovered and it was almost dark when we turned north. Rest stops along the way were crowded and parking space was unauthorized, squeezed into spaces where there was no space. Midnight again and the day had come full circle. Everyone back in their own beds; it would be just a few hours before the store opens and we start all over.

EXPLORING

I’ve been in Korea for a month. People here are sweet, shy, sensitive folks who ask the obvious questions. They want to know how you like their country and, do you like Kimchi. The only appropriate answer for the first question is, “I like Korea very much.” whether you do or not. As for the second, most westerners don’t care for kimchi. It’s a pungent tasting, cabbage wanna-be; to Korean cuisine what a side salad is to American. It comes with every meal. 

So I don’t have to deceive anybody, I do like Korea but I like every place. So it’s not a powerful, sweeping approval of the total culture but I do like it here. If I had to stay here for a long time, I’d have to work on my attitude and realign my expectations but I could handle it gracefully. When I first went to Alaska, natives wanted to know what I thought of their mountains. I said they were great but my approval didn’t satisfy Alaskan egos. They wanted me to go on and on about the awesome grandeur. I had to make a disclaimer; “You have to understand, I’ve been to Patagonia, the Andes, before I came to Alaska.”  Sometimes “Great” is the best you can do. Korea is great, and that’s as good as I can do. The kimchi is fine as well. I can take it or leave it; usually eat some as it is good practice with chop sticks. 

A lot of this journey is reminiscent of Chile and Argentina, in 2005. I do lots of walking, an obvious outsider; surrounded by people and traffic that move in concert with each other but totally out of sync with my sensibility. Store fronts are awash with advertising; bold banners with bright colors, all a mystery to me. I have figured out the ones with percentage discounts. All of the residential neighborhoods are high rise buildings, 15 - 20 floors, shoulder to shoulder in long rows that stretch out of sight. Down along the street are mostly restaurants, coffee shops and cell phone outlets. One of my favorite stores is the Korean answer to “Dollar General.” Its name is “Daiso,” with everything from cosmetics to kitchen utensils, toys, school supplies, even underwear. I got my own set of chop sticks. In Korea, they approved the spoon, so you don’t have to sip soup from the bowl or eat rice with the sticks. But their chop sticks are made of stainless steel and they are heavy, difficult for beginners to manipulate. My own, personal, bamboo sticks are shorter, lighter and much easier to operate. I practice with pop corn or by transferring M&M’s from one bowl to another. 

Sometimes you can’t see inside the restaurant because the windows are covered with posters of menu selections. I’m a notoriously picky eater and haven’t been very adventurous there. Places that serve sea food often have live tanks outside, where you can see, even pick your critter before it’s cleaned and cooked for you. I’m used to seeing catfish and lobster tanks but the squid and octopus were new to me. Need to remember the squid drive around in reverse so when they bump into the glass, they’re not beating their heads agains the wall. Just the same, their fates are pretty much sealed. 

I walk until I’ve seen enough, then look for a bakery. The bakeries in Chile and Argentina were my mainstay. If not for those tasty empañadas, I would have dried up and wasted away. Here they like a lot of cinnamon and sugar, which I can live with. Not as healthy as the empañadas but when in Rome. . .

KIPLING

Rudyard Kipling’s famous poem, "The Ballad of East & West" makes the observation that some things, people, cultures are so different they can never coexist. Still, they can be so formidable, the earth isn’t big enough for them avoid the collision. Yesterday was a day off and we went to Seoul, the big city.  Gyeongbokgung Palace is a sprawling complex of landscaped buildings, walls, gates and reflecting pools that sits at city center. Korean history stretches back 3,000 years, ripe with legends, kingdoms and heroes. Most recently, about a century before Columbus and Isabella plotted to capture the western hemisphere, the Joseon Dynasty came to power in Korea, building the most awesome, grand palace anybody had ever imagined. The central building is the King’s throne room: nothing inside but an elevated platform with a huge, padded chair. Behind that throne room in a smaller building, was a smaller, less audacious throne room for the Queen. Off to one side, near the south wall was a network of low, lavishly tiled buildings that looked like stables. Highly decorated stalls with low doors were concealed behind high walls and a labyrinth of passage ways. No surprise to learn, horses didn’t get that kind of attention. It was living quarters for the King’s favorite concubines. 

The dynasty flourished for over 500 years, into the 20th century. Koreans know their history and the castle is not only a national treasure but also a living museum, a cultural compass. How many North Americans can follow their lineage, a common legacy back 40 generations? When I look back, I lose the trail after 5 or 6 generations. For the sake of identity, what does it mean to be a Welch, Irish, French, English, Dutch hybrid? Everywhere you look here, there is imagery and symbolism, a documented pedigree going back millennia. 

Kipling was right in that, we are different. As for the world being not big enough, I don’t know. Times change and he might have second thoughts. After swimming the other day I walked outside, noticed a crowd seated in a small amphitheater between the pool entrance and the street. A stage was improvised with red carpet and curtains. In front of the stage was a table with four judges in formal dress. It looked to me like a local version of Korean Idol. I sat down and watched. Four young women in traditional costumes were drumming on tall drums. They were awesome; a little swing and sway, choreography and lots of loud, da-dum da-dum ad-dum. As they were moving their drums off, stage left, a dancer in long white dress, hair up in a bun with lots of combs and curled up, pointy toe shoes came on stage right. She had two big fans, made of huge feathers. The judges nodded and the M.C. introduced her in Korean. A few bars of flute and drums and the dance was on with sweeping, flowing, feathered fans and swooping footwork that covered the whole stage. When the music stopped, she bowed, judges leaned into their score cards and she disappeared behind a curtain. 

      The next act was a tall, thin, young man in tight pants and a white shirt, big glasses, short hair, with an acoustic guitar. The M.C. gave an introduction and the musician spoke to the audience for a moment. The crowd approved with applause. I noticed the harmonica holder around his neck just before he started into the intro. Everyone was smiling, even me. You can’t disguise, you can’t mistake Neil Young’s trademark song, Heart Of Gold. The guitar work was adequate, English lyrics were right on, harmonica was ok. voice was a little thin with understandable Korean accent. Somehow I embraced it until we got to the line, “and I’m growing old.” We struggled on right up to, “I’ve been to Hollywood, I’ve been to Redwood; I crossed the ocean for a heart of gold.” The audience loved it. I admired him for his pluck and all I could think was, what would Rudyard Kipling say? East and West have met here today but I don’t think the collision will wake anybody up.