 
### Break Out from the Lock Up

Paul Buckley

# 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author.

ISBN-978-1-310427-39-8

Copyright 2015

#

# Break Out from the Lock Up

When Glenys Mahoney sold her house, she had to store her furniture until the new house was built. This disconnect between the time you must move out of your old house and the time you move into your new house happens to many people, and always adds unnecessarily to the cost and stress of the shift.

The nearest storage site to Glenys's old house is built of shipping containers. At some future time I imagine whole cities will be built from these easily recognized and readily available building blocks. After the Christchurch earthquake, the first shopping centre in the ruined heart of the old city was built from shipping containers, all painted in bright cheerful colours that lift the atmosphere. Containers are actually in fashion now. When Glenys and I first take a look at this storage centre, we are both impressed. The containers are arranged in neat rows with plenty of room in between to allow trailers and trucks to be parked alongside their container. Glenys was even given a choice as to how high her container would be above the ground.

The owner does not waste much time in giving us our briefing. "You have a card you swipe to get in and out the gate. When you swipe the key on the way in it switches the alarm off and when you swipe it on the way out it switches the alarm on again."

"Is this regardless of the sequence you use?" I ask to be sure I understand.

"Yes, every time you swipe the key on the way in the alarm is turned off regardless of what has happened before and it's the same on the way out. Every swipe at exit switches it on.

"What happens if we inadvertently switch the alarm on when we're in the container?" I ask.

"The alarm sounds here and a signal goes to the security company. If you don't ring their number soon enough they will come and charge you $60 for a call out. You won't want that to happen. If you lend a friend the card so he can exit to bring more furniture to the bin while you are in the bin, the alarm will go off when he leaves and you risk a fine."

He goes on, "It's $200 on the 20th of every month regardless of which month. So it's about $45 a week."

A bit more detail, "If there is any vehicle in the gateway, the gate it will not close until it has gone." Another sensible feature of this security system.

Glenys signs up.

Her new house is completed just before Christmas and she shifts during the Christmas-New Year break. The bigger stuff is carried by trailer but boxes that will fit into her small red car are ferried over by Glenys and Greer.

At 7:30 on the evening in question, Glenys drives over by herself to pick up another load. She fills her car up and drives to exit but when she swipes her card the gate doesn't move. She tries again, still no response. Perhaps the card is damaged but no matter how many times she swipes her card the gate doesn't move,

Glenys has to face the fact that she is, trapped in the storage yard. Her first thought, and it would have been yours too, was to call Aloha to come over and help but then she realises her cell phone is at home. There is no one in the yard and there is no emergency phone (an obvious mistake by the owner). Furthermore the storage complex is in a light industrial area without any houses nearby. Well there is a School on one side but at 9:30 p.m. in the middle of the holidays no one is around. No matter how much she shouts no one will hear. She is trapped.

Glenys thinks careful through her options and there are not many. She could sleep in her container but as this is one of the last loads there are only boxes left. She has precious little to eat. She could simply wait, until Greer and her mother Aloha finally notice her absence and try to find her. But this is not her option of choice. All three live in the same house or at least in two houses adjacent to each other with a door through the side fence to make access easy. Another option, the one that must have seemed most intimidating was to scale the eight-foot wire fence, a fence with four strands of barbed wire across the top.

Glenys is a dynamic person who is well used to solving problems. She is not someone who sits around helplessly hoping to be rescued. No, despite the obvious problems, she will climb the fence. After all it is only a wire fence, it is not electrified and it is barbed wire, not razor wire that guards the top.

So she carefully parks her loaded car in what looks like a car park and clutching her keys and swipe card tackles the fence. After studying the fence, she spots a weakness in design. The barbed wire ends on the post before the gate and resumes on the other side of the gate. This allows the gate to open and close and let cars and trucks through. The gap is not wide enough to allow her to squeeze through but will provide a secure hand hold that is not protected by barbed wire. Personally I still find the thought of crossing the barbed wire intimidating, but Glenys is determined and begins climbing. The lower wires present no difficulties

Then a moment's lack of concentration by Glenys leads to another problem. The swipe card and keys fall out of her hand and drop to the ground inside the locked yard. It's yet one more good reason why women's clothing should have pockets. For a moment of two, she thinks will have to climb back in and start again.

However after studying the new situation, Glenys decides she will be able to retrieve them after completing the crossing by using a stick to drag them back. Glenys reaches the ground with only the tiniest tear in the top she is wearing. She finds a stick and successfully drags the key to her. Glenys tries swiping the card gain but is not surprised when the gate does not open However looking ahead; she hopes this will ensure that the alarm is turned off when she returns in the morning.

Glenys relaxes as she walks down the darkened road but then once again the recalcitrant swipe card and keys drop out of her hand. There follows a desperate search in almost total darkness. She scrambles about on the ground trying to feel the keys. Then more by good luck than good management she finally grabs them near where she first noticed they were missing. She off on the long walk back home again.

Meanwhile her mother, Aloha, is becoming seriously worried (as mother's will do) about Glenys's absence. At just before 10:30 she calls on Glenys's best friend Heather to help. Of course Heather is more than willing. "I'll phone Glenys and see if she replies." And she does. Across town Aloha should have heard Glenys's cell phone ring because it was on the table next to her phone. However the battery is flat and she hears nothing. Getting no answer Heather prepares to widen search but before she can set off on a rescue mission, Glenys walks in the door. It is 10:30 p.m.

So what went wrong with Glenys's Storage Centre key? Although this important information was not mentioned at her briefing, the Storage Centre shuts completely at 9 pm, at which time no one can get in or out. However Glenys concedes this was mentioned in the written information she got later.

Glenys has more to tell, "When the owner got back on the 7th January, he asked me if I had trouble getting in."

I ask Glenys, "Did you tell him you couldn't get out?"

"No I just nodded and smiled. We don't have to embarrass ourselves unnecessarily, there's something about the 5th Amendment. And the last thing Glenys wants to do is give the owner a reason to strength the fence. What will happen then to someone who gets trapped inside after 9 pm? It doesn't bear thinking about.

"My family and friends tell me I must never go anywhere without my cell phone in the future," Glenys tells me as she finishes her story.

How many of us I wonder would have made it safely over that fence and walked home? Certainly not me.

# Wrapping the House in Cotton Wool

I confess, it was me who stopped all progress on insulating our house at 17 Waterloo Crescent from mid-November until Christmas in 2012.

The next stage would have involved work on the large back bedroom. But during November and early December I will now be busy preparing my 2012 annual book for the printers. Also at this time of the year, I must produce and send out our New Year's card. This year I want to be available help Glenys shift into her new house. I expected all this work would be completed by August when I did have time. Now there is no way I can shift into the front bedroom too.

So for once I put my foot down and told _Hire a Hubby_ to go off to other jobs and clear their books so in the New Year they can give their full attention to us. Or at least this is the theory.

The work on our house resumed in early January 2012 and at first it all went swimmingly. With Mark the new Manager on the job, work began punctually on 31st December. Mark, unlike Nic the previous manager, is very focussed and by the end of the first week the insulation is in place and Mark has almost completed gibbing the inside of the outside walls and in addition our new vanity is installed.

When it came time to do the painting, Mark took off and sent in the loyal Jason in his place. At this stage Mark, in his new role as manager, attempted to be too efficient and things, for, us began to fall apart. Being too efficient, or rather attempting to be too efficient, is OK if it only involves you but in this case it involves a third party, us. Jason was firmly told by Mark that he had only one week to complete the painting, which frankly was not realistic. All the other so called "little" jobs he still had at to do on our house, were put on hold while Jason went off to other jobs.

As a result our project limped only slowly toward completion. In the process I improved my nagging skills, as I wheedled away at Mark to send Jason back. When he did it was never for long enough to allow Jason to finish the work on our place. Inevitably he had to return again. We have learned our lesson the hard way, never again to use the services of _Hire a Hubby_ on a big job.

But how short the human memory is, how quickly are the difficult times are forgotten. It seems to be the way the human memory works, or at least the memory of an optimist like me does.

We still have chinks in our armour. The toilet, the washhouse, the surrounds of the back door and the kitchen are still not insulated. At the start of the project these rooms with their many cupboards looked too difficult to insulate. I think there last steps will disrupt our lives too severely. But it is not long before Bruce pushes to complete the job and of course I want to do this too but in my case I am thinking of sometime in the distant future.

Bruce sees his chance when Mike and Linda Dunn suggest we join them on a road trip to States where we will visit the canyons and ancient sites and other wonders of the desert along the way. What could be better Bruce asks, than having the work done while we are away.

Of course Mark is enthusiastic about the new project, "I can do them, no problem," he asserts confidently.

"So you can shift the kitchen cupboards out and put them back when the insulation is in place?" I ask incredulously.

He can.

"What about the wall cupboards and the sink in the washhouse," I ask.

It's again not a problem.

"We need a quote or at least an estimate of what the job will cost," we tell him. I'm very nervous about giving builders blank cheques.

"I'll work on the quote as soon as I get time"

You guessed it he never will get time to produce an estimate let alone a quote but at least in the long silence that follows we think he is trying, and that feels a bit like progress.

When it becomes clear that for the desert trip we will be travelling in two cars, we reluctantly turn down the opportunity. But when Mike and Linda suggest we join them in Hawaii instead we jump at the chance.

This will open up a two week gap where _Hire a Hubby_ can do the re-Gibbing while we're away. This time with Mark in charge we have confidence the work will be done before we return. Mark is delighted to be given the job. He seems to think there will be nothing to tearing out cupboards, installing a new toilet and returning things to normal after the insulation is inserted, all in ten working days. Who am I to disagree? No we don't have an estimate but we decide to trust him anyway.

No doubt having second thoughts about how much even he can complete in just two weeks, Mike comes in several week early and puts insulation in the walls of the toilet and the foyer while we are still here. True to his word he does most the majority of work on the wash house and kitchen while we are away but not all.

Sister Kay is keen to do the painting while we are away. She tries to paint behind the cupboards while Mark has them out. However she finds him uncooperative and a bit of a chauvinist who doesn't like having a woman working beside him. So she does this painting while Mark isn't around.

Inevitably as with the previous boss, Nick, of _Hire a Hubby_ we find it difficult to get all the small jobs finished. Somehow after the rush at the start their enthusiasm wanes and we fade out of _Hire a Hubby's_ memory. Visits are invariably short and always leave a little more work to be done, so they have to return yet again.

It becomes clear that Mark is an efficient skilled builder but he is not good at the little finishing bits. The top join on the toilet window is a bit of a mess and not improved by the plastic filler Mark has used. As men at least, spend quite a bit of time staring at the toilet window while peeing, this is no small matter. The window only gets properly fixed when Jason is sent in. He replaces the whole frame, taking photos at each stage so he can justify to his boss the time it is taking to finish the job. Mark, for all his speed, is a bit rough around the edges with such things as plastering. It is just this final finishing that takes the time and so it is that our job drags on.

Still as I write it is almost finished. But not quite.

If you have been counting rooms, you might have noticed there has been no mention of insulation in the bathroom walls. The problem with this room is the tiling around the bath. The only way to put insulation into the wall is to pump a slurry in from the outside and wait for it to harden. The problem with that is that you can't see where the slurry is going, and when to stop pumping. One of our friends tried this and inadvertently filled his bathroom with the slurry. In the end Mark just pushed as much solid insulation as possible and into the wall and we called it a day.

Despite all these hassles we are still thinking of getting _Hire a Hubby_ to strip the kitchen, toilet, washhouse and foyer floors down to the bare boards and polish the floors. Please contact me us as soon as possible if you think this is a mistake. We may take your advice, especially if lots of people tell us the same thing but then perhaps not. After all is said and done, _Hire a Hubby_ are fun to work with.

## The Sophisticated Art of Queue Guessing

Brother Gordon is in the habit of coming up from Levin to the big smoke of Palmerston North, to do a bit of shopping, or to get his hair cut or to visit a medical specialist. He always comes for lunch first and then we go into town and work through his shopping list.

In the middle of June it is the optician he must see. I always think that after your optician has done his testing and fitted the new glasses he should mind his own business and let you get on with your life. Gordon's optician is of a different persuasion. He regularly sends Gordon nagging letters urging him to return for more tests. But this is the year of Gordon's 75th birthday, the year he must pass an eye test successfully to keep his driver's license. Since Gordon lives a few kilometres out of Levin and desperately needs his driver's license get to town, he has no desire to antagonise the man. So when the optician calls he comes running.

The appointment is not until two, giving us about half an hour to do the Supermarket shopping.

This it soon turns out is a bad decision.

We quickly complete Gordon's shopping. No problem there. As we approach check out I see we have an option. The quick checkout for people with 12 items or less has a long queue, while the checkout next door has two ladies with not too much stuff in their shopping trolleys. Which will take less time? I opt for our two ladies. After all the first is even now finishing and checking out. It think I have made a good choice. Unfortunately as the second lady moves forward into position the manager comes along and tells this check out lady it is time for her to go to lunch and puts a closed sign in front of me. As the manager leaves, this checkout woman calls out that she will serve me before she leaves. This seems a bit unfair to me. I glance over and check out the line in the fast checkout lane. There are only three people waiting one of whom is being served. I thank the lady for her kind offer but I lead Gordon over to the fast checkout lane. It turns out to be the wrong decision.

I notice too late that this woman is having difficulties during checkout. Because she is buying several bottles of wine a manager must be called to check the buyer is not under eighteen years of age, something that could cost the shop its liquor license, The manager is busy somewhere else and there is quite a delay

The big Maori man just ahead of me glances to his left and sees the line next to us, the one I have just left, is almost empty. Like an out-rider sheep in a mob, he makes a break for it. I should have let him go, and moved up to take the place he has vacated but instead I tap him on the shoulder and say, "That lane is closed now." He turns and hurries back to security of the mob. This is a mistake.

Next our check out woman has trouble getting the cigarettes and then the customer makes a great fuss about how exactly she will pay. The Maori man is getting a little agitated at all these delays I am even more agitated as I watch the checkout woman who could have (and would have) served me heading off for lunch.

Now there is only one woman ahead of us and all she seems to be holding is a bottle of soft drink. Things look good. Surely she won't be long.

Of course again I am wrong.

She produces a basket with groceries in it, places the basket on the escalator, and only then discovers, as unlikely as it seems, her 2 litre plastic bottle of milk has sprung a leak, well more of a split than a leak. A veritable pond of milk is spreading out along the top of the escalator. Nothing can proceed until the whole surface is cleaned up.

The checkout woman to her credit springs into action, grabbing a big roll of absorbent paper towels, and working her way systematically through the cleaning procedure. No one hurries to help her, it is all up to her, and we must wait. She first takes an item out of the basket, cleans the milk off the outside, and then takes another item and repeats the procedure. In other situations I might have admired her thoroughness but not today. The milk sodden towels are placed in one of the conveniently placed plastic bags used at checkout. Next with the same thoroughness she takes on the ocean of milk lapping on the edge of the escalator and slowly removes it all.

It is now the management decides to open the checkout counter I left earlier and with my attention focussed too much on the Maori man ahead of us, I am too slow to see the opportunity coming. The customers who have built up in the queue that has formed behind me race to fill the gap. Gordon and I remain trapped in our alley of missed opportunities and must wait with as much patience as we can muster, for the Maori man to clear the system. We must swallow our medicine; whatever bad karma we have earned in the past must now be paid off.

The Maori man moves swiftly to clear the system, but Maori man wants some cigarettes. Keys are produced and the cabinet is unlocked. He wants cigarettes with the word blue in the name, but unfortunately the Supermarket is out of those and the man refuses the offer of any other brand, he fiddles a bit with the EFTPS keyboard and is gone.

It is our turn at last.

Despite all the delays we still have enough time to get Gordon to his two o'clock appointment. I wish I could say I learned a clear lesson about Supermarket Queuing from this but if there is one, I don't know what it is.

All I can come up with is "Don't count your chickens before they hatch."

# On Negotiating with Airlines

Booking airline tickets is easy. Just find a flight that suits you, type in your credit card details and you have your electronic ticket. On more complicated journeys involving interlocking flights from several airlines, you can always pay a little more and use a travel agent. Newspapers, the music industry, book shops and Travel Agents all have something in common, they are sunset industries. The World Wide Web gnaws away at their business until there is nothing left for them to live on. But for the moment Travel Agents do still exist

The question you must always ask when you buy an airline ticket is what happens if you need to change one leg of your journey. Usually it's just a matter of money changing hands but in some cases this is an expensive option particularly for the cheapest of special deals which entails buying an entirely new ticket. As Bob's Travel Agent told him, always check these options before you press the buy option on the web page.

Bryan Anderson didn't do this on his last trip to Europe, and see what could have happened to him.

He was going to meet his Australian friend Joan in Europe. The journey involved a round trip back to New Zealand via Europe of seven steps. The European leg ended in Dublin with a short flight from Manchester to Dublin. Only at the last minute did Bryan realise that Joan was arriving later than he expected and he would have a long wait at Dublin airport. What Bryan thought, could be easier. Just alter the time of the last short flight to facilitate their meeting.

Bryan knew doing this might involve some risk, after all on his sequence of tickets was his return flights back to New Zealand. His fear is that if he cancelled a leg and did not use the ticket then the airline computer might delete the rest of his tickets on the false assumption that his travel plans had been interrupted and he would be unable to complete the journey.

Fortunately he phoned his travel agent in New Zealand and found out this was indeed the case. He couldn't just not turn up on one leg and expect the rest of his tickets to be valid. They won't. At least he learned this in time and saved himself the embarrassment of discovering his tickets were no longer valid and had to buy new ones.

So Joan rearranged her flights instead.

This summer Martine's two sisters Edith and Anita came to visit her in New Zealand. The last week of their visit was spent in the South Island at a nephew's vineyard near Nelson. Since they were in the South Island and their international flight departed from Christchurch, the obvious thing to do would be to depart from Christchurch airport. However there tickets, purchased in Belgium, required them to start the journey home in Wellington with a short hop to Christchurch where they would join their international flight. The ticket was paid for but since they didn't now need the tickets from Wellington to Christchurch, the easiest thing to do would be to simply tear them up and not turn up on that flight. But since all their tickets were linked together if they didn't turn up the computer might cancel all their other tickets back to Europe. They couldn't risk it.

So Bob Lambourne offered to pilot them through the shoals of the different airlines involved, Air New Zealand on the first leg and Emirates Airline on the second. First they phoned their Belgium Travel Agent. Yes they could do it but it would cost a 100 Euros for each ticket. This seemed an unreasonably large penalty. However Bob does point out that this sum contains two contributions, the first is the cost (or penalty) imposed by the airline (probably even written into your contract) and then they must pay for the time of the Travel Agent.

Bob tests the waters by contacting Air New Zealand directly and yes they can do the switch but it will cost NZ$80 for each to do it. In the end they decided to take the boat back to Wellington stay overnight and depart from there as ticketed. Problem solved.

Then chance took a hand in their affairs. Their nephew had a spiral staircase in his house and at the start of their visit he warned Anita and Edith they must watch the steps as it was easy to slip. Anita the older sister proved him right, when she slipped on the bottom step. When she tries to get up she feels much pain in one leg, but she insists in battling on, "I'll be fine after a night's sleep."

But it isn't. The Scottish doctor she sees has no trouble in diagnosing the problem, "It's a ruptured or snapped Achilles tendon." Not good news because this is an injury that is notoriously slow to heal.

He goes on, "In New Zealand we immobilise the leg in plaster and allow it to heal but in Europe the Doctors prefer to operate. You'll be home in ten days and you can decide then whether you want an operation. In the meantime keep the leg elevated as much as possible"

So there is Anita, in New Zealand far from home, her leg in plaster and not much practised in the use of crutches. This is when you appreciate the Travel Insurance we all take out no doubt hoping it won't be needed on the journey, but this time it is. In no time Anita's booking is changed. Instead of having to take the ferry to Wellington and fly from there, she is booked on a flight from Blenheim to Auckland, and from there on to LA, then on to London and final hop across to Brussels. She is also upgraded to Business Class so she can keep her leg elevated and Edith is rebooked on the same flight to take care of Anita, also in Business Class.

So there is more than one way of solving the problem of changing confirmed bookings on airlines but Anita certainly found the most painful but least expensive.

# To Text or not to Text, That is the Question

Sometimes texts can just muddy the water and lead to misunderstandings.

On the 22nd of July Bryan Anderson will arrive back from his six week trip to South America. He hasn't been out of touch, as at regular intervals he has emailed back accounts of his travels. His tour party is moving fast and covers a lot of territory, so the plot is always moving forward, in the way expected, from a good adventure story.

Bryan makes contact with Pam Blackwell to firm up details of his return to Palmerston North. After what a thirteen hour flight directly across the Pacific, he will land at Auckland Airport at around 5:30 am. He will go through customs and be on the 7:15 flight south arriving in Palmy at 8:30 am. It seemed straight forward even routine but I unnecessarily complicate things. I want to be at the Palmerston North Airport to greet Bryan but when Pam tells me the arrival time, for some reason I assumed that it is 8:30 pm, a time when I can meet Bryan.

But by the best of good luck, Pam contacts me in the morning to tell me that Auckland Airport is closed by fog. Pam has more information, "Bryan texted to say he will now be arriving at 12:40 pm." I don't tell Pam I had his arrival time wrong. There seems no reason to tell her what is now a completely irrelevant piece of information Pam goes on, "I have agreed to work at the Massey Crèche this afternoon so can Len and you arrange between you who is going to meet him." Obviously I am pleased with the delay and after a short discussion Len and I agree to go out together with me taking him.

Bryan is always well organised and we know he will be text if his plans change again. When I pick up Len we assume his plans haven't changed. At the airport I drop Len off and drive around to the car park, after all he might be delayed slightly on a day when there is so much weather in Auckland.

When I get into the terminal Len has surprising news, "His flights been cancelled."

We are a bit flummoxed.. Why hasn't Bryan been in touch to tell us? Still nothing lost, I pull out my cell phone and text him. We wait but nothing happens. Bryan has gone silent on us. Then Len takes the initiative and does something I should have done sooner, I shouldn't always depend on texts to contact someone, after all phoning isn't that expensive there days.

Len punches in Len's number and after a moment frowns, "His phone is switched off." Now that's something a text can't tell you.

Clearly Bryan is expecting to be contacted so he must think we already know about the cancelled flight. And we think know what must have happened. He will have sent the news of another delay to Pam. But he will not know she will have her cell phone switched since she is working at the crèche. Len tries calling Massey University with his cell phone, only to be put on hold, chewing up Len's money every second. He chooses his red phone and we go over to old fashioned technology, namely a pay phone. A brief search for some money and we get through.

I hear only one side of the conversation but it is clear that Pam goes off to check her cell phone.

Len returns to tell me that Bryan is now arriving at 8:15 pm tonight.

Making the best of the situation we go out to eat lunch together, in this case at Lemon's Cafe in Hokowhitu. Unfortunately Bruce and I have yoga this evening and Len is going to choir practise, so in the end it is only Pam who meets Bryan. I leave the food I have prepared for Bryan in Pam's fridge.

Bryan phones back the next day to thank me for the food, food he badly needed after his gruelling journey home.

He explains when I see him, "After they cancelled my 12:15 flight, I had to join the queue to get rebooked and the line stretched the length of the domestic terminal building. A short time after I'd got my ticket, Air New Zealand announced that the last plane to Palmerston North was full."

Sometimes you're lucky.

# An Interesting Way to Get Locked Out of the House

It is the holiday season and Shirley and son Jordan are driving north to stay in Shirley's garage in Turangi; a town on the edge of Lake Taupo. Shirley likes to swim in the lake during the day and in the late afternoon or evening go to the hot pools. Despite visiting Turangi only a few times each year, Jordan has become a well-known identity in the town. He has many friends there and greatly enjoys his visits to the town.

We do not expect to see them on the day of return to Palmerston North but this year we do. Both Shirley and Jordan in their different ways radiate the excited energy of people who are coping with a problem.

Shirley goes straight for the jugular, "Do you still have a spare key to my house?" she asks, revealing immediately the nature of the difficulty. I jump to the obvious, but incorrect, conclusion, that they have lost their keys.

Looking for instant confirmation I blurt out "You've lost your keys."

"No," says Shirley, "The key is in the lock on the front door but we can't get it out."

"How long has it been there," I ask, expecting Shirley to reply, "Since we tried to get the door open a few minutes ago.

But no, "It's been there all the time we've been away."

I am a surprised that someone as careful as Shirley has left her house in such a vulnerable position. If a thief, more skilled at getting keys out of locks than Shirley, came along while she was away, they could have rob the house at their leisure, bringing up trucks if needed. Shirley would have found an empty house on her return.

I keep my counsel and go in search of Shirley's house key. As I expect, it is with all the other keys that clustered on a rack by the stove.

Then the mystery deepens as Shirley continues, "I can get into Jordan's half of the house but I still can't get into mine." The two halves of the house are connected by a single door. Having gained access to Jordan's surely it was an easy matter to breach the final barrier.

Noting my obvious confusion, Shirley strives to clarify the situation, and only succeeds in muddying the waters, "It happened just as were getting into the car to go to Turangi. Our friend Ted Elliott phoned and asked if I had a minute. I told him yes but since we were just leaving for Turangi, it could only I be for a few minutes."

She pauses for breath, "But he talked on and on for twenty minutes and when I finally got back to the car, I thought I'd better check to make sure the front door was locked."

Shirley is a very careful person where matters of security are concerned.

"But when I put the key in the lock and tried to turn it there was a click and I just couldn't pull it out again. So we went to Turangi leaving the key in the front door."

Well that was clear enough but I was moved to ask, "Do you know why the key get stuck?

"Yes but you'll have to come over to see for yourself."

I don't mind living with a mystery, so there the matter lay for many weeks.

Finally Shirley, anxious not to leave any loose ends, reminded me that I had not come around to see how the front door key got locked in the door. So I went around. I picked up some of my music at the same time, something Shirley also wanted sorted.

"Have you got something I can write on," I ask Shirley, as I know the explanation will be complex. With an A4 envelope and a pencil in my hands, I follow Shirley and Jordan as Shirley demonstrates her procedure for locking the front door securely.

Obviously the first step is to lock the front door in the normal way and for this she doesn't need the front door key. From securely looking the inside of the house all she need to do was twist the knob. Next Shirley brings a wooden chair over and leans it against the back of the door. The top of the chair, almost but not quite, rests against the knob. A piece of kindling wood is then slid between the top of the chair and the knob so it fits snuggly. It is now impossible to twist the knob and open the door.

This is a boots and braces solution; the locked door can't now be opened from the outside even if you are using the correct key. The kindling wood blocks all motion.

Then we all trail through the linking door into Jordan's flat, and this door is locked in its turn. Finally we walk through Jordan's back door and lock it. We are now outside the house with the front door locked in its extra safe position.

Now we must approach a deeper mystery that even Shirley has no scientific explanation for; if someone with the correct front door key tries to open the front door, and gets stopped in this action, the key sulks and gets stuck in position and can't be removed again if you are on the outside. If you need more detail, well all I can do is quote Shirley again, "Something happens inside the lock during the process of trying to open it that is irreversible. The key has been stuck several times in this way."

Now we go back to the moment that Shirley climbs into the car to start the drive to Turangi. At this crucial time the phone rings. Shirley rushes in to answer it and finds herself talking with Ted. You know the rest. Hurrying back to the car, Shirley without thinking about the consequences, makes a final test to see if the front door is locked. At that moment, the key becomes permanently stuck in the door.

On that day, not wanting to waste more time getting her spare key from us, she drives off to Turangi and enjoys her holiday.

# Shirley hauls a Load of Wood back to Palmy

In many respects it is a perfect match. Shirley heats the house she had built in Victoria Avenue with a wood fire and she owns a section in Turangi with too many gum trees. For reasons of safety some will have to cut down.

The only problem is that Turangi is about two and a half hours driving time from Palmerston North, or with Shirley's very circumspect driving probably more like three hours. She doesn't have a good sized truck to cart it in, so it will take many trips to get all the wood down to Palmerston North. The cost of the petrol needed would not make special trips viable. however whenever she is going to Turangi on holiday, she brings a load of wood back with her.

The important question is what is meant by the words 'a load of' wood. In this situation Shirley's focussed attitude to life counts against her. If you are doing a trip you might as well take a full load of wood. So she packs the car with great care to ensure every space in the car is utilised. I did not see the car before she started but I imagine the wood was stacked right to the roof. I am guessing that the question of the weight did not enter Shirley's mind.

All I know from her report to the Sunday lunch crowd the following weekend is that she was not long on the journey before there were signs of problems. Not far from Turangi you are faced with a steep hill that requires you drag the car up to the level of the volcanic plateau. Coming in the reverse direction heading north from the top of this hill you enjoy a panoramic view down to Lake Taupo far below you. Somewhere during this long climb Shirley began to notice steam coming from below the bonnet, the water was boiling. She stopped for a while to let it cool off and then tried again, but after a while it boiled once again. And so Shirley continued in this stop go fashion.

By the time Shirley reaches the top of the Plateau, she decides to stop and try to do something about this aggravating situation and get some help. Seeing a lady obviously in trouble with her car bonnet up, brings out the chivalry in the kiwi blokes driving by. Shirley does not have to stand there waving to get attention, she does not even have to wait long, Like Pavlov's dogs the passing motorists responded to the plight of a woman alone and stuck in the middle of nowhere. The woman might have been their mother, and most certainly is someone else's mother. "Do you need help?", and "Can we help you?" were the questions they offered up. Yes she did want help and water is her immediate need. All that boiling has taken its toll on the water in the radiator, and she knows that without adding more water the problem will only get worse.

The first man who stops turns out to be a soldier from Waiouru Military Camp about twenty minutes drive down the road. Not only does he agree to bring her some water, he offers to take Jordan along for a ride.

"Jordan was very excited by the thought of going to the Army Camp," Shirley tells us, "The man showed him the Army vehicles while they were there."

Soon this lone woman waiting with the bonnet of her car up has more offers of help. Motorist number 2 turns out to have gone to school with Shirley's son-in-law Terry and he is going to a birthday party for Terry's mother. New Zealand is indeed a small place, if we don't actually know everybody, you do know someone they know.

By now Shirley, with time to think, realises if she off-loads some of the wood and lightens her load, her chances of returning to Palmerston North without any further problems will be greatly enhanced. This man is reluctant to accept her offer of free wood, after all fewer and fewer people heat their homes with wood fires these days but he does agree to take two pieces, a token offer really, and after further reflection he takes four. It all counts.

The thought of Shirley standing on the Desert Road trying to give away bits of wood appeals to me. If she had any idea what was going to happen, she might have carried a clearly written sign saying, "Good firewood, for FREE!"

Motorist number 3 doesn't want any wood either, but when he realises that taking some wood will help Shirley out of her predicament, he proceeds to fill his car with bits of gum. He still doesn't want the wood himself but he has a plan. Since he lives in Marton, a town near to Palmerston North, and since he goes to Palmerston North every Thursday, he will drop the wood off at Shirley's house. What a pity he wasn't driving in an empty truck.

The white knight from the Army Camp arrives back with water and Jordan, who enjoyed the visit just as much as Shirley imagined he would, after all Jordan has always been fascinated by cars and trucks. He read the instruction manual on my much loved Ford Laser (1989) and knew about all the gear changes. When Shirley can't find the seat belts at the back of her car, it is Jordan who produces them for her.

With the lighter load, Shirley has no further troubles while driving south to Palmerston North.

The next morning, Shirley is embarrassed when she discovers the wood left in her car over night was damp, and all the windows on her car are steamed up. Presumably the same thing has happened to her helper's car, but when he delivers the wood he doesn't raise the matter so sensibly she doesn't either.

On this same journey to Turangi, whether on the way up or the way back, I don't know, Shirley is stopped by a traffic cop on one of the winding hilly parts of the Desert Road. I know you would be surprised to learn Shirley had been caught speeding, especially when Jordan is in the car. But you know Shirley, she wasn't, she hasn't, in fact she never speeds, on the contrary she is enormously cautious when driving. Yes you're right; the traffic cop stopped Shirley because she was travelling too slowly.

Trailing a motorcade of cars waiting for the chance to pass, Shirley slows almost to a stop in a passing lane to let all these cars pass. The cop was part of this bridal veil of drivers, and instead of taking this opportunity to pass Shirley, he waits until he is the only car left and turns on his flashing lights. Of course he checks to see if Shirley is drunk and of course she isn't. Then he has the cheek to ask Jordan if he thought he could drive better than his mother. I have no record of what Jordan said in reply. Whatever Shirley told the cop she convinced him, not to give her a ticket, but only a warning for slow driving and then left without even asking to see he license..

Obviously like Goldilocks and the three bears with their porridge, driving in New Zealand is something you must not do too fast, something you must not do too slow, rather something you have to do just right. Then hopefully the traffic cops will leave you alone.

# The Outback of Taranaki

The Christmas-New Year holidays are fast approaching and I want to ride the Old Cream Boat up the Mokau River. We have driven through the small township of Mokau a few times but always on the way to somewhere else and never stopping for longer than the twenty minutes it takes to eat a picnic lunch on the beach.

Bruce is happy enough to spend two nights in Mokau but since this is the Christmas-New Year holiday break, we need more things to do. .As usual, we will spend four days with Bruce's family in Hawera, but that is still not enough. Bruce soon comes up with the perfect trip. It's called _The Eastern Taranaki Experience_ run by Carol and husband Dave.

I check online to find companies who take tourists up the Mokau River. I am interested in one that takes you up river and then leaves you there to paddle back down in a canoe. These are real North American canoes, the ones I paddled down rivers while a PhD student in Oregon, the canoes I believe I am skilled in using. Our names go onto a waiting list, with the canoe trip only going ahead if the company get enough people signed up. Unfortunately no one else does. Still we enjoyed our sedate boat trip up and down the Mokau River, in the old Cream Boat.

_The Eastern Taranaki Experience_ departs from Carol and Dave's guest house in Stratford at 2:20 pm on 27th December. Here we meet the English couple, Malcolm and Lesley who we will be walking with us. I don't make a great start while handling the social niceties. I shake Malcolm's hand and call him Lesley, a natural mistake since we left the home of Bruce's Uncle Leslie only an hour before. Carol hurriedly corrects me and the moment passes.

A 45 minute ride in the minivan gets us to our home stay at the farm of Alan and Sylvia Topless (I like the name, almost as good as that of my friend Neil Ladyman). They prove to be a most amiable couple. The sheep are in the shed and tomorrow the shearers arrive.

"A 5:00 a.m. start then," I say to Alan over a hearty farm dinner where meat is king and the vegetarian option is the roast vegetables that accompany the great chunks of mutton.

"No, the shearers start at 8 these days," Alan says and he goes on to demonstrate how out-of-date my memories of my Grandfather's farm north of Taihape in the 1950s are now, "The shearers are much more professional these days, and better trained. We had four shearers cut out 1,300 sheep in a day recently." I am impressed, this is an average of over 300 sheep per shearer. Things have changed. Back in the 1950s anything over 200 was considered a good day and this after a much longer day in the shed.

Alan, a man well into his fifties, gradually re-educates me, "The man who dips the sheep in winter also scans them to find out how many lambs each is carrying. I put the ewes with three lambs onto the paddocks with the best feed, those with two lambs onto the next best and so on."

I can't resist asking, "What happens to the sheep with no lambs?"

I needn't have asked the answer is obvious, "They get sent to the freezing works."

I can't help wondering whether some mothers might like to do the same to the son-in-law who can't get their daughters pregnant and produce the grandchildren she so fervently desires.

I ask Alan how he bought his farm, "I went possum hunting at a time when the fur was really valuable. When I thought I had enough money saved I went to see the bank manager with Sylvia. The Manager listened while I put my case and then abruptly declined us. Sylvia didn't want me to go back but after thinking it over I went in alone. I told the manager that if he turned down our application then he would not be funding any young farmers into a farm. The Bank Manager suddenly changed his story and amiably agreed to the loan. Apparently there were more applicants than the bank had money for, so they turned everyone away the first time to find which ones were really determined to get their own land.

"Was it this farm you bought?"

"No, we got a smaller block and then sold it to step up to a larger farm. Since then I've also bought the farm next door."

Malcolm and Lesley are in their early sixties and obviously used to walking long distances.

"I did the _Women's Night Time London Marathon_ to raise money for breast cancer," Lesley told me next day.

"Can men take part too?" I ask.

"Yes provided they wear a bra," she tells me.

## The First Day's Tramp

I don't ask much when I set off on tramping trips but one thing I do hope for is fine weather, at least for the start of the first day. I wake to find rain lashing the house and showing no Art of queuesigns of relenting.

Carol when she arrives does not have good news, "The forecast is for rain most of the day. I do have an alternative trip. We can just walk up to the hut, have lunch and then walk out again. Which you do must be a decision of the group."

My hopes of us taking this sensible option are squashed within seconds as almost simultaneously Bruce and Lesley veto the alternative. Malcolm remains as silent as me. We both realise it is all on, 22 kilometres in pouring rain.

At this point I give up all hope of a miracle in the form of a clearing in the weather but I get one just that. As we drive further into the hills the rain eases and then stops. I hold my breath hoping it will stay this way, at least for a few kilometres. And it does. Carol will come with us for the first 6 kilometres to ensure we take the right track.

At first we follow a clay road on a sheep farm. It is like being on a skating rink, with the mud just as slippery as ice.

Carol gives us some background to the farmer, "The Station is owned by a man who has twin sons farming it. When I phoned the first time to get permission to take people across his land he heard my name and straight away asked, "Are you Wheeler's daughter?" and when I said yes he said, "I knew your father he was a great man. Of course you can."

But there is more, country people have lots of tales to tell, Carol continues "The brothers are completely different, one is gregarious and always stops to talk, the other just gives a nod and keeps going. One day the introverted brother was beside the road as I drove up. He was covered with blood from head to toe having just killed a pig. In his arms was his favourite dog dead with a big slash in his sides. The only part of the man's body not covered in blood were the places on his face where the tears were streaming down as he cried for his dead dog. That day I stopped. He wanted to talk and in the end I even gave him a lift."

We followed a paper road across a river terrace which took us high above the river. When the best track through the mud takes us toward a sheer drop into the river Lesley protests quietly to Malcolm, It is a small cry for help, "This is a bit scary, she says." Malcolm leads her carefully across, meanwhile alerted by Lesley's fears I walk through the deep mud on the other side of the road, safely away from the drop. We go through an open gate and then turn right and leave the road to follow what looks like a sheep track up the side of the hill toward the bush line.

The sky remains grey under agitated clouds and high on the hill ahead of us, I see a shower heading toward us. It does not last long, just long enough to get us into raincoats. The muggy heat soon forces us to shed our coats.

As we near the bush line further progress is blocked by a recent slip which leaves a slippery face to cross with the promise of a long slide down the hill if we lose our footing. Lesley is not impressed but with the close support from Carol and Malcolm she makes it to the far edge only to be faced by a meter high slippery bank to surmount. With tugging from Carol above and pushing from Malcolm below she makes it up.

I walk across to the same bank but when I put all my weight on one foot to make the scramble up the bank my foot slips and because of the thick layer of mud on the sole of my shoe I can't get any purchase and threaten to slide on down the face. Bruce provides support from behind and with Malcolm pulling from the top I make it over in just as undignified fashion as Lesley. Bruce takes an alternative route to one side of this treacherous step, something I should have done.

Now we follow a track through the bush. After about ten minutes, Carol disappears into the bush and returns with a pick which she will take back to improve the track across the slip. Another light shower forces us into our coats as Carol departs. We now adopt the formation we will use for the rest of the day, Malcolm leading Lesley following, then me and finally Bruce. This way Bruce is able to drop off whenever he wants to take photos and then catch up easily at the measured pace Malcolm is setting.

By silent agreement we all try to avoid talking about the weather. No one wants to tempt fate by articulating what we are all hoping, namely that the rain won't come after all. Not of course that any of us are superstitious.

As we gain height the track shows less signs of maintenance. Ferns crowd in around us, making it difficult for us to see our feet and avoid stepping on a slippery tangle of tree roots. By way of encouragement, I say to Lesley and Malcolm, "You're very lucky you're getting the real New Zealand experience. This is the sort of track Kiwi Trampers often walk on." Contrary to my expectations, they don't immediately congratulate themselves on their good fortunate, but instead remain quiet.

In places the track has slid away and it is not obvious where we go. I help out when Malcolm is confused about where it go next. But I mainly leave it up to them so they experience the joys of track finding. After all as Bruce points out later Carol told us before she left us that the track stays close to the vertical wall on the right, so there is way for us to get lost.

I remember years ago a walk we did with Angie, Kay, Shirley and Jordan on the Manawatu Gorge track at a time when you had to follow marks on trees. Shirley had to return early to a family get together. Later she told us how different the return trip was, "I got Jordan to stay by one marker until I found the next. We made slow progress."

Lesley continues to find progress difficult and, begins to complain about the maintenance of the track and how a walk advertised for International Travellers should be better prepared.

We left the car at 9:00 and it is 1:00 when we reached the junction with the Matemateaonga Track, a major route through the Taranaki Hill country. As directed by Carol we and eat lunch here. Bruce uses the Telecom cell phone Carol gave him to leave a message telling her the time so she can calculate when we will reach the Kohi saddle where the walk ends. Our Vodafone and Two Degrees phone companies have no reception here. This is the half-way point. It is downhill for the next eleven kilometres with a hut to mark the three quarter point.

This track is now clear of ferns and easier to walk on but still care is needed as roots are thick on the ground and just as slippery as before. A recent slip requires a small diversion down hill. Half way through Bruce loses his footing and begins to slide away down the hill. He grabs hold of small shrubs and manages to haul himself back up.

We make good time to the hut and spend a few minutes exploring it and eating a snack.

Carol told us before we started that if she is not there waiting for us at the end, we must call for help from Dave immediately, "Don't wait around. Something must have gone wrong. I will have plenty of time to get there."

Malcolm and Lesley, not unexpectedly for people from the south of England, spend their words as if they are $100 notes. In an attempt to draw Lesley into conversation I ask, "What is your favourite piece of music?"

I meet an unexpectedly blank wall.

"I don't remember things like music and books. They just go straight out of my mind."

Don't remember books and music? I search desperately to think of something that will bring our conversation alive but without success. During the silence that follows I try to imagine what life is like without active engagement with the arts.

For her part Lesley does her best, "No matter how long a walk it is, it's the last few miles that are always the hardest," she offers up

I am so demoralised I can't take up the baton and run with it. I simply agree with her and the ember that might on another day have lighted a veritable bonfire of a conversation dies out. Then the rain settles in, it is the hardest it has been all day. But the bush is very beautiful here, and looks even better with the lines of rain piercing the tops. This time the rain does not stop.

As promised, Carol is there in the van waiting. It has taken us 8 hours. Lesley gets into the bath as soon as we arrive at the farm house.

## The Second Day's Walk

The second day only involves 18 kilometres of walking and it is along a 4-wheel drive track beside a deep gorge. No climbing today, not that there was much yesterday either. This time the forecast is for good weather. A few showers sweep over us during the first few kilometre but after this it is only the heat of the summer sun that will trouble anyone.

At the start we see _The_ _Bridge to Somewhere"_ which is named to compete with its better known twin _The_ _Bridge to Nowhere,_ both are in Eastern Taranaki. The bridge to _Nowhere_ was named first. It is across a small river on the other side of the Whanganui River at the end of a valley which was opened up for farming but where the land was so poor the farmers in the end walked off it.. In an attempt to garner the same interest in the bridge we cross today, a bridge that does lead somewhere, it was given this name.

Today it is Lesley who will take her revenge and teach me a lesson I could never have learned in any other way. It happens when she attempts to start a conversation from cold, "What things do you like to collect?"

It hits me like a blow on the head as I instantly realise I have never collected anything in my life, and worse I have never had any desire to collect anything. My slate is as clean of collecting as Lesley's is of the arts. One is no better than the other. Both are types of pastimes that challenge the person and provide an interest, as well as something to be shared with others.

After this we chat away off and on all day, and I learn more about Lesley's life but as I think back I realise, with a twinge of guilt, I shared nothing of mine. I wasn't trying to be secretive, it's just Lesley didn't ask and I didn't think to say anything.

The muddy river runs, as promised beside a deep gorge. We never get close to the water and often our view is blocked by dense regenerating bush. There are two tunnels to walk through and these are near the end of the day. Until relatively recent times the road we are following was still open but the council in the end decided to stop maintenance and it was closed for cars. A Four Wheel drivers Club has kept it open since then but there are now one or two parts of the road that have been very badly eroded and it remains for now just for walkers (or cyclists).

Near Whangamomona, the river leaves the bush and travels across farm land that looks naked and bare in comparison to the magic of river and bush together. It instead has becomes just one more small muddy river crossing farmland in New Zealand.

Back in Stratford we part awkwardly, uncertain what contact information we should be sharing. I finally extract Lesley's email address with the promise we will send any photos we have of them. As usual Malcolm has little to say. I am not sure whether this is the cultural gulf between the uncommunicative couple from the South of England and the Kiwis or is it simply a case of an introverts glad to be rid of annoying extroverts.

I think we did all enjoyed the trip, I certainly did. As promised I sent some photos and Lesley writes a friendly email thanking me. We will probably never meet again. That's the way travel sometimes is.

# Down South for Queen's Birthday Weekend

## Star Gazing at Mount John Observatory

It is the Christchurch crowd who are organising it; Walt Abell, lecturer in computing at Lincoln University, Colin Elliott and Val McKenzie self-employed social workers, Val's daughter Koha and partner Spider. They went to Mt John Observatory last year and want to return again, so it must be a good trip. We accept their invitation immediately.

Old hands at organising they make it supremely easy for us. They book the accommodation, they buy the tickets to the Observatory, they buy the food and they provide the transport. All we have to do is pay our share of the cost. The service continues when we arrive. Walt is waiting just outside the airport for our text telling him we have landed, we pick up our bags and a few minutes later he arrives.

We call at Colin and Val's place first, where Koha and Spider are waiting, and an hour and a half later we are driving east across the Canterbury Plains. If there is one thing you can say about the Canterbury plains it is that they are flat. Until we get into the foothills of the Southern Alps, the land looks as if it has been levelled by a pernickety surveyor with a spirit-level.

The daylight gradually mellows into twilight, softening the colours into glowing imitations of their original shades in a continually changing spectrum to entertain us. Time passes quickly, or so it seemed. It is dark when we arrive in Tekapo at around 6:30 pm. When we step out of the car, we are dazzled by a sky dense with bright stars, a perfect night for star gazing, except we are booked to go up Mount John the next night and the forecast for Saturday night is cloud and rain.

"Go into town and check whether they can change your booking to tonight," our landlady tells us as we check in, "Don't wait, just go straight there now."

"Yes we can take you tonight but the buses leave in fifteen minutes," We are told so we scatter in different directions depending on our most urgent needs .

We haven't eaten and we're not dressed in the banks of super warm clothes we brought along to help us survive the cold wind may be leaching over the top of Mount John. However we can't waste this opportunity and then spend the rest of the three-day Queen's Birthday Weekend regretting it.

Walt who has been driving our car, is desperate for something to eat, I am keen to get out my warm clothes, although the company is providing us with heavy warm jackets.. I seek out a banana from the food box to serve as a meal. Knowing I love of bananas Walt always makes sure he buys lots for these trips

Swallowed up by voluminous down jackets, we ride in two buses to the summit, clutching little red lights that glow enough to prevent us stumbling on the uneven ground but do not give white light that might interfere with the scientific observations in progress in the Observatory. Even the town of Tekapo at the foot of a peak, which is more correctly described as a broad dome after all there is room for two observatories and a scatter of other buildings along the top, has street lights directed toward the ground to avoid light pollution causing interference.

I was not sure whether I would enjoy star gazing, but I am always open to new experiences, often they surprise you. Well star gazing certainly did that. The night sky in the Southern Hemisphere is more spectacular than the broken scatter of stars which serve the northern hemisphere. The main blast of the Milky Way slashes its way across the full arc of the sky, with lots of equally interesting galaxies tacking along the side.

Our guides are young scientist working in the area. They are full of enthusiasm for their work and sparkle with the excitement of sharing the beauty of the sky with us cultural peasants. Who wouldn't be carried along by their enthusiasm, not that I ever know what they look like; they are just dark heads with black faces but this only adds to the mystery.

Using a green laser as pointer, they direct us to particular planets or star clusters as precisely as any school master in the chalk and talk days could, with a wooden stick point out a word on a blackboard, in fact much better. Wearing glasses makes telescope or microscope viewing something of a chancy matter. The lens in your glasses is just as likely to distort the image as sharpen it. The star, planet or galaxy is doubly removed from the naked eye. The telescopes we use give me good views of the celestial bodies despite the corrections my eyes need.

My particular favourite was the Jewel Box, a densely packed cluster of galaxies; galaxies that besides being visually interesting individually, together appear as a mass of wriggling amoeba, the movement presumably coming from distortion in the earth's atmosphere.. I would have liked to watch longer but others are waiting in line so I reluctantly move on.

Near the end they get us all to line up with the Milky Way behind us and by some clever manipulation of lighting involving a long exposure during which we have to stand as still as the subjects of a Nineteenth Century photographer so we don't blur the photo, while the stars burn themselves into the image. Then a couple of brief white flashes bring up our faces and red jackets. Later we download the photo off their web site.

Back at our house, we down a meal of pasta with two sauces, one vegetarian and one not.

At dusk the next evening the sky is a mixture of clear sky and small clusters of dark cloud. We congratulated ourselves on our decision to switch days. Later do we learn that although the star gazing might not have been as good, they did get to see an Aurora Australis display. Yes we could have viewed it from our house but we never thought to open the curtains and take a look.

## Out and About in Tekapo

As the comedian Tom Lehre famously said, "Life is like a sewerage system, what you get out of it depends on what you put into it." This is most certainly true of the life of the traveller. The more time you spend at a place, no matter how unprepossessing it looks at first glance, the more you get out of it. While on a whistle stop tour you necessarily don't have time to give the local attractions any more than scant attention.

Yes, we have passed through Tekapo before and yes we have probably even eaten a picnic lunch there and yes the mountains over the lake did look quite impressive but last time too soon is was time to move on. We didn't sample the town in. cloud, sun, wind and rain or see the spectacular sunrises., That time I wondered what it was about the place that attracts people to build a holiday home here, now I know.

This time we are here in the winter, so the joys of swimming in or boating on the lake are denied us but in there place are winter entertainments such as skiing at a nearby field and skating on the town's skating rink. Not that we have time to try them this time in a visit of only two days, still it is much better than a visit of just two hours.

Even as we prepared on Friday night to go up Mount John to gaze at stars, we are being encourage by our guides to do a traverse of the peak on foot the next day and that is what we do. We simply walk across town and go past the ice skating rink, where a conveniently zig-zagging track takes us up through a deciduous forest to the tussock line. Then it is only a matter of climbing up 61 steps (Colin counted them, and found them to significantly less than the 100 steps Koha promised us) and we are near the observatory. The four of us, Colin, Walt, Bruce and eye enjoy the spectacular view across the wide valleys below to the snow covered peaks on the far side. The town of Tekapo is tucked discretely out of sight behind the skirts of Mount John. As usual I am amazed at how high we have climbed. It is quite magical how far humans can travel simply by a steady rate of walking. The winter sun does its best to warm the chilled air, and creates a sparkling light around us.

We walk past the untidy scatter of buildings that complete settlement and go down a long flowing ridge on the other side. It is not long before we are searching for a place out of the gentle breeze to eat lunch. The food has never tasted better in the clear mountain air.

As we continue a rain cloud heads across the lake and dumps its rain on us. Bruce and I persist for a while but when it continues we fight our way into our rain coats. Hardly have we started walking again, by now well behind Walt and Colin who had acted like real mountain men and just pushed on, than the rain stops. We lose height steadily as we descend toward the intense blue of the lake, in a Technicolor landscape of bright yellow grass and brilliantly red berries. We keep dropping but never seem to get any closer to the water. Finally, after I don't know how long, we really are close to the water and the track is forced to level out as we head along the side of the lake back into town.

Don't go through Tekapo without allowing time for this most spectacular walk, yes it will take an hour or two, just cut something off the end of the trip. It's a must do, unless it's raining or snowing of course.

## Getting Out of Tekapo; Not as Easy as You Might Think

Each day the forecasts predicts rain in Tekapo. Only the briefest shower on Saturday, mild with gusty winds but still no rain on Sunday but on Monday the rains finally arrived. Only Spider went on her regular morning walk in the steady, unrelenting, wetting rain that was is sending rivulets of water across the roads. But we all get a bit damp as we stacked the luggage in the cars. Still it is the last day of the holiday and with a plane to catch in Christchurch there is no time for leisurely walks anyway.

Riding with Walt, we leave first, which as it turns out was lucky for us. The rain kept belting down, as we drive out into the country. Used to the weather around Palmerston North, we had not the least idea that this far south conditions will change so quickly from late autumn into the depth of winter. Even the knowledge that on the way in we crossed something called Burkes Pass does not flick on any warning lights.

So when a few mushy snowflakes begin to mix in with the rain, I am more surprised than apprehensive. The climb on this side of the pass is gradual and riding in the car I never really noticed it. Then the mushy snowflakes begin to predominate and I can no longer ignore them.

The density of snowflakes increases alarmingly and I hope we will soon reach the top of the Pass. The snow accumulates rapidy on the road and surrounding countryside. For a time I enjoy the magic of snow in that special way only a low-lander who is unused to snow can. Then as the snow continues to pile up, we are no longer tourists enjoying the sight of a bit of snow, but explorers who must somehow fight their way through to the top of a Pass that is still nowhere in sight. We also want to arrive safely the on the other side.

I am feeling intimidated but it is Walt who is driving, and I wonder what he is thinking. The driver of the van just ahead of us, obviously feels the same way as me. He attempts a U turn, so he can return to the relative tranquillity of the green fields around Tekapo and wait for the storm to pass. Without cars coming over the pass toward us to clear the snow the van driver he has to pull over into the deep snow on the right hand side of the road. When he stops to back up and complete his three point turn he gets stuck. There has no traction and his wheels spin but do not grip. One, or is that two, of his passengers got out and try to push him clear.

In the end, they manage to leave enough space to allow us to pass. I am hoping Walt will turn around too, but the van driver was not a good exemplar and Walt keeps driving. About now we begin debating what our plan should be. The snow covered road is becoming increasingly slippery, and we have little experience of driving on snow in a two-wheel drive car.

A snow plough passes us going in the other direction, which cheers us all up but when we reach the top of the pass, the sight of the road dipping steeply away into the valley ahead of us promotes an intense debate as to what exactly we should do. I can't remember the exact discussion but in the end in our ignorance we decided to stop where we are and not attempt to cross until the snow plough returns. Later Colin points out that a snow plough coming back up a road lined with cars, cannot do any ploughing without flinging the snow into the stationary vehicles, and because of this it can't clear the snow from on our side of the road.

So we stop and the cars behind us have to stop too, not because of oncoming traffic, but because they do not want to cross to the side of the road which is being stacked increasingly thickly with snow.

Bruce always the tourist gets out to take some photos. I photograph him through the cars windows. Then the driver stuck behind us shouts out and demands we get moving. He is annoyed to see Bruce delaying others in getting down the steep hill ahead by taking a few photos. Bruce gets back in the car, and after more discussion we decided to pull over to the right side, ensuring that the snow plough can't get through, whether it is ploughing or not. We feel very exposed, but anything is better than beginning slip sliding our uncertain way down the hill.

Cars behind us begin moving again. I don't know how long we might have sat there, but with the traffic flowing again Colin gets to us in his four-wheel drive. Colin is a man who makes decisions quickly. He pulls over beside us, leaps out, comes over to Walt, and says, "You drive my car Walt. I'll take yours." I urge Walt to obey; after all he has driven four-wheel drive vehicles in the snow on his winter trips to California.

Colin, a top mountaineer and an instructor at Outward Bound camps in the Marlborough sounds, is someone whose skills in driving a two-wheel drive car without chains over this increasingly icy slope, I trust completely. Besides I want to see how it's done. By some careful revving of the motor and spinning the steering wheel, he gets the car moving, not an easy matter on this surface, while urging Walt in the four-wheel drive ahead to get out of his way, not that Walt can hear him. Colin still somehow manages to keep moving and go around the vehicle.

Colin inches the car over the top and slowly heads into what for me looks like the abyss. The cars in the line ahead provide our first obstacle, because as slowly as we are moving, these cars are moving more slowly. So begins an amazing demonstration of how to control a sliding car on an icy surface. Colin spins the steering wheel in one direction to correct the slide one way and then frantically spins it the other way to correct the slide starting in the other direction and repeats this as many times as he must to settle the car into a straight line.

As a truck approaches us coming up the pass, our car begins to spin toward it, Colin whirls the steering wheel to correct it and we slide out of fender bender territory. Colin must then apply the same frantic treatment in the opposite direction, all the time a line of cars moving up the other side provide an unforgiving wall that will not allow us to pass. At one time it seems to me we are going to slide into an unwelcoming ditch but again Colin corrects in time.

The car then settles into a straight line. Colin says, "Can you please open some windows. I'm getting hot." It is no wonder he is, because he still has on his heavy down jacket and has been working very hard.

Uphill traffic more or less ends now and our progress becomes more tranquil. Perhaps as we lose height the road surface is not so icy, but what do I know? Colin still has to concentrate hard to avoid further slides and spins, but at the least sign the car wants to break lose, he applies a quick remedy.

Then we approach a dip in the road that will require us to get up the hill on the other side. Colin begins to cautiously speed up. I hold my breath. "I have to get some speed so we can make it up the other side," Colin takes the trouble to point out.

Once on the hill he keeps accelerating careful and we climb it easily before continuing our downhill run. The snow may have eased but the countryside is still blanketed in white. Even when we reach the town of Fairlie the snow still surrounds us although the roads are now slushy rather than icy. Walt takes command of his own car again and a few kilometres out of Fairlie we at last sight some grass. When the snow has all disappeared the landscape takes on a dull green colour as the light reflected back off the snow disappears.

Back in Christchurch we do a quick tour of the earthquake stricken city centre and discover there is really no City Centre left, just hectares of empty car parks. It is impossible to get your bearings. The Cathedral has been decapitated, and now rises only a few meters above ground level. If the church leaders have their way, even this will be soon flattened and a new Cathedral will rise. At least it's temporary replacement, the cardboard Cathedral will soon be finished.

It is time to catch our plane and head for the quiet still standing, city of Palmerston North.

# Out in the Wide, Wide, World

## On Servicing the Volkswagen Polo

**Byline** _Bob Lambourne, Shropshire UK_ :

As you know, about 21 months ago I bought myself a second-hand Volkswagen Polo here in the UK. I bought it from Inchcape Motors, the main dealer for VW in Shrewsbury, and the car was then just coming up to three years old.

In September last year, when I had had the car for about a year, I got a telephone call from Inchcape to tell me that the timing belt on the car was due for replacement, this being due at 60,000 miles or four years of age, whichever was the sooner. Would I like to book the car in with them to have this done?

Surprised, I pointed out that the car had done less than 30,000 miles, but was told that nevertheless VW recommended replacement after four years. I told Inchcape I would get back to them, and then consulted Will Llewellyn, the owner of an independent, VW-approved garage sort-of near the farm (but not that near), this following a recommendation from Steven's farm hand manager.

Will Llewellyn agreed that it would be silly to replace the timing belt just before putting the car off the road for six months. I would get back to him following my return to the UK in 2013. So, about two weeks ago I called in at his garage and arranged to take the car in today for the timing belt to be replaced. I should say that although his garage is not that far away from the farm "as the crow flies", there are two ranges of hills in the way, The Long Mynd and The Stiperstones. Either one drives a fairly long way round on main roads, taking about 45 minutes, or one drives over the hills on very narrow roads, through lovely scenery but not actually saving any time!

So, today I got up early (for me) and drove over to Will Llewellyn's garage. He lent me a "courtesy car" in which I pottered about before returning to the farm. About 4:30 pm, I rang the garage to check that the work was finished, intending if so to go and pick up my car. After some delay, I got to talk to Will Llewellyn, who had a surprise for me. "Yes, your car is fine, but - there was nothing to do!" Apparently, my model of car has a timing chain, not a timing belt, and of course a timing chain shouldn't need replacing for the lifetime of the engine.

Will was most apologetic, but we agreed that the fault lay with the people at Inchcape Motors, who had started first me and then him on this waste of time and petrol!

## Lost in the Desert

**Byline** _Mike Dunn, LA, US_ _A_ :

Mike and Linda are enthusiastic explorers, I would have said intrepid explorers, until I found out on our second Fiji trip that they, unlike me, came on trips to third world countries equipped with all the medical aids one of the best health system in the world can supply. They made sensible plans to fight off the variety of infections and virus which they might meet in a third world country.

Earlier in the year they took advantage of a trip to a Quaker meeting in Colorado to explore further the desert country they were passing through, and things went a little wrong. Not seriously wrong of course because they were well prepared but wrong nevertheless, and they had to call for help.

I believe the trip was to Brook Canyon, The only hint I have of what they saw is the observation that you must not touch anything in the ruins. The expedition took place in the morning and they intended to be back to civilisation in time for lunch. It is difficult to know where the mistake was made, but I think it was fairly early on, when a wrong turn was taken, but not immediately recognised as a wrong turn. So they pushed on, no doubt looking forward to lunch.

When they came to another intersection they did not recognise, they took the road that Mike thought would lead them out to the main road. And when they met other intersections they made the same sensible choices, after all what else could they do.

I am sure Mike kept notes on which way they turned, how often and how far they travelled in miles before they were forced to make yet one more choice. Some people might call them guesses, and I for one don't criticism them for that. In any case Mike could reverse engineered this route and get them back to the canyon to try again.

Then the roads started to seriously worsen in quality. No longer is there a solid surface with the sort of width you need to turn the 4WD around, in fact it becomes soft sand, the sort that as soon as you stop you begin to sink into the sand. The only way to maintain traction in such conditions, even in a 4WD, is to maintain a certain minimum speed. If you stop you get stuck so securely that even the four-wheel drive won't get you out of trouble.

Now they began a strange kind of paper chase, one where bits of the 4WD got scraped off they start to shed parts, but fortunately not parts that affected the vehicles performance in any fundamental way. But do rather ruin its appearance.

By now there was no way of turning around because with the sand getting softer and deeper away from the admittedly poor quality ro could not stop or turn around. So began a wild chase to keep up speed, so traction could be maintained while driving deeper and deeper into the desert, while continue to spread bits across the barren countryside.

I wonder how I would have felt as the chase headed toward humiliating failure. No better roads crossed their path to allow them to escape the trap they were heading into. Finally in even deeper sand they ground to a halt. I don't know how hard they tried to get out but all they did was dig in a little deeper

Mike gives no indication of how their dog was responding to their changed circumstances. The question they face is what to do next. Obviously they don't leave their vehicle and try to walk out. At least they have lots of water or board so this is not a problem. Fortunately they do have cell phone coverage and are able to dial 911, the emergency number. When they get a reply, Mike I am sure would have been stoic, but Linda, not wanting to be left stranded for too long plays the 70s card. "The good news," she says, "is that we have lots of water. The bad news is that we are two people in their seventies stuck in the sand." Mike is able to give precise directions to where they are so then they only have to sit and wait. Sherriff's Deputy Bradford (a _sheriff's Deputy_ is someone who is authorized to exercise the powers of a _sheriff_ in emergencies) is sent to the rescue.

In the meantime Linda needs to go to toilet, and Mike suggests she use the sand beside the 4-WD and she does. The Sherriff's Deputy arrives with a mechanic to check out the vehicle, which showed good forward planning on his part. These two of them had picked up the plastic pieces so recently shed by Mike's vehicle.

Then the mechanic saw the wet patch in the sand and feared the worse.

"What's that?" he said to Mike who did not know what to say. As Mike hesitates the deputy moves forward and scoops up a hand full of the wet sand and smells it. Now Mike is even less to provide an explanation for the dampness to the zealous mechanic. At this point I suggested to Mike he could said the dog might have done it. But the moment passes, and the mechanic can make no diagnosis based on smell. Mike learns later the men decided it must be window cleaner, no other liquid had been lost from the 4-WD.

The vehicle is winched out of the sand and Mike and Linda are returned to civilisation and a late lunch. This is a trip that we might have been on, but decided to turn down the invitation to go into the desert.

I wish we had. I would have loved to watch Mike and Linda's faces as the urine sample is examined by the Police. One thing I am sure of, we would have said nothing to the _sheriff's Deputy_.

## After Landing at LA

**By Line** : Walt Abell, LA USA

Hi all:

Just to let you know I arrived in LA in one piece. It was not a bad flight and I even slept for a few hours.

Unfortunately getting there was only the start of the challenge. We landed just as the security lockdown from a shooting at LAX was being lifted. That meant they let us off the plane but were not allowing people into the airport, including the rental car transit bus! I eventually joined the crowds walking out of the terminal in the search of their rides.

Unfortunately the terminal was reopened at about the same time and hordes of incoming passengers came rushing in - they were all on foot and racing for their flights. It was a bit like trying to swim upstream (lugging two cases).

I managed to get directions and trudged (still with quite a few others) the 4 km to the rental car place. Of course about half way there, the transit busses started running again!

The rental people were very fast and even gave me directions to get onto the freeway (didn't have my phone set up yet). Unfortunately the onramp they pointed me to was temporarily closed but it didn't really matter because by then I was caught up in rush hour traffic.

Eventually got to the motel, fixed up my phone and internet, called friends, had a quick snack from the vending machines and hit the sack. Slept pretty well and used the gym this am before breakfast. About to venture out to catch up with first friends now.

It's good to be back in LA - it reminds me why I left!

BFN

Walt

PS Phone call to Fletchers before I left reveals that EQC now plans to cash settle my claim! Will deal with that on my return...

## A Memorable Winter in Southern Germany

**Byline** Angelica Mair, Munich, Germany _,_

Our reporter in Munich, Dr Angie Mair, keeps us up to date on the weather during the extended winter of 2012-2013, a winter which was not totally appreciated by our correspondent. These are quotes from Angie's emails through the winter.

**30** th **October 2012**

Everything is completely covered in snow here at Marktoberdorf (at least 20 cm). There hasn´t been this much snow in October for years and years. It stopped snowing last night, was still overcast this morning, but now the skies have cleared and we have sun and a mainly blue sky!

**15** th **November**

The weather has been very mild lately - no frosts at all, temperatures even during the nights around 5 °C and around 10 to 12 during the day. However, a huge high has brought us lots of thick fog - only the mountains stick out into the sun.. Maybe Marktoberdorf will get some sun tomorrow.

**24** th **November 2013**

The weather has been very mild with temperatures above 10 °C around midday and just light frosts during the nights. It is typical late autumn weather, with a stable high pressure system bringing heaps of fog to the low parts and sun to the mountainous parts. Marktoberdorf is almost every day high enough to see the sun, Munich luckily mostly, too. However, just a little bit further north dense fog creates a humid and cool climate with temperatures between 2 and 6 °C all the time. Those areas haven ´t seen the sun for two weeks now!

**2** nd **December 2012**

The weather dramatically changed last week. Well, the forecast predicted it exactly right and everyone knew that winter would arrive on Thursday. Still the white of the snow did look strange after the long warm period. Ever since it has been cold with temperatures below zero most of the time and even here in Munich the snow is still around. Friday and Saturday were relatively nice in Munich - light clouds with the sun coming through again and again while at Marktoberdorf thick fog and low cloud dominated.

**11** th **December 2012**

We have had quite a lot of snow here at Marktoberdorf and even in Munich everything is covered in snow. The forecast says there´s a 75% chance for a white Xmas this year. Temperatures are steadily below zero even during the days here - Munich some days did reach zero or plus 1 °C over the past few days. However, the forecast is for lower temperatures, less wind and less snow from Wednesday on. I wouldn´t mind some sun. Today I had to drive in a real snowstorm and it wasn´t so much fun with several accidents and cars blocking roads .My car doesn´t give me any trouble with its permanent 4-wheeldrive and still pretty new winter tyres, but those other drivers!!! Some drive like mad and others slow as snails, no, this wasn´t much fun at all.

**19** th **December 2012**

The weather has changed dramatically again and all the snow has melted away. Temperatures are around 7-8 °C now with even night temperatures rarely below zero! The forecast is for colder weather again later this week. Munich most likely will have a green Xmas. At Marktoberdorf we still have the chance for a white Xmas, but we´re not overly optimistic. With the strong westerly's and even south westerly's we just get heaps of warm, wet air from the Atlantic or Mediterranean instead of cold, dry air form the Arctic region or Eastern Europe. All these Atlantic low pressure systems prevent a white Xmas. We need some nice eastern high pressure systems! Some areas of Germany have flood problems already with the mass of snow melting away and rain on top. Well, the forecast is for a few dry days and thus we will drive down to Bellano tomorrow and return on Friday

**20** th **January 2013**

Winter has returned to Germany and everything is covered in snow again. It has been very cold with temperatures around -10 and below during the nights and even day temperatures are always below zero, often around -5 °C. Unfortunately it has been very overcast and grey, too and we haven ´t seen the sun for a long time.

**12** th **February 2013**

We got a lot of fresh snow last week after all of the old snow had melted away. Especially on Friday and Saturday the fresh snow was absolutely great - light, dry powder snow! Yesterday we had a brilliantly clear and sunny day with a bright blue sky and the snow was glittering like thousands of crystals, like diamonds all around. Obviously it was pretty cold on such a day - around 7.30 am we had -17 °C at my mother ´s house and my aunt had -22 while walking with her dog. Still it really was wonderful after the long grey period. However, today it is overcast again and will remain so throughout most of the week slowly warming up to temperatures just below zero.

**18** th **February 2013**

Saturday I had to clean the flat and do a few more chores. In the late afternoon I drove to Peter and Sybille's. Sybille and I went for a nice walk along the river Isar for about 90 minutes. Then in the evening we had a really nice meal at a restaurant together. Last week we had very cold weather with temperatures dropping down to -20 °C twice over night. At least Thursday was a beautiful and sunny day. However, Friday and Saturday it was warming up and snowing almost without any pause. Thus driving wasn´t all that much fun for Luis. As the city council of Munich has decided not to clear the smaller roads in the case of heavy snow fall, my road is constantly full of snow and parking a real problem. Luis had a lot of trouble driving out of his parking position and only when I drove and he plus two friendly young men were pushing the car, we finally got it out! Well, with my four wheel drive it probably wouldn´t have been a problem. Anyway, I didn´t have any problems getting into and out of similar carparks at Peter and Sybille´s.

**4** th **March 2013**

Last week was another almost totally grey, overcast and cold week. Well, Monday was nice and sunny. Afterwards we constantly had low clouds or fog and frost down to -15°C with even the days constantly below zero. Finally today just before lunch the sun made it through the high fog and the afternoon was really nice and sunny. The forecast is for fog in the mornings and sunny afternoons and a constant rise in temperatures from the -10 tonight to frost-free nights late in the week and days up to 15 °C on Thursday. Well, we will see

**3** rd **March 2013**

The weather has remained nice and sunny and it is slowly warming up. The nights are still pretty cold at -8 °C especially with a cloudless sky. However, today we reached 8 °C and it should become warmer each day – and unfortunately changing to clouds and rain from Thursday. At least we saw the sun for several days in a row. After this extremely miserable winter - just about 60 % of the average amount of sun hours this winter, the worst winter on record!!! It is time for a nice spring!!!

**11** th **March 2013**

The weather is about to change back to winter. In fact northern Germany already is back in winter with frosty - 5 °C and about 20 cm of fresh snow. The south had another sunny and warm day today. It will most likely rain tomorrow here and snow in the north. During the week the cold air will slowly move south, but snow might not reach as far south as the Alps and us.

**Morning 25** th **March**

You really had a good and unusually warm and dry summer - obviously all the good weather was with you!

Over here winter has returned and we have snow covered ground everywhere again and pretty low temperatures. Still, we were lucky in the south of Germany - the north had heavy snow storms and absolutely icy temperatures while we only got a bit of snow and a little wind. Of course we can cope with snow much better, too. Up north 20 cm of snow leads to chaos!!! That is nothing here, we´re used to much larger amounts of fresh snow!!! Well, the airports in the north had to be closed and even Farankfurt was closed for almost one day while Munich worked perfectly

**27** th **March 2013**

Our weather really is dreadful! It has been so cold for the past week and everything is covered in snow. When will spring come?

At least we had two halfway nice days with a few hours of sunshine - Wednesday and Friday - both of which Luis and I used to go skiing. I spent Saturday in Munich doing a few chores. In the evening I met Peter and Sybille and we went to our favourite Indian restaurant for dinner. Sunday I drove from Munich directly to Aulendorf, where my mother is staying now. Of course I took her out for lunch to a nice restaurant in a very nice, very old spa-town nearby- Bad Waldsee. We went for a walk through the old city with its lovely "Fachwerkhäuser". However, the easterly was blowing strongly and it was such a cold wind, that we gave up on the shore walk. Instead we went for a drive to the other spa towns

Today it has been snowing steadily all day - lightly, but without any pause. All of Germany is white again and has bad weather. In fact most of Europe has bad weather!!!! Northern Italy is a bit milder, but it is raining steadily there - no reason to drive down to the lake! Ukraine and Russia and most of Eastern Europe are just fighting heavy snowfalls and icy temperatures. Where is global warming? This has been one of the coldest and worst winters in Germany since we have constant monitoring - northern Germany especially has no memory of such winters anymore with so much snow and such icy temperatures.

Normally people put out spring flowers at this time of the year and plant spring flowers on the graves - nothing of the kind is possible this year. Our grave is buried under a whole lot of snow still. Not even Munich shows any sign of spring. The earth in my plant containers is still frozen even in Munich. It is almost April and everything is white with snow, ground frozen, temperatures below zero even during the days!!! Miserable, miserable. We had such an early winter with heaps of snow already in October and staying around for weeks and now winter just doesn´t want to go either - will we have more than five months of winter? I certainly have had enough of this, but what can you do - nothing of course, and lamenting doesn´t help either.

**3** rd **April 2013**

This Easter we had one of the coldest Easters on record. We had frost each night and several days temperatures hardly reached zero at midday! On Easter Sunday it snowed all day without even the shortest pause. Winter has been so long this time. We had one the earliest winters last autumn with heavy frost and snow in the last week of October staying for about two weeks, which is very unusual and now everything is completely white and we still have frost (- 4 °C this morning at 7.30 am) in April. People can ´t wait for some warmth and sun. However, the forecast is for no change in the pattern for the whole week - frost, snow, clouds and very little sun.

# Winter Days Spent in Hawaii

## Random Walks on Kaua'i

For me one of the great delights of travelling is to arrive in a totally new country, or even a country you haven't visited for a while, and immediately go out the door and explore. On Kaua'i Island when we step out, we enter a world of brilliant sunlight that cranks up the saturation of all the colours and lands us in this Technicolor world of intensely bright colours. Everything around us has that special sparkle which only happens when you leave behind the subdued light of a long haul airliner to enter the brilliant sunlight of a tropical island. Everything feels new, a wonderland that demands exploration.

Our Condo is in contradictory fashion both up a hill and down in a valley. It's a house in the trees as Maureen our landlady described it to tempt us to sign up. And she is right. Mike Dunn can sit on our second story veranda with his binoculars and watch the local birds.

On that first day's walk, we retrace the route we followed when we drove in from the airport. First we climb a steep road to get out of our local valley and at the top turn right and follow a road that traverses the hill, losing height steadily until arrive at a T-junction with the main road, the road which circles most of the Island. We amble around looking at an idiosyncratic group of shops. The more interesting are the well signposted yoga club, a restaurant decorated out as a Wild West saloon and a shop packed with something called dust shirts. Linda immediately wants to sign up at for a yoga session, but never manages to, I want to buy a couple of dust shirts, which turn out to be T-shirts in shades of orange and yellow but only because of the name, but I never do and we never get to eat at the saloon. It doesn't matter it's always great to have regrets for things you haven't done to tempt you back.

The hill directly above our Condo has a park on top and a tempting road that circles the summit. We drive around the summit road which turns out to be a dust road with disappointingly few views down to the sea. Across the valley is a spectacular mountain with a flat top but we never have time to explore it.

It is almost dark when, late one day, we finally walk up into the park. The main gates are locked but there is an open gate to allow pedestrians entry. It started dark and gets darker and darker. We stay on the road as long as the road exists When it abandons us, we continue walking and stumble across a well-tended green complete with flags and that's when realise we are crossing a golf course. Now we use taller trees silhouetted against the last gold in the western sky, to guide us to a clubhouse but then give up. We have hardly seen anything and just getting safely back to the house is enough of a success for tonight.

When one afternoon we enter the park with Mike and Linda, we discover a traditional Japanese Garden, designed to promote serenity with its simplicity and elegance. This time we walk out on the fairway to get the views we were hoping to find on our first exploration. Even in this formal park there are the usual roosters and hens strolling around as if they own the place. A couple of light showers enliven the walk without obscuring the view. A loud speaker booms out across the golf course warning us that the gates will soon be locked, but having left our car outside we ignore it.

Late one morning Bruce suggests we explore a cliff walk he has discovered in the Lonely Planet guide, the guide book we checked out of the Palmerston North City library several weeks. The walk is glorified with the name of the Maqha'Upepu heritage trail. We have two hours free before lunch and, although the full walk will take at least double that we can do at least half.

The walk begins in a beachside hotel car park. There are only a handful of people on the beach enjoying this perfect summers day. We follow a track through a forest of fir trees, scramble up a rock face and arrive on the cliff top. The view spread out stops us in our tracks. Low sandy-coloured cliffs, bleached toward white in the bright sunlight, contrast dramatically with the royal-blue ink of the Pacific Ocean, which stretches out to the clinically horizontal horizon by an abrupt colour change to the blue of the sky. If the cliffs are not quite white, the breaking waves most certainly are. It is wonderful how nature so perfectly contrasts and complements its colours to give maximum effect. For about twenty minutes we pick our way along the narrow trail on the eroded cliff. Only two or three other people bruise our solitude on a coast we would like to claim as our own.

Where the cliff ends, we look out across small bays, bays packed with black rocks about the size of bowling balls and just as spherical. Here I have to pay more attention to my footing as the narrow track struggles through low scrub that seems to grab at my feet and try to tip me over. Whenever I lose attention I stumble but there is always time to stop and take photos.

We are heading toward a long headland which rises steadily as it approaches a point. As we leave the bays and join the peninsula, we enter an immaculately manicured golf course. This is no scrubby little small town course, it is a country-style, upmarket expensive course, fit for the American Open Championship, provided they grow the rough much longer. Like in colonial times, olive-skinned men are riding mowers around assiduously maintaining the greens for their wealthy masters. I hope these men well paid. But I admire the golf course owners for allowing a public track to run along the edge of the cliff, with warnings about the dangers of getting too close to the crumbling edge.

From the end of the peninsular we look toward the next head out across the sweep of a long broad sandy bay toward the next headland. This is the second half of the walk which we will not have time to do today. But we will be back. We speed up the return walk by avoiding the cliffs and following a track through the fir forest.

Toward the end of our stay on Kaua'i, after going snorkelling in the morning, the time of day Mike and Linda favour for snorkelling, we set off to find the dirt road we hope will give us access to the mid-point of the Maqha'Upepu heritage trail. The road, when we find it, is the worst we have driven on. I have to keep weaving back and forth to avoid the pot holes. Looking at the map beforehand, we plan to drive the full length of road behind the sandy bay and walk along the beach toward the golf course.

Bruce changes plan. "It will take ages to drive to the end of this road. Let's see if we can get to the beach at this end near the golf course."

Partway down what we think is the correct side road we see a vehicle going out. I stop and ask the driver if he owns the property we're crossing

He replies, "No, were visitors too. There was no one at the ranch at the end so we came back."

Far from being discouraged by this news, we are pleased. If we find no one there, then all the better. If we don't ask anyone we can't be denied. At the ranch, the ground and the fences are all painted scarlet with the fine volcanic dust. Only the horses retain something of their original colour. We drive past the holding pens and stop at the point where a four wheel drive track enters the scrub. We will walk from here.

On the coast, low cliffs of red rock sit beside the royal blue sea. A handful of people are fishing off the cliff and a few small boys ride around on even smaller bikes. We are soon on the beach. Here the cliffs disappear to be replaced by golden sand.

Apart from a few people relaxing at a point where a small access road reaches the coast, we could on a deserted island. It is not until we reach the final bay that the beach gives way to another low that leads on to the final headland. Here we meet something like a crowd, but only a thinly spaced crowd and not for very long. The beach-walk has all the serenity of a poster of the ideal Pacific Island, the one envied by every office worker stuck in the city on a grey winter's day.

Along the last stretch of benched rock, we wander through a scrubby forest of trees. At one point an army of youth have set up camp and as we hurry by there is a less than faint whiff of Marijuana. They are soon behind us. As we walk past one point we hear a dragon breathing. We turn to search for the monster an find the sound coming from a hole in the ground that breathes and growls each time a wave enters the cavern below.

We can't get the last short distance to the headland because we are fenced off by a stout fence with five ugly barbed wires. Since we are so close there is nothing to be gained by risking a ripped leg and we turn back.

As we head back late in the afternoon, everyone is breaking camp. It is time to return home. Views of the golfer's headland, the one we stood on a few days ago, dominates our return journey. Up on the red cliff, I ask a man who is walking out how the fishing was. He smiles his success.

Back at the yards a lone cowboy, yes he is dressed like a cowboy down to his Stetson and boots with spurs, is wandering around but he does not approach us and we don't approach him. A car from the other direction surprises me and in this featureless paddock, I instinctively go left, but Bruce quickly warns me and I get back on the right.

It has been another memorable walk and we are well satisfied.

## On the Tourist Boat

On the Island of Kaua'i. We can't drive around the whole coast. There is no problem for three-quarters of the island, but, as far as roads are concerned, the stretch along the north-western coast is blank. If we want to see this isolated part of the coast we have to pay money and go by boat.

As usual Dianne does all the phoning. She places a brochure from every company offering a day trip to this isolated part of the coast in front of her and systematically works her way down the pile. She attempts to beat the price of each down by pointing out we have all our own snorkelling gear, and some do knock a few dollars off the asking price, which is typically around $140 per person. She also rates the helpfulness of the person at the other end of the phone and of course gets information on the nature of the boat on what will be a long day.

Some use zodiac boats, but after Silena is shown a picture of these tiny boats, she strongly opts for the much larger catamaran. On the boat of choice not only is the price only $135 each, dinner is supplied, and more importantly for Mike, there is snorkelling.

As we wait on the jetty, the skipper lectures us on safety procedures. We must have at least one hand holding on to a rail at all times and preferably two hands. He explains why, "The sea can be rough and the boat will be tossed about unexpectedly by the big waves," He then uses colourful hyperbole to describe the effect of such waves on the untethered human body. Immediately I lower my expectations of the number of opportunities I will have for taking photos. However with the sun shining out of a clear blue sky, almost no wind and inside the harbour at least the sea is as smooth as an ironed table cloth, his comments hardly seem to apply to us. Then in my opinion quite unnecessarily, he launches into a long harangue on the advisability of taking sea sick pills, or at least tablets of ginger. Our party of six all ignore his well-meant advice, confident that experienced sailors like us will not be troubled.

On the boat we base ourselves around the stern where we will be far from the cascades of water he promises will soak those near the bow.

## Act 1 Don't you Love Boating

When we leave the shelter of the harbour and plunge into open sea, the occasional bigger wave does send a curtain of water heading in our direction but really nothing of much consequence. Like the coast we have already driven around, the land on shore looks as flat and docile as the Canterbury Plains.

Our skipper, who is also our tour guide, as well as navigator, points out things of interest along the way. I ignore him and enjoy the view. After about half an hour a surge of excitement runs through the boat as the captain announces the arrival of dolphins.

No matter how often you see dolphins arcing their way through the water, the sight always seems as fresh and unexpected as the first time. Everyone rushes to the sides to get a good view of our cousins from the deep. If I lived in the ocean, I would want to be a dolphin. They always seem to be having fun as they race the passing boats, slicing along just below the surface until they need to grab another breath of air and then they surface with bodies that look ss if have been freshly polished for the occasion.

A family with two children of around ten years of age, who may be of Indian extraction, hurry to the front of the boat and I join them in attempting the perfect dolphin shot, which can only be taken while the dolphin is out of the water for a faction of a second. At all other times we only see unfocussed shapes distorted by the moving water. For me all thought of camera technique vanishes over the sides and I click away frantically getting total rubbish, with all my images hopelessly blurred or empty of dolphins. The skipper slows the boat to encourage the dolphins to stay with us. They seem to be having as much fun racing us as we do watching them. Then, like all tourists, they become bored and disappear. But we have been lucky; they don't always bother to put in an appearance.

We are heading west parallel to a beautiful sandy beach, but one we can't get to. It is a military base and out of bound to civilians, however the skipper tells us anyone who has served in the American military can visit the settlement.

"Hey Pop you can go," a man calls out to his father. His father doesn't look as enthusiastic about the prospect as his son who adds as a kind of advertisement for his Pop, "You were in the Vietnam War."

I look around the boat and wonder how many others have been in one or other of the many wars the USA has fought since the Second World War. Hawaii provides the eyes of the armed forces against an attack from the northwest. This base looks as if it is bristling with communications equipment.

The sun still shines and the Pacific Ocean is almost as peaceful as its name promises.

## Act 2, We Find Out Why a Road doesn't Circle the Whole Island.

Quite suddenly we round a point and the softly undulating coast is replaced by a shore line of high peaks, peaks of intimidating steepness with rugged teeth along the top, a topography that does not encourage road making. No gaps appear in this massive barrier. Even the valleys are similarly steep and sweep up to the same great heights. Forget roads even the prospect of trying to walk along the razor sharp ridges is daunting to me and the climb from the sea to the top looks equally difficult and unwelcoming. I'm glad we're on a boat, no matter how rough the seas.

The skipper intimately explores the coast intimately, sometimes edging in close to the cliffs and holding the boat there so we can take photographs. At one point a waterfall, admittedly a thin one that at this time of the year lacks water, arriving at the boat more like a shower than a flood. Some people get their photograph taken under the waterfall, certainly Mike, Linda, Dianne and Silena do but not Bruce and me.

Then it is time for the promised snorkelling. I listen to the briefing, "Stay between the boat and the cliff, other boats use this part of the coast too." Another boat just south of us confirms this fact. "You have an hour to do your snorkelling."

Dianne already kitted out, jumps off the deck and is gone. By the time I have pulled on my fins and mask, and partially blown up the life jacket they offer me, I am one of the last to enter the water. It turns out this is not a good time to do this. I am behind all the other slow people who of course are also slow to leave the safety of a plank at water level and enter the water. A woman in her sixties, just ahead of me in the line takes ages to get down the last short ladder and even longer to slide into the water. There is nothing I can do because the Indian family are sitting along the rest of the platform debating who will go in next.

Once in, I think we have arrived at snorkelling heaven. There are big fish everywhere, although most are of exactly the same species, with only one bright yellow one to break up the mass of greyness. I decide to swim further away and explore this water paradise but there are no fish beyond the close confines of the boat. Later I learn that the crew have put in food to draw the fish around our boat. This is disappointing but they made no promises in the brochure about what that they meant by snorkelling t.

It does not seem long after I got in that we are called back to the boat. My snorkelling is over for the day.

## Act 3 Time to Eat

The wind is freshening and the boat starts to bounce about a bit, but nothing to worry about. But it worry the lady who blocked my snorkelling entrance and she calls for a rubbish bin to vomit into. For the rest of the long return journey she sits holding a barf bag, looking miserable and ready to tell anyone who asks, "I just wanted to snorkel, I didn't know dinner was being supplied," and, if you ask how she feels, the short reply comes, "I just want to get off this fucking boat."

We talk the get good opportunities we have to photograph the colourful cliff: the colour enhanced as the sun begins its sunset phase spilling yellows and oranges onto the water. The boat slows down for our dinner break just as the sun prepares to drop below the horizon. The meal is a simple smorgasbord, but there is a tasty vegetarian option in the form of a tofu dish. We take our heaped plates to the stern and increase the vomiting woman's discomfort by eating it beside her. I even go back for seconds, but have to fight the Indian mother for the scant remains of the vegetarian dish.

Apart from the barfing lady, everyone seems satisfied with the meal. The setting sun continues its spectacular show of coloured lights and parades them around the whole sky, producing all sorts of variations in colours. In an easterly direction the clouds became chains of pearls and the clear sky in between blushes pink. Why is it that an ocean sunset is always so much better than sunsets seen from land?

Did I say the sun was setting, and as the sunset wanes so does the darkness spread slowly into inky darkness. Having rounded some other coastal landmark, the sea suddenly becomes seriously rough with big waves and deep troughs. If you are standing near the bow, the water drenches you as effectively as if you were standing under a shower. Silena is one the few who remain up front since braving the occasional sheets of water, in that position she does not feel seasick. Being wet is only a minor discomfort in comparison.

How cruel our crew are, get the tourists fed on relatively calm seas and then confront them with a bouncing tilting boat that gives you the impression you are inside a lift that has gone berserk. Our fellow passengers react in the way you expect and rush to get rubbish bins or bags to vomit into. The two crew members are kept busy washing the vomit away and disposing of the bags.

As the darkness deepens so does the discomfort amongst the passengers, but not the Dunn party. Even Silena is enjoying the wildness of the waves and the movements of the dancing rocking boat

Just when you think things couldn't get worse, they do. The skipper informs the crew over the speaker, "It's so dark I can't see the waves now. One of you should stay on each deck." Without any visibility, the skipper can't reduce the effect of the waves by devising the best course, where 'best' means the one which avoids the biggest waves, or at least reduces their effect. Now it is full steam ahead and hang the consequences. The boat becomes even more violent in its movements and its behaviour more erratic.

Actually I find it quite exciting. We all know we are nowhere close to the comfort of our cars because there are no lights visible on the shore yet. Now more people fall victim to sea sickness. The crew man on our deck performs feats worthy of a monkey as he swings up and down the boat holding sickness bags or stuff to swab down the deck and reduce the impact of the smell on others. At one point the crewman has to wash himself down, the victim of a passenger who did not get to the vomit bag in time.

With little to see in any direction, apart from the effects of people vomiting, it takes us a long time to bash through the seas before we get our first glimpses of lights, and then another thirty minutes to get back into the harbour. All the other tour boats are berthed and their passengers long gone. There is no one on the wharf to greet us.

It has been a fun day. I can recommend the trip to you all.

## More Lessons in the Art of Snorkeling

I'm in two minds as to whether I am the right person to be giving others advice on snorkelling but in many ways an uncertain and highly strung beginner like me is in the best position to see all the pitfalls, pitfalls that experienced snorkelers have long since forgotten. The contrary view is to ask what do I really know about the art of snorkelling? Well nothing but the absolute basics that everyone knows.

One thing I know for certain, is that the last person I want writing instructions about the use of a computer programme I'm about to use, is someone who knows the program inside out. Such people are totally unable to comprehend the struggle a beginner has and without realising it they make totally unfounded assumptions about what will be useful and end up confusing and baffling the most motivated of students.

So with these rationalisations behind me and my latest encounter with the art of snorkelling fresh in my mind, I launch into these notes for beginners with a clear conscience. This is my fourth snorkelling trip spread over six years, first in Fiji (twice) and then in Indonesia, the difference on the Hawaiian trip is that I will, with one exception, be land based.

I well remember my first day of snorkelling in the warm waters on a reef off the town of Savusavu in Fiji. When I launched into the water wearing a life jacket and a mask made out of an old pair of my glasses wedged inside to correct my short sightedness. That first day, I mistakenly thought we would all be snorkelling with the others but within five seconds of entering the water I lost sight of my four companions. The water was a choppy but I at least could still see the boat I had so gingerly left a few moments before. I felt alone and deserted. I plunged my mask into the water and staying calm swam up and down for a while enjoying the sight of small schools of coloured fish far below me. Of course my improvised mask soon leaked but at least my snorkelling career had begun.

As we rode back in on the boat, Alastair MacGibbon, a most experienced diver, leant over and said, "It doesn't get any better than this." As he is in all other things, he was right. On subsequent visits to Fiji and Indonesia the tropical fish were also spectacular and, I was also snorkelling from a boat. It was only on the tiny Island of Caqalai, Fiji, that had to launch from a sandy shore, and there the sea was most wonderfully calm.

The first thing you need to know about snorkelling from a beach, is that you don't want big waves. Otherwise until you get out beyond the breakers, you are just flotsam and jetsam, tossed about at the whim of the breaking waves. The flippers, so essential further out, may add to your misery by giving the breaking water something to gain purchase on and roll you over.

Our first snorkelling spot on the island of Kaua'i was in a sandy cove with a reef which gave good protection from the waves, but was crowded with a mixture of swimmers and snorkelers. Sharing the beach with so many other swimmers was a new experience. I tried to ignore these intruders as I went looking for fish.

A couple of days later we drove to the very north of the island, to snorkel at something called the tunnel. The complication this time was that the tide was well and truly out. Linda Dunn can snorkel off a beach in six inches of water (this is the USA which hasn't abandoned imperial units), but I need a little more leeway. The other complication is the fact the friendly sand only went out about a meter before rocks intruded.

Have you ever tried walking out on a stony surface with fins on your feet? I, for one, find it almost impossible to remain on my standing. In the end Mike took my hand and I shuffled out backwards. When I slipped into a slightly deeper hole (up to my calves) Mike assumed I was ready to launch and entering the water swam out toward the horizon. I followed his example swimming slowly in water not much deeper than my nose. The waves were low although strong enough to give a two and fro motion to my forward progress. As I tried to kick my way out, the waves were equally intent on bringing me. The water remained shallow and the fish remained elusive, so after a while I turned around and swam back to the beach. When the others joined me, Mike, Linda, Dianne and Bruce all excitedly described the turtles they have seen, three or was that four at a time. It turned out that just before the point where I gave up, the water deepened and the both fish and turtles appeared. Obviously it doesn't pay to give up too soon is the lesson I learned, and it is now the advice I give to you. The tunnel mentioned in the guide, turned out to be just a tunnel in the coral and it was one I never saw.

On this day there were other misadventures, Dianne's camera gave up the ghost and later Bruce's water tight camera case began to leak. Bruce's camera did recover but Dianne's was a dead duck. What the beginner should learn here is that it pays to get your camera case properly sealed before you enter the water.

Our Lonely Planet Guide and Mike's snorkelling book, both agree that a beach quite near our condo gives good snorkelling, and it is usually calm early in the morning but by lunch time the wind and the breakers appear. Ignoring this advice we turn up as usual at around ten o'clock. I watch a couple of snorkelers exit the water without too much difficulty but by the time I changed more demanding waves are breaking. So my third piece of advice is 'Listen to the locals when they tell you about the wave conditions'.

Still I launched off successfully but within a few minutes I got a shock to find water, not outside my mask which is the approved place for water, but inside. I struggled to get my mask off before I drowned and then tried tipping the water out while treading water with the lumpy waves bouncing me about. Closer to shore I managed to stand and get the water out. Eventually I did see some fish. I think you can work out my fourth piece of advice but in case it's not obvious I state it, make sure your mask is properly sealed before you enter the water.

Coming in to land, I was tossed about a bit, but not by waves with any venom, rather they were playful, but playful in the way a big rottweiler dog is playful which is still not much fun.

Linda while supremely graceful while swimming finds it difficult when getting back to shore, because of her two artificial hips and one artificial knee. From my usual position of being first ashore, I come into the shallows and help her in by first taking her surplus gear and then telling her where rocks lie behind her as she slides in on her bottom. When a man, his attractive partner and her mother see me struggling to help Linda to her feet they rushed up to help. I quickly warned them only to lift Linda after getting advice from her on how to do it safely and painlessly. The young woman turned to the older woman and said, "This woman has two artificial hips and one artificial knee, you only have two artificial hips." The mother turned to us and said how pleased she was to be able to snorkel despite being seventy-three and having two artificial hips.

Another day, Bruce and I drive to an excessively safe beach in a park (possibly called Nawiliwili Beach Park near Lihu'e). When I say safe, you'll understand what I mean when I tell you it was in a children's play area. All the big fish we saw were trapped by a stone wall that completely surrounded the pool and isolated us from the breaking waves on the beach proper. To be truthful, my heart wasn't in this snorkelling. I find my perception of self has changed, Having snorkelled on reefs beside villages in tiny Islands far away in the South Pacific, I find this super safe environment to be rather below me. So quickly does personal pride intrude into all things we do. When Mike proposes we return to this kids area on our last day in Kaua'i, I firmly decline, and insist we return to the rocky coast which I retreated from all too quickly the day before. My real problem is a lack confidence in my ability to swim too far away from the shore. This despite the marvellous fins I am wearing which, as Mike once pointed out, are a kind of added motor. My advice here is to lose your fear of the big wide ocean and trust your fins, although not too completely.

On our last day in Kaua'i we go to the Salt Ponds on what turns out to be the Labour Day Holiday in the USA. Crowds of local people arrived to picnic and we are quickly surrounded by a family atmosphere of holiday warmth that makes this day doubly worthwhile. This is a real beach and there were lots of kids around but today no false pride intrudes on my snorkelling.

For the second time I find out what it is like to snorkel through waves breaking over a reef, when for a few moments I am totally blinded by a mass of foamy bubbles block my vision. After a while we walk across the sand to a bigger bay and I stay in until I am just too cold.

## On the Making of Low Carbohydrate Scones

For several months Bruce has been eating a low carbohydrate diet, one high in protein. He has had to find new dishes to fill the gap once occupied by buckets of carbohydrate that were once occupied by bread, rice, potatoes and pasta. He is now using constituents unknown to the average Kiwi. His requirement for protein has driven him away from a vegetarian diet to, familiar non-vegetarian foods such as chicken and fish. Eggs have always been part of his diet and they are still a valuable protein packed capsule, which has remained a standby food for all occasions as does cheese of all sorts and tofu. For desserts artificial sweeteners have taken the place of sugar but even here Bruce hasn't taken them as they come but experimented with mixtures of these sweetens to give him a suitably tasting alternative.

When we are in Hawaii the experimentation continues. One morning he decides to try making some scones (biscuits in the American language) substituting coconut flour for white flour. By the time the rest of us are up for breakfast, Bruce has his coconut-scones ready for tasting. Now he could have just turned them over to us and watched our reaction, but instead he experimented first on himself.

"I must warn you they are a little dry," he comments as he hands me, not a scone, but a small fragment of a scone. Never have such true words been spoken. I cautiously slip this fragment into my mouth. Instantly it sucks all my saliva up leaving me desperately trying to generate more, but with little success. It is as if my mouth has become the white sands of Death Valley in the middle of summer, but without the heat, just its dryness. I suck and swallow and then begin coughing. It feels as if it is made out of a totally new super dehydrating agent

I somehow manage to choke out the words, "It's given me a dry cough," and succeeded in amusing Silena greatly. I drink two glasses of water without relieving in any way the dryness in my mouth. How long does it take a glass of water to produce saliva? I do know now that it is not immediate. Finally after much coughing and many complaints about how dry the coconut flour really is, I am able to attempt a plate of cereal, a plate flooded with milk.

By now Silena is intrigued and tries a small fragment herself, not really enough to get the instant dehydration I experienced but her more restrained reaction does add to the fun. Bruce takes all this kidding in good part. Since he is not someone who will waste food, he does face up to the challenge of finding an acceptable way to consume the scones.

In the end he crumbles all the scones into small particles and uses them as an alternative breakfast cereal. Of course he doesn't scatter very much of the new cereal on his plate each day but manages to get through them all all by the time we left.

Experiments are always fun because you never know what the result will be. Bruce is already getting ideas on how he can make more satisfactory coconut-scones but he didn't press his luck on this trip. Even several weeks later he hasn't tried again them again. If you want to surprise your friends you should make some of these coconut flour scones and get them to try them, they may or may not remain your friends.

But don't blame me if it all goes wrong.

## The Grand Canyon of the South Pacific

On the island of Kaua'i, to my surprise at least, is the Grand Canyon of the South Pacific. Mike and Bruce have done their homework and tell us we must do a trip up the canyon. I look forward to it but as usual I don't do any background reading, I just enjoy being surprised by what we find. Even though Dianne and Silena have already left the island, and the four of us can fit into one car, we still take two cars in case Bruce and I want to spend time on a longer walk.

From the coast we climb steadily but not along the road the Lonely Planet guide gives us directions to. After driving through town we should turn right, but following the road signs we are well into the countryside before we are directed to turn right. As we start climbing a sign appears warning us to watch out for buses on corners but no buses ever appear, on a corner or anywhere else. Eventually what must be the old road joins the new as of course it must on a ridge which is steadily narrowing. The Grand Canyon of the South Pacific will have a surprise in store for me, but more of that later.

As the morning wears on the steep winding road is replaced by one that climbs more gently and has more straight sections. We come upon a number of what appear to be stopping points but unfortunately there are no to signs to give us a hint of whether we could stop or not. As it nears lunch time we take pot luck and pull into yet another of these unsigned side roads hoping this will provide the lunch spot we want.

It turns out to have a big car park with an encouragingly large number of cars in it. A short walk takes us to our first canyon lookout. Although from the map it is clear this is just a side canyon, it is impressive enough to satisfy us. The day is clear and sunny and far below us what look like white birds circling lazily still far above the bottom, birds that in more normal terrain would be gliding around the peaks high above my head.

We hear other tourists talking about a goat and asking their friends if they can see it. Mike trained in his youth to be a hunter still retains the keen eye sight and visual skills that enables him to detect prey with great rapidity much earlier than the rest of us, but even he can't see the goat. Mike persists, perhaps annoyed, that something as large as a goat can escape his repeated scans of this wide hand deep canyon. Eventually we hear the goat call out, and realise the animal is much closer than we imagined and presumably is somewhere out of sight amongst the trees just below us. It might have been visible once but now we would need X-Ray vision to locate the creature.

It is time to eat. A gently sloping lawn above the car park suits our purpose perfectly. Even this far up the canyon, hens and roosters are patrolling looking for food. When I see a hen with chicks, I can't resist scattering a little food. Mike and Bruce looking down on me from above the car-park, see a vast flock of the birds flying or running toward me, as if I were the Pied Piper. Before they can get a photo the commotion has ended. Needless to say the chick doesn't get any food.

The occasional fragment of bread draws a smaller bird with a bright red head and neck and Mike spends time stalking it. I also get a few photos but do not persist in the hunt.

There are lots of cars on the road now. As I mentioned before, there is only one road up the ridge beside the canyon, so the cars all accumulate at the end of this. Without signs to guide us we make another random stop. This time we strike gold of a quite different sort. To get to the view point we have to walk up a steadily climbing path. The day is now hazing in and the clarity of long distant views are smeared out. As we walk up the track the sky deepens in colour to a rich royal blue and I remark to no one in particular, "It's strange, the sky looks just like the sea." A short distant further on I realise it really is the sea. From this lookout we look down from a great height into a precipitous valley, one we passed on our boat trip a couple of days ago and spread out beyond this coast is the sea which merges seamlessly into the sky, confusing me into thinking it is all sky.

I am gob smacked. When I follow a deep canyon, I expect to be heading inland, away from the sea. But this is not the Arizona Grand Canyon; this is a Grand Canyon on an Island, which can pull all sorts of tricks. This instant translation from imagining I am deeply inland to the reality of being on the coast is the surprise I could not have anticipated and remains the most vivid memory of the Canyon drive.

We drive on to the end of the road. The platform here again gives spectacular views down to the Pacific Ocean. There is even a waterfall, which descends in huge leaps toward the sea. A broad track runs along the ridge but if you step over the edge nothing will stop your fall as you bounce and tumble toward the sea. We wander along this track for a while. A boy of about ten comes hurtling past us running as fast as he can, apparently unconcerned by the risk of a misstep over the side. The track continues as far as we can see but I for one am not drawn to explore further.

We drive back to visit a small museum. Afterwards Mike and Linda head back while we stay on and follow a short bush walk with the native trees identified by numbers. We are lent a free guide book to allow us to break the code. The frustrating thing about the walk is the many gaps where trees should be but aren't. We have the name of the missing tree and a brief description but just can't find it. Still we persist in trying to the end.

Bruce has one last surprise, "We missed the best view into the canyon on the drive up. We must find it on the way back." This is where the small posts that mark the number of miles to the start of the canyon come in useful. The Guided Book tells us the view point is between miles 17 and 16, and then it's easy.

As good as the first view into the canyon containing the goat was, and as wonderful as the spectacular ocean views turned out to be, if its canyons you want to see, this is by far the best. Here is The Grand Canyon of the Pacific we are promised. The walls are carved into interesting shapes and the colours range from red, through rust and even orange with darker rocks as well. As much as the size of the vast canyon is in reality, my camera reduces it to fit in its tiny 6 x 4 shaped frame.

I want pictures of us with the sheer walls of the canyon behind, but with Mike and Linda gone I need someone to take our photo. One couple are impressive in their determined attempts to get the very best shots. They are prepared to risk their safety in pursuit of the most interesting photos. When they finally stop taking photos, I ask the crucial question and find they are more than happy to oblige. They prove to be very proactive photo directors but despite their urgings I will not sit or stand on the top of the narrow wire fence to achieve the photo they really want. I'll do it later with the magic of photoshop. Gone will be the wire fence and we will appear to be poised on the edge of a dizzying drop. I can almost hear the amazed comments.

However when I look at the photos back in Palmerston North I see me and Bruce lounging against the fence in a way that makes it impossible to wipe out the fence without substituting some other object to prevent us tumbling down into the abyss. How stupid I was that I didn't think to stand up straight and ignore the fence, and make 'photo-shopping' easy. (I love using a language that allows me to convert any noun into a verb.)

On the way back we take the alternate road, which proves the perfect choice for the downhill run. It descends in steps with long sections of straight road which give perfect panoramic views of the coast and the breaking waves at dizzying distances below.

## Linda's Hawaiian Birthday

On the day before we leave, Sunday the first of September, we will celebrate Linda Dunn's birthday.

Linda Dunn, the most gentle and caring of individuals, who combines great dignity with steely determination, is engaged in promoting peace in a world almost continually at war. Linda has a deep understanding of people and how they function, but she never uses this understanding to manipulate or undermine them but instead to help them grow by quietly challenging them to be do better than they thought possible.

For this trip, Linda has brought two DVDs that tell the stories of great leaders who have used non-violent methods to change their countries against the force of powerful dictators or to confront governments who promote discrimination against minorities. The modern non-violent movement started with Gandhi, who showed how it could be used to overcome even the great power of the British Empire. We watch first a DVD on the history of Ghandi's struggle for justice but the other histories are equally inspiring.

Linda knows how her birthday is to be celebrated, "I want to eat out at a restaurant," she says and continues "But I don't want Mike to have to drive home afterwards." Neither Mike nor Linda drink much alcohol but on this big night she wants Mike to be able to share a glass of wine without having to worry about his blood alcohol levels. "That's no problem, I'll drive," I happily proclaim.

By the first of September, her daughter Dianne will be back in the States attending the Burning Man celebration in the desert where her role is to hand out free smoothies to fellow campers, but she plans a birthday surprise for Linda before she leaves.

Dianne briefs us before Bruce and I leave for the Supermarket, "Buy some cupcakes to take on the boat with us," she says, "I want to hand them out after dinner."

Bruce and I have trouble finding any cupcakes and after much debate we almost settle for an ordinary cake. At the last moment the check-out woman shows me where the fresh cupcakes are stored, namely in a fridge, all two dozen of them. On the day of the cruise, Dianne secretly hands the cupcakes over to the crew before we board, they will give them back when the meal is over. After dinner with the sun setting, Dianne surprises Linda by producing the cupcakes. When we have all had one, she offers the rest around the boat. The Indian children are particularly appreciative. We eat the ones left over during the next few days.

Now the search for a restaurant is on in earnest. We look first in the small group of shops nearest us, the ones which are on the junction with the main road. Even finding a restaurant that is open on Sunday evening is difficult, throw in a few food requirements such as the need for vegetarian food (me) and low carbohydrate food (Bruce) and the degree of difficulty increases greatly. Even the beautiful craft town of Hanapepe a few kilometres down the road does not have a single restaurant open in the evening. We are beginning to wonder if we will have to go into the main town of Lihue.

Then help arrives from an unexpected quarter. It happens on the morning of the 1st September when we head off on our last snorkelling trip, this time to the salt ponds. No, we don't surf in the small ponds where the locals are getting salt by solar evaporation but in the adjacent ocean. Today is the American celebration of Labour Day and the beach is buzzing with family groups out to enjoy a barbeque on the beach. There is a warm welcoming feel about the place which we all enjoy. A man in a ute pulls up beside us and attracts our attention with a brightly coloured parrot that lounges around in his cab. He has his arm in plaster and time to chat to a few strangers.

In answer to my question he says, "I'm an electrician and I broke my wrist when I fell off a ladder." An occupational hazard I imagine. Passing children stop to ask if that was a parrot they saw in his ute and briefly join in the group admiring the bird. Linda mentions the trouble we are having finding a restaurant open on Sunday evening. As a local he is onto the problem in a flash. He looks at some business cards in his wallet and selects a restaurant, one near the beach and just a few kilometres away for us. He describes it in such glowing terms that Linda is almost convinced. So the man phones them to find out if they have tables for tonight. When he hears of a vacancy he goes ahead and books us in, before promoting it further by describing the Hawaiian décor, family prices, and the indoor-outdoor seating. Linda doesn't hesitate, after all what success have we had while looking? I take down the details. It has an impressive name, _The Keotis Paradose_ Restaurant. Then he drives off with his talking parrot.

The restaurant is everything he promised, the food is pleasant, the waiter friendly and a chocolate-ice cream birthday cakes tops the evening off. I produce the birthday card I made in New Zealand for Linda and we take photos of the happy couple. And yes I drive home. It is the end of a perfect last day. Tomorrow we leave for the Big Island (Hawaii) to see the active volcanoes.

## Airport Security, Is it a form of Harassment?

Even before we leave Auckland Airport the US screening begins. At the entrance to the final gate for our flight a man and a woman just outside the area ask to see my ticket and passport. The man takes mine and then turns to speak to the woman, "Yes he is one of the ones on our list" and asks me to undergo further screening. Of course I agree immediately and even muster a smile. Bruce returns to ask what is happening and gets swept up in the checks too. "So you two are travelling together We admit we are, and both off us are whisked into a more private area. Here my passport is studied carefully and then they use some kind of sticky tape to test for drugs on us and our bags. Of course there are none. We pass the scrutiny and allowed to board our plane. I assumed this was simply a random check based on something like seat number, but thinking it over I do wonder if there is any connection with the pre-flight checks that have already taken place at the US Embassy before they cleared us for visa free entry into the USA.

Once in Hawaii, we can't believe our ears when we are told we must be at the airport to catch our Hawaiian Airline flights an hour and half before departure time. These airports are relatively small and the planes not that frequent so what is the problem? We ask the clerk behind the hotel reception desk this question and far from saying something like, "Oh no, an hour is all that's necessary, he looks straight at us and states firmly, "That is what they say."

So we do arrive an hour and a half ahead of departure and meet USA home land security for the first time. Getting our tickets on the machine and checking our packs doesn't take long. Then we have to go through security. Here is where the trouble starts. A long queue winds its slow way toward the security screening area. I have come prepared for security checks. My pockets are empty, my watch is off my wrist, my cell phone out of its case, my change in a small plastic bag and all these items are stowed safely inside my cabin bag. I still have to take my shoes off and put them in a tray together with my empty water bottle. I am allowed to carry only my passport and boarding pass through in my hands

Security has been definitely scaled up since we were last in the States in 2007 and it was pretty tight then. One by one we have to stand very still in a booth with both arms held above our heads and our legs far apart while our bodies are screened for hidden weapons. No, the security staff can't see our naked bodies with all our private parts showing, simply the outline of our bodies, or so we are told. Thoroughly checked out, we pick up our bags, pocket everything again and fill our water bottles from a drinking fountain. This is what we will go through at every airport however small in Hawaii. Now we understand why we are told to arrive such a long time before departure.

On our last flight from the Big Island to Honolulu to pick up our Air New Zealand flight back to New Zealand, the body scanner is not working properly. It shows me with several hidden weapons around my by body (the objects are represented on the screen simply as boxes) in slightly unusual positions. They staff tell me to go through again but with the same result.

A security man calls me over, "I am going to have to do a pat-down search of your whole body. Do you want to be taken away to a private room?" He sounds apologetic, even embarrassed by what he knows must be a machine malfunction, but he has to do his job

I decline. I have no false modesty. There must be something of the exhibitionist in me. The man carefully begins an intrusive, intimate pat down of my whole body, warning me when he will be approaching particularly sensitive parts, such as my groin. I pass with flying colours. As I walk away I wonder whether the security staff have manipulated the X-ray machine to give false positives to get the thrill of touching innocent travellers.

There is another reason you must be in good time for a flight, and that is because if you don't turn up an hour before departure, you may be assumed to be absent and your seat given to someone on standby. The airlines always over book by a few seats because usually some people don't turn up.

We never get used to a level of security this high, but always ensure we arrive in good time. At Honolulu Airport we get through the screening easily enough, but while we walk around the airport to fill in time before our 11 pm flight, we somehow manage to end up outside the terminal with people getting on and off buses. We hurriedly retrace our steps and manage to arrive inside again without passing through security, much to our great relief.

While in Hawaii, I think back nostalgically to our provincial flights in New Zealand, where there is no screening at all.

## Small Differences

In Hawaii I see something I have never seen before, nor had I ever thought I would see, although it is something that in hindsight is the inevitable consequence of the 'not in my back yard' hysteria that has arisen around the imagined health hazard of microwave irradiation. Bruce spotted one first. It is a microwave tower disguised as a tall tree. I must say the disguise is not totally convincing but they might deceive the casual observer as he or she flashes by in a car, even if they won't stand up to close scrutiny. Bruce most certainly is not deceived and he is even a little scathing about the brazenness of the attempt to disguise.

As expected you can use your credit cards in Hawaii, but I don't think you will need your password or any other personal ID. No here we are back in the dark ages when all we had to do was sign a receipt to complete the transaction. The shopkeepers seem totally indifferent to the slim level of security they do have, namely to compare the signature on the receipt with that on the back of the credit card. No one ever takes the trouble to check my credit card. It's rather endearing really, that the USA, a leader in computer technology and science, still continues with this stone-age system. But then in the USA all the road distances are still given in miles, not kilometres.

One other credit card mystery, how can hotels and other accommodation providers get your credit card number (with no sight of the card) and then withdraw enough money to cover the costs of an over night stay. Surely I should be asked to sign something. Late in the trip when we find we have too much cash, I ask each night's stay whether I can pay by cash, and the answer inevitably is, "No I've already withdrawn the money from your account." Clawing back money after it has been paid to a credit card company is a time consuming business and may cost money, so I never press the matter. As a result I pay the excess cash I inevitably end up with, into my American check account when I am back in Palmerston North.

When Dianne (Mike and Linda's daughter) and Silena (Mike and Linda's granddaughter) come join the trip, we need to hire a second car, and naturally we assume that we will pay the cost of hiring the extra car. Mike has other ideas and insists that the cost be shared through the whole group. I try to convince him otherwise but it is not easy to turn Mike aside from what he believes to be the fair and honest way to settle things. Being with Mike and Linda is so much fun that we would have been happy to pay the extra $530, and also share the cost of the extra food required for Dianne and Silena. Again Mike will hear nothing of it. This of course only adds further to the surplus cash we carry out of the country.

When we picked up our car on The Big Island, the Budget Car lady throws a comment after us as we walk away, "You start the car by pushing the button in the middle of the dashboard, you won't need the key." We thank her and walk away knowing we will have no trouble because of course our high tech Toyota Prius also operates without a key, Things never turn out that simple. We can't find the button on the dashboard. Feeling foolish we resume the search more intensely but still no button. I push my finger at points on the dashboard that might conceal the starting button but without success.

Finally, Bruce, who is still holding the key since I won't need it, spots a place to insert a key and he does. When he turns it, the motor springs into life. Obviously the Budget Lady was thinking of a different car in the fleet, when she gave us this incorrect advice. The car is made by an American company, I want to say Studebaker but honestly I may be thinking of the make of a car I saw once in an American Gangster Movie. Next I look to find hand brake, or in the case of the Prius, the foot brake but I find none. Bruce joins me in the search for a brake but we find nothing. Again it is an impasse. I am not going to drive off with the hand brake on. Fortunately at that moment another Budget lady walks by. She solves the mystery by pointing to a small nondescript button near the stick shift. For the rest of the trip I have trouble telling when the button is engaged and when it is not. Of course I realise now there must have been something showing on the dashboard to tell me but I didn't see it while I was there. One consequence is that now the foot 'Hand brake' of the Prius seems out of date.

## Volcanoes on the Big Island (the one they call Hawaii)

Who can visit Hawaii from a place with as many volcanoes as New Zealand and not remember the spectacular photos from Hawaii published in the media in the 1970s and 80s of brilliantly glowing red and orange lava spurting out of craters and flowing into the sea. When it hit the sea, clouds of steam were emitted and this instant cooling sometimes caused explosions. Well I certainly couldn't and I want to see the volcanos as they are now.

On the first night, we stay in a tiny town called Volcano Village in a building housing many different people. We share showers and a kitchen. In brief glimpses on the way to and from the bathroom, we acknowledge each other, but are never together long enough to attempt an introduction.

I only study the map of the town when I get back to New Zealand, and I am surprised to find the town is much bigger than I imagined. Yes the downtown is small but the town across the main road stretches to many streets. But while there we limit our activities to just the accommodation, the four restaurants in the main street and the Hawaii Volcanoes National Park.

After checking in, we head for Park Headquarters, paying $10 at the gate for a weeklong pass which covers the car and us. Like most we will not be there long enough to get our full money's worth, but still $10 spread over a day and half for two people, is pretty cheap. Those of us new to the park mill around the headquarters building trying to understand the layout of the park, while eavesdropping on the Rangers as they talk to other tourists about what is on offer and above all else where we can see real molten lava. It turns out that things are quiet volcanically speaking at present but there is molten lava inside one good sized crater which in turn is inside another much bigger crater, all only a short drive away.

"Come back after dark and you'll see the orange glow of the lava projected onto the smoke and steam pouring out from the crater" the rangers tell us. We check it out immediately and even in daylight we can see the red of flames flickering on one side of the crater. However we are still a couple of hundred meters away and with the lava down inside the crater, we can't see it bubbling and swirling. But you can't have everything. The ranger told us, "This active crater was left behind after the last big eruption and as time goes on the lava is rising higher and higher in the crater.

Years ago they used to let people go over and look into the lava from a platform on the edge. However one night the platform plunged into the crater. Anyone standing there during the day would have been killed. It seems the heat of the laver can undercut and weaken the rim.

On our first night we join crowds of people trying to take photos that capture the glowing crater and its column of orange gas billowing above in a landscape otherwise totally dark, apart that a few bright stars high in the sky. For a time a lower layer of what I presume to be cloud, captures the golden colour and paints it higher into the sky. We return the following night, better prepared for the cold and there are fewer people but my photos are no better than the first night.

During our first full day we go over to Park Headquarters and are drawn into a range of activities put on for free for visitors. A young man, although no student of volcanoes, has prepared a talk on how a volcano is formed. His enthusiasm carries us all along. I think he should get a job as a teacher. His talk finishes, and they are already announcing a visit to the laboratories of the first volcanologist to come to Hawaii. He began the first to systematically study of the Hawaiian volcanoes. We hurry to the starting point and had not walked far, before to my surprise this scientist from the 19th Century appears on the path and is introduced to us.

The actor performs the role splendidly, providing his impression of the temperament of a man just as driven to do science as Len Blackwell when he is studying the test kits he is trying to commercialise. The volcanologist's laboratory is small and those who are claustrophobic are advised to stand at the back. Here he was able to measure the seismic activity in the surrounding volcanos. When he gets a legacy from his mother, he immediately decides to build a laboratory in Hawaii. His sensible wife convinces him he should instead spend the money on a house in Boston more suited to his status as a professor.

Afterwards we eat a picnic lunch on a lawn near the Park Restaurant. A passing ranger smiles and nods his approval, seeming to prefer such independence rather than worrying about the profits lost by the park restaurant. It is time for us to explore the round the mountain drive, a drive recently interrupted by a lava flow. We will also do a couple of walkways. On the first we spend an hour and a half walking through an old lava field to a 200 ft peak. The features along the way are well explained by a park booklet. A sign records the point where the apparently hard crust broke away and a ranger plunged his foot into molten lava. He had to walk out alone but he survive.

As the road drops toward the sea we get spectacular views along the coast. We stop to walk across an old lava flow to a place where the rocks have been carved with figures and holes suitable for a board game (rock game if you must) where holes in the rock are filled with different coloured pebbles (a bit like the Japanese game _Go_ ). The coast here consists of rugged cliffs which are the edges of old lava flows that have been eroded away by the action of the sea. We can't resist walking along a closed road to see the point at which the lava blocked it.

We eat at the Thai restaurant for a second time, you don't have much choice in this tiny settlement. Next morning we try a cooked breakfast at a beat-up old style American restaurant. As usual the waitress is bouncy and friendly, in a commercial relationship which, to a Kiwi is sullied by the custom of tipping. No one does the traditional fried eggs and real hash browns these days. The so called hash browns we get this morning are more like fried wedges. I learned how to make hash browns properly from a chef in a restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. I miss the real McCoy

Visiting the Park Headquarters for the third time makes me feel like an old hand. I could by now give the talks, or stand there making suggestions of places people can walk.

To see the only lava running into the sea at present, we would have to join a private tour company, as the lava crosses private land. We still have time to walk through a huge lava tube big enough for a suburban train to pass through. One last walk, this time across a lava flow made from a fine grained lava very different to the usual jagged rocky variety. The walk ends at a view point into a big crater with a track crossing the middle where tiny figures can be seen. I envy them but it is time to drive on and leave the volcanoes behind.

## The Big Island is much more than just a Few Volcanoes

Outside of the Park we sweep down long straight roads, losing height steadily as we follow the gently rounded contours of the vast lava flows vomited out from these productive volcanoes. As the miles roll past, I begin to appreciate why this is called the Big Island.

As lunch time approaches, Bruce takes us off the main road and down to a small bay with sand as jet-black as those on the Taranaki coast. It feels familiar. There is a table and a pavilion where we can eat our picnic lunch. A man is fast sleep deep in a hammock just behind us. Our conversation does not seem to bother him. After lunch, we watch the blue waves surging in against the jagged black lava and bursting into a brilliant white foam. Afterwards we wander past a handful of holiday makers sunning themselves or swimming or snorkelling as a small boat manoeuvres into a wharf at the far end of the bay. One man uses the traditional throw net to land the same highly coloured fish the snorkelers hope to watch. I look in a bucket and am saddened by the sight of these beautiful fish dead in the bottom.

We divert into the next town. It is this clean city of middle- class stores with formal buildings that make fun of the wildness of the rest of this coast. We take time to wander through a chieftain's small palace but we don't join the tour group that starts just before us. We don't have the time or the interest to listen to long descriptions of the royal family trees. In the glare of the tropical sun the whole town has the same bright colour saturation as the black beach

Tonight we stay in the town of Captain Cook, a name we know well in New Zealand. When arrive it is the end of the afternoon, and the light has softened and the colours muted but this perfectly suits the wooden St Benedict's Catholic Church. At the door there is a message asking for donations to help repair the structure. Inside it has all the charm you expect from a church built around 1899. It is too beautiful to be allowed to decay away but we don't leave a donation. The gate to the cemetery is locked and although we could have stepped over the fence we don't. A bird the size of a bell bird but canary yellow in colour hunts among the graves for food.

Then Bruce, my wonderful guide, directs us to a re-creation of a chieftain's Palace, built on the water's edge of a sheltered cove. It glorifies in the name Pu'uhonua O Honaunau National Historical Park. Bathed in the gold of the late afternoon sun, I find everything about this place beautiful and meditative. In ancient Hawai'i a commoner could not look at a chief or walk in his footsteps. They also could not fish, hunt or gather timber except during certain seasons. If one broke the _kapu_ the penalty was always death. However there was one escape. Commoners who broke a _kapu_ could get a second chance if they reached the sacred ground of _pu'uhonau alive_. But to reach _pu'uhonau_ was a challenge since the grounds immediately surrounding the refuge were royal and therefore couldn't be crossed. _Kapu_ breakers had to swim through open ocean, braving sharks and currents to reach safety.

Walking slowly through the gardens and ponds with their attendant coconut palms reflected in still water like being in a painting of Paul Guaguin. The wooden sculptures add an element of mystery from past cultures to the scene. The high peaked buildings, well a cross between a building and a tent, are empty of the people who a short time before were being entertained by songs, stories and dance. I don't mind. I like being alone pretending I am a Chief.

The guide book tells us to expect turtles in the calm clear water but we see none. Across the bay from the palace people are snorkelling. At this tranquil spot I would love to try the next morning but we will not have time even, I it is reputed to the best snorkelling in Hawaii.

We must find our hotel, the Manaro. It is around five o'clock, and the road we are on is very busy as people head home from work. We only see the hotel as we pass and have to do a U turn to get there, an awkward manoeuvre on this narrow road. The woman at the desk corrects my pronunciation of the Hotel's name before she tells us about the wonders of the Hotel Restaurant. When I ask about vegetarian food, she shakes her head with a finality that tells me, not only is there none on the menu but that she has no interest in getting her cook to make up a special dish for me. But she does give us directions to two restaurants up the road.

I take the car down and find the car park full. Our room turns out to be on the third floor and Bruce's bag is very heavy. So he off loads some of his stuff while I carry all of mine up the stairs. When I protest to our woman about the absence of a parking space she sends me to an almost empty car park on the other side of the hotel.

We walk up the street looking for the vegetarian restaurants. The first we find does have lots of vegetarian food, but it stops serving at lunch time. As we walk further along a sunset begins to expand out of the western sky. It has been a day of vivid colours, this and this turns out to be the start of the final spectacular flourish.

On top the hill is the Chinese Restaurant our landlady told us about and by the time we get across the road and up the hill, the sun begins unveiling its final treasures. We keep snapping away obsessively as the colours deepen and the whole western sky soaks up the peach paint. Then the brilliant red ball that is the sun takes on a golden rim of clouds and slowly settles into the roofs of the houses of Captain Cook.

The food is good and the small family atmosphere warms me. As the regulars pop in and out to get takeaway food sit down to eat eat at the homely tables, they add to this feeling of being away from the tourist traps.

It is dark as we walk away and find ourselves surrounded by a frog based battle of the bands. These are noisy frogs who do not give up easily on their penetrating croaking Across the road we find one particularly demanding frog on the fence beside us. It doesn't stop croaking even while we search him out. To our surprise it is only about 4 or 5 cm long. This frog must have an inbuilt megaphone or a massive amplifier. Although we stand close and use our flash to take pictures, the determined little beast just keeps on and on. It's an all or nothing life in his world of sex or death, he's not stopping for anything. We walk on and give him some peace.

The next morning is as bright as the last and the surprise Bruce has in store for, on its own, is worth the visit to this town.

"Take the next road to the left and go down all the way to the sea. We'll see the beach on which Captain Cook was killed". Cook's death features large in New Zealand's history, after all he was the first European to completely map the country and with very few errors, a map that is perfectly serviceable over two Centuries later. From copies of paintings, I recognise the beach with its backdrop a steep hill. No we didn't walk on the beach. It is across the bay from the road end and guarded by the steepness of the hill on the land side. We don't try to swim across.

On the rocks below us crowds of identical crabs, all around about 10 cm across, sit on the dark rock until they are washed off by the larger waves, only to immediately return.

This is speed tourism and it is time to leave Captain Cook behind.

## Our Last Stop in Hawaii

This is our last night in Hawaii. We have booked a very sweet sounding little Bed and Breakfast to be close to what is called by _The Lonely Planet_ a fascinating valley. And who are we to quarrel with such a claim until we have actually been there ourselves. After the driving of the days before, I am surprised at how soon we arrive in our new home town.

We take time for a leisurely stroll down the main street, a main street which for such a small town seems a to be very long. Since the B and B does not provide dinner we look for a suitable restaurant for tonight. There is only one that looks promising. It claims to provide healthy food and even to hint at the possibility of vegetarian options, but as we read the posted menu further we discover it is closed in the evenings. The drive-in burgher-place is a non-starter. It provides food too big on carbohydrates for Bruce's diet, without vegetarian options for me, and we would have to eat our dinner on one the two outside tables. When we have almost given up hope of finding anything even remotely suitable, we happen upon a pizza restaurant, not that pizzas fit Bruce's low carb diet either but he thinks he can fabricate something out of the salad menu.

To get to our B and B, we follow the directions Jacqueline has sent, directions made easy by the numbered mile signs." Between the marker for 7 miles and 8 miles on the right hand side," her instructions read and sure enough that is where it is.

We plan to explore this famous valley immediately, as we won't have time tomorrow. Bruce is disconcerted when he reads that the road is so steep it is only fit for 4-WD vehicles. We will have no option but to walk down. Jacqueline gives us more information. "It takes at least twenty minutes to walk down and depending on your fitness it can take an hour to come up again," and then continues by giving us her own best times in both directions, "20 minutes down and 35 minutes up."

_The Lonely Planet_ is right, is a very steep track down to the beach, a track that starts steep and just gets steeper as it goes on. From the top the beach looks tiny and we have to walk for ages before it looks any closer. A few 4-WDs pass us going down and a few are making the return journey. Notices appear at points were the road narrows, "Give way to uphill traffic." We decide this does not apply to walkers and we push on regardless of traffic. What limits the rate of my descent is the effort I have to put in to stopping running out of control. Gradually tightness builds up in my thighs and it gets worse the further I go. The stress also builds up on the knees from the continual braking. The last quarter of the drop seems to pass in a rush. My thighs shout their approval.

At sea level we take a right and head for the beach, which turns out to be a surprising distance away. The early evening is still very hot and we're glad to reach the beach and sit relaxing and looking at the view. There are only a handful of people around, most in one larger group.

One man spends his time trying to ride his boggie board on the small waves. Each time he starts to lose control he tries to exit with some panache by doing a backward somersault. He does not always succeed but it's always entertaining to watch.

It is still hot when we begin the return journey. My technique is to set a steady pace which I can maintain without getting out of breath. Just as I didn't give way to the up-hill cars on the way down, now cars coming down don't give way to me. I get to the top in 27 minutes, very hot and bathed in sweat. As I walk around trying to cool off, like a race horse after a race, one in a group of about six youths at the top takes pity on me and offers me a puff of pot. I politely decline.

## The Worst Restaurant Meal I've Ever Had

It's always tempting to search for someone to blame when things go wrong and this case is no different. Bruce blames me for my insistence on eating in this small town where the options are so unpromising but I have my reasons. We can both blame Jacqueline, the owner of the Bed and Breakfast place because she recommended it to us. But blame people as much as you like, nothing changes, what has happened has happened and this meal is unforgettable for all the wrong reasons. Here is how it happened.

After our walk down to the beach and back, I don't want to drive a long way for dinner. So I say, "Let's find a place to eat in this town?" Bruce argues against the proposition, obviously not impressed with the options on offer. So I ask our landlady about restaurants and she says, "There is a very nice pizza place I can recommend," and directs us to it. So the decision is made.

It is dark before we arrive back in our small home town. We park the car too early and walk the last 300 meters. As we stroll along we hear noise from a rowdy party far ahead of us. The closer we get to the restaurant the louder the sound, and you guessed it, we discover the noise is coming from our pizza restaurant. This does not please me, it will not be the quiet meal I am looking forward to but I hold course and lead the way in, after all it has been recommended to us. The waitress hurries over. A woman of around forty with the golden skin of someone with island blood, she somehow manages to find a table for us and indicates we should both sit on the side facing the TV set. When I bridle she asks, "Haven't you come to watch the big game?" No we haven't, we had no idea it was even on.

The ordering provides some surprises. Bruce's order is straight forward. He will have the chicken salad which is suitable for his low carb diet, but the pizzas are all one size, 18 inches. Clearly this is too big for one person. I order three slices instead, until the waitress points out that three pieces cost more than one whole 18 inch pizza, so I go for the whole pizza. After all I can eat the leftovers tomorrow.

As we wait we get time to view the rest of the shouting mob that are our fellow football fans. A burley man is engaged in some sort of game with a couple of children of around 10 and two women. He greets every twist and turn of the game with enormous shouts more suited to a boxing match. At other times I might have found a big man playing a kids game charming, but his enthusiasm is so obviously fuelled by alcohol, that normal standards don't apply.

In a room with wooden floors and walls and ceiling every sound echoes around, without attenuating the volume in the least. I grit my teeth and wait. When my burly tormentor and his friends exit the restaurant in fits and starts, instead of gaining some quietness, by some rule of nature, the other groups scatter around what I now clearly see is a pub, raise their voices to compensate, after all no one wants things to go quiet, except me. All this time the waitress is rushing around the room taking orders for drinks. One man in his fifties sits grim and silent in his chair, while attempting to order more alcohol, without success.

We wait and wait and finally Bruce's salad arrives. I am heartened. Soon my pizza will come to and soon afterwards we will escape the continuing din. Bruce declares his meal to be totally acceptable, if a little unimaginative. But I still wait and wait and wait again, but there is still not a sign of my pizza. The waitress continues just as frantically busy as before and the noise continues without showing any sign of ceasing.

In the end I have had enough, "I'll tell the waitress that I want to take the food out" I tell Bruce and head out to the kitchen. Here I see the first signs they are cooking my pizza. The waitress understands instantly the reason for my appearance. I think she is feeling guilty about her inability to serve me. I soften my body language.

"I'll put it in a box," she shouts above the noise.

I nod my assent.

It arrives a few minutes later. Bruce has long finished his salad, we pay up and head out with one enormous pizza into the night. The question now for me is where will I eat it? I'm not willing to hold a picnic on a bench in town, not on the night of a big game.

It occurs to me as we leave the Pub that I will no longer be able to describe this as a restaurant meal, and hence by definition it can no longer be called the worst restaurant meal I have ever eaten. In one sense I abandoned my claim when we first entered the building and found out we are eating at a Pub. Calling it the worst Pub meal in the world is a bold claim indeed, almost by default, Pub meals are appalling and noisy but I reject both allegations. This remains the worse restaurant meal I have ever eaten. I entered the building and ordered the pizza in the firm belief it was a restaurant and it remains a restaurant.

Like homing pigeons we head for our B and B. When I arrive on the veranda I realise I can't take this pizza into the genteel house of our slightly fay landlady. After all she makes a living taking select parties of about four to Japan. My pizza is not in her class and I don't want the smell of the fatty pizza to permeate her house. So I sit down where I am and eat the pizza to a chorus of the frogs she has warned us about on her web site. "If you are a light sleeper, bring ear plugs," she wrote. As I look around and enjoy the frog interrupted quiet, and smell the night air, I relax.

When my teeth bite into the first slice, I realise this pizza is incredible in its ordinariness. It is fatty, there is no discernible flavour and I am faced with eight incredibly large slices. After I have forced myself to eat 2 or 3, I can't remember exactly how many but it felt like 3, I put the rest back in the car.

"We'll dump it in town on our way out," I tell Bruce, and we head for bed.

Jacqueline's lovely breakfast provides a pleasant contrast to my dinner of the night before. First a fresh fruit smoothie, combining pineapple, passion fruit and papaya juice followed by perfectly cooked scrambled eggs. We chat to a couple of her other guests, a man with the short frizzled beard and the well-worn face of a Clint Eastwood. He turns out to live up the valley we walked into yesterday afternoon.

Before we leave I give Jacqueline some feedback on the restaurant she directed us to last night. Her response surprises me, "Oh, you went to the pub," in a tone of voice that drips disapproval, "I meant you to go to the proper pizza restaurant."

I respond, "That was the only one we saw and certainly it was the only one open."

She has made a mistake but is not in the least apologetic, "Oh, I'd forgotten, the restaurant I recommended is closed all this week," in a tone of voice that seems to imply it was our fault.

The atmosphere at the pub was appalling, the waitress (for very good reasons that I understand) terminally slow and the food lacked any qualities I want in a food. It gave me great pleasure to drop the remains of the pizza into a municipal rubbish bin as we leave town. All memories of the worst meal I have ever had disappear into the bin with it.

And Bruce to his great credit does not lower himself to offer any recriminations for my poor choice of town to eat in. We head now for the airport to board the plane that connects with our flight to New Zealand. Our most wonderful trip to Hawaii is almost over.

Thinking back now, these last three days spent circling the Big Island glitter like gems in my mind.

# What Kiwi's get up to Overseas

## Bryan Anderson in South America

Bryan Anderson is one of our most intrepid travellers. On his trip through South America he sent back regular reports and below is an edited version of some of these reports.

Today we are in Paracas about 250 km south of Lima and in the middle of a most forbidding desert \- no sign of any greenery or animal life apart from the tour groups. Only the occasional vulture can be seen circling overhead. It never rains here so everything is extremely dry.. The landscape is very colourful with shades of yellow, purple, pink, white and silver. Much of the area was seabed at one time and the remains of marine fossils are evident everywhere. The roads through this large national park are paved with salt which because it never rains remain quite stable.

The morning at Paracas was spent on an excursion to some small islands about 20 km off the coast. These are now a protected ecological areas and home to vast numbers of seabirds - boobies, gannets, pelicans, oyster-catchers, penguins and I don't know how many other species. Birds birds everywhere. There were also seals and sealions basking on the rocks quite unconcerned by the racket about them. The islands were once mined extensively for their guano and even now guano is profitably collected every seven years. As we left the vicinity of the islands we could see a dark smear of birds leaving the islands and heading out to sea to their feeding grounds. Quite amazing. The boat we were in was powered by twin outboard motors and exhilaratingly fast but still we were passed by several strings of birds.

The bus trip down to Nasca (about 170 km) continues through the desert and what a grim, depressing stretch of road it is. Flat grey plains enlivened occasionally by small, dusty, villages of half-completed flat-roofed huts and a few tired shrubs along dried up river beds. The view was not improved by the constant cloud cover which has stayed with us since Lima. As we moved further from the coast, hills bare and rugged started to appear and the sky became blue and the sun came out.

Nasca is a city of about 60,000 sitting close high, bare, hills and on the edge of extensive desert plains. We arrived at about 2 pm in brilliant weather and decided to go flying rather than wait until the following morning. The overwhelming impression I have of the flight is of the incredibly large number of straight lines drawn across the desert - some extending more than 5 km. They are everywhere; some are quite narrow while others are broad enough to be landing strips. We did manage to catch a planetarium show in the evening which showed that some of the lines pointed to the rising of important stars but there are so many lines I felt this could be coincidental.

Next morning was devoted to a tour of an ancient cemetery and we viewed a number of excavated graves with representative mummies surrounded by their different grave goods. The ground is so dry the human remains are completely dehydrated so flesh, hair, skin and their quite colourful clothing are perfectly preserved. On the return to town we stopped to look at and squeeze cochineal bugs feasting away on a prickly pear like cactus. The bugs are white fluffy things but when crushed they give rise to this incredibly intense crimson dye. We all came away with stained fingers.

The afternoon was spent in a dune buggy being driven vigorously across rocky, rutted roads into the desert. In the middle of nowhere we were shown a couple of very well preserved step pyramids surrounded by extensive walls denoting the site of houses and streets. This was apparently once the capital city of the Nasca people. Further into the wilderness we arrive amongst massive sand dunes where we hooned up and down seemingly impossible slopes. All very adrenalin inducing.

My journey from Uyuni to Argentina was on an overnight train – comfortable enough with the blanket and pillow distributed by the carriage attendant but a little fraught since my ticket was not to the town I thought it should go to. Still everyone else got off the train at the same place at 4 am and there was a man with my name on a piece of paper (but no English). He was the taxi driver to take me the 70 km to Villazon on the border with Argentina. He passed me off to a tour agent who plied me with cognac and coffee and took me through the border post and onto a bus for a 3 hour journey south to Tilcara. After wandering up and down the bus station for a bit another agent found me and sent me in a taxi to Pumarmarca where I was booked to stay but he didn't take me to the correct hotel. The lack of sleep on the train and a persistent cough left me completely disinterested in tourist things so the following day, I lazed around Purmarcarca rather than going on the extensive tour I had planned.

As part of my tour I was booked on the 'Train to the Clouds', a railway journey which starts at Salta at about 1800 meters and climbs to 4200 meters at the Chilean Border by way of 2 zigzags, 2 spirals, 29 bridges, 21 tunnels and 13 viaducts. The railway line was constructed to join the two countries but is now a purely tourist venture. The rail follows closely the road and we were chased by a series of tour buses to watch the train cross the viaducts and execute the zigzags. When we reached the top we were accompanied by two pickup trucks from the train company and an ambulance. I never saw anyone being transferred to the ambulance so I presume everyone on the train was able to cope with the transition to high altitude. The rail route followed a spectacular river valley – a broad shingly bottom with the river winding through it and enclosed by high steep, initially bush clad walls. As we climbed higher the bush turned to scrub and then disappeared while the hillside steepened to form vertical multi-coloured towers and bastions while every hillside and ridge was covered with giant cacti. Closer to the top the view widened out to show tussocky hills and deep valleys with the cones of volcanos in behind. After 217 km the rail trip terminates at la Plovorilla viaduct, a monster 64 meters above the valley floor and 260 meters long. We were slowly pushed across and then pulled back again with every one holding their breath while trying to capture the moment on camera.

On the Monday we climbed the 'Bishop's Slope' an ultra-winding road which climbs steeply from the valley floor up to the altiplano at 3800 meters. Then we go on to a National Park devoted to the giant cactus. These peculiar plants can grow to 9 meters in height and only start to flower and bear fruit after 50 years. Any seeds which fall can have a hard life because they need to fall close to (a fairly sparse) nursery plant which provides the protected environment it needs to survive. In the desert conditions it only rains during November – January period and the cacti need to absorb and retain water then to last the rest of the year (by swelling the ridges along their trunk). A small unprotected cactus may not be able to retain enough moisture and thus die of dehydration. Still there are an awful lot of cacti in the area.

## Other observations from the Trip

The long range buses in Peru were extremely comfortable. The seats recline more than airline seats and your legs are much more comfortably supported. They also have attendants on board who will supply food and drink and also blankets and pillows. They also have TV screens which show bad American movies.

The condors have to wait until about 9 am until the land has warmed enough to provide the thermal updrafts they need to fly. A number of these great birds were circling above us when we arrived but alas I was not able to catch any on film.

The covered market at Cuzco had an amazing range of meats, vegetables and fruit but only about 8 or 9 of the registered 5000 varieties of potato. One our guides hoped to show us but couldn't find any was the mother-in-law potato. This apparently has 5 or 6 knobs on it and it is the task of a young woman to peel it without damaging any of the protuberances. If she is successful she is ready for marriage.

## Keith Wilson on Cape Palliser

At Terry and Megan's wedding held early in May at Newbury School Hall, I met a most interesting man called Keith Wilson. Megan's Uncle he enjoyed a long career as a successful architect in Wellington, before 10 or 12 years ago everything changed. Keith and a silent partner bought a farm out at Cape Palliser on the South Eastern tip of the North.

Sitting out on what looks like the back veranda to Newbury Hall, Keith describes the location more precisely, "If you stand by the bay at Cape Palliser where the young seals play and look up the hill that's the land. Our house is at the edge of a big slip adjacent to Kupe's sail."

Keith expands more, "As you probably know, the land on this part of the coast is badly eroding. We bought a functioning farm, but immediately sold off all the stock and began a program of re-establishing the native bush."

His search for a suitable coastal area ranged from Castlepoint to Foxton, until he finally focussed on Cape Palliser, and began negotiating with the Maori owners. Since the owners were many in number and greatly concerned about the future welfare of the land, much patient negotiation was required. He went from group to group discussing the project and keeping a record of these negotiations. The final outcome is that 120 acres were put into a QE2 covenant which does not permit subdivision for over hundred years.

Keith built a house on the land and gets out there to stay as often as possible. Now at seventy he only has a small apartment in town and Cape Palliser is his primary home.

Keith is the one who has done all the work. He plants the seeds from local native plants, "These have already shown they can grow well despite the gale force winds they have to battle there," he said "And as a few trees or shrubs grow they provide protection from the wild winds and it is easier to grow more." I think he has had quite a battle to establish cabbage trees, with many dying but by persistence he has even these growing.

DOC wanted to get rid of the possums by use of the poison 1080. Keith asked if he could do all the trapping himself. They said yes and they would provide the traps and the bait. So Keith launched an extensive trapping campaign to try to eliminate possums.

I was so impressed with Keith's vision and achievements, I asked if I could contact the _Country Life_ program producers on National radio to see if they were interested in doing a feature on him and his inspiring project. He neither welcomed the proposal nor asked me not to contact National Radio. He clearly has no interest in recognition or publicity. His vision is much wider than that. The recognition he wants is in the living monument he leaves behind of a coastal forest re-established at a historical part of the coast, along with the resultant stabilisation of the slipping hills it brings.

When I sent an email to Carol Stiles (one of the presenters of _Country Life)_ suggesting she do a program on Keith Wilson's work at Cape Palliser, I received an enthusiastic response within two hours. She wrote:

Goodness – thanks so much for thinking of us Paul. Susan Murray and I are the two North Island producers for Country Life – so we will have a chat and see how we can fit this in. Keith's story sounds like a great one for us. Carol Stiles

A program has now been recorded and I look forward to hearing it broadcast.

# End Pieces

## Is This the Cleverest 'Keep Out' Sign You've ever Seen?

The Palmerston North City Council and Horizons Manawatu are working hard developing an extensive new walking network of tracks within and around the city. The program receives assistance from the work of people who have been sentenced to periodic detention or are low risk offenders from the local prison.

Even so, when I read that a walk/cycle track is to be built from Ashhurst to Palmerston North, a distance of fourteen kilometers, I am skeptical. It was not so much the distance to be travelled, although in this respect it is ambitious, but the fact that it will have to pass over farm land. Unlike the United Kingdom where traditional trails criss-cross the countryside and are walked by the public without any problems, in New Zealand the farmers regard their land as God given (after a suitable amount of coinage has changed hands) and at the same time us, the public, their fellow citizens, with deep suspicion that sometimes borders on paranoia. Tales of sheep and cattle rustling abound, and horror stories about quad bikes and other small farm machinery being stolen from the storage sheds spread like wild fire. To the farmers we are a threat that must be combatted at all costs, the first of these being keeping everyone out.

Farmers have been slow to recognize opportunity even when it is thrust down their throats. Famously the owner of the farm on which Peter Jackson built the Hobbit Village for his movie trilogy Lord of the Rings; initially wanted the whole Hobbit village removed when the movie was finished and rejected the idea of having tourists on his farm. Slowly it became clear, even to this fear ridden farm owner, that people might be willing to pay to come and take a look. He now has a massively profitable business running tours of the famous Hobbit village, a fame that has only grown as the three film sequent of the Hobbit movies hits the theatres.

To be fair to our farmer friends, many have cooperated with the developers of walkway that runs from North Cape at the top of the North Island to the Bluff, at the bottom of the South Island, and now allow the public to cross their "private" land. I congratulate them. Still I do not hold out much hope that the farmers between Ashhurst and Palmerston North will be so tolerant or cooperative.

I was (with one exception) wrong. In a remarkably short time the section of the track from Ashhurst to Raukawa Road is built. At the end of this road there were two gravel works and I always expected there would have no great objection to a track crossing their land. When we went to explore it, I found out that what the farmers had demanded, or perhaps it was the City Officials who offered, was a fence over two meters tall with barbed wire and an electrified wire along the top. Some prisons have security fences less imposing than these, still at least the fence is on the side away from the scenic Manawatu River. The trail is wide enough for walkers and bikes running in both directions, and has quickly been adopted by people from both towns.

What about the next section that will take us into Palmerston North? Work soon begins on this, and not surprisingly the curiosity of those walking the Ashhurst leg is piqued by the inviting prospect of the unknown and want to explore the next section. Only Neville Honey of our friends made it through during the first weeks when this exploring was tolerated.

"I walked for an hour and didn't get to the end," he tells us, but by the time he leads our attempt to do the same, the gates are locked and big No Trespassing signs have been posted. We have read the No Trespass Act and we always ignore such signs but when we go with Neville to repeat his original traverse he refuses to go further so we postpone our attempt. A couple of weeks later we come back with Bob Lambourne and Mark Patchett on a Sunday evening. This is a time of the week when most honest citizens are at home eating their evening meal and we have the countryside to ourselves. Ignoring the No Trespass sign we hop over the fence and head down the road into the gravel works. And then we meet a second sign, propped up in the middle of the road.

This sign stops us in our tracks. It reads:

Danger! War Games in Progress

Call 0210624551 to get an Escort to proceed further.

An intense discussion follows. on this peaceful evening, are war games really in progress or is this notice all a bluff to keep rubber neckers like us out. Shall we call the number to find out more and what will we say if someone answers. Should we treat it as a bluff and simply walk on as if the notice didn't exist? In the end the notice serves its nefarious purpose and we turned and head toward Ashhurst, after all Mark has never walked this section. I call my niece Hayley Murphy to see if her husband Andrew knows anything about these so called War Games, but it turns out Andrew plays only computer war games and can be of no help.

Sure enough when we return as darkness falls, the War Game's notice is still there even though by now there was no possibility of real war games been played. It really is a very cunning notice. We will have to return and try again, this time ready for what we now regard as a completely phony sign but a very clever one. Our pride demands another try.

# End Pieces

## Our Garden, a Nesting Birds Paradise

For birds finding safe places to nest in suburban gardens is not an easy task. The major difficulty is finding a place the hungry cat can't climb. A bird with the meanest intelligence realizes she must not nest on the ground or at any other place that is easily reached by the average cat. The one advantage a bird has over a cat is its wings and it must exploit these to maximum effect. The bird also needs a place that can't be easily seen, usually in amongst some dense leaves.

I do wonder if birds are a little lazy, because they do not seem to want to be up too high, no doubt put off by the thought of the amount of extra effort it will take when the chick is being fed. And who can blame them.

Cats are programmed to kill. Even when they're not hungry, the sound of nestling birds chirping away somewhere nearby, drives the average cat to distraction. Perhaps it is because of the warmth or delicious taste of a live bird and the way it wriggles when it is being swallowed into, something no cat food can achieve. What an ignominious end to the life of a baby bird, to be gulped down a few days after it emerges from the egg.

For a number of years we allowed a couple of starlings to wriggle under our corrugated iron roof and raise their young there. We had to put up with much scratching and fluttering as the birds got near to fledging but this was small price to pay to see them finally emerge blinking (do birds blink) into the sunlight. Even under the roof they were not entirely safe from cats. One of the neighbour's cats learned to come investigating on our roof in the spring. Fortunately the cat was rather large, even podgy, and made loud plonking noises when it walked across the corrugated iron roof. When I heard this sound, even if it was at 4 am, I leapt out of bed, went to a stack of small stones kept ready by the back door and threw them onto the roof. The cat got cunning after a while, and raced to safety as soon as it heard the sliding door open. But this was an unwanted intrusion on a good night's sleep, and when one of Bruce's climbing plants reached this part of the roof, I began to fear that rats would use this as a ladder to access the roof too. Rats in the ceiling is not something we want. So Bob Lambourne and I blocked the entry under the roof with bunches of small-holed netting. The starlings were not happy with this new development but they finally gave up on what had become for them a hopeless cause.

For a few years, try as they might, our local blackbirds failed at every nesting attempt. They choose places to nest that while superficially fulfilling their needs, always had an Achilles heel, which was inevitably discovered by a cat before their fledglings left the nest. There was nothing we can do except wait and hope they will finally succeed.

Then one spring despite against all odds, our pair of blackbirds succeeded in raising a family. Contrary to what I was saying, the nest could be easily seen from the ground, but despite this and despite for a couple of weeks the birds relaying food to the nest right past my eyes, we still didn't click to what was going on. I finally noticed the nest one Sunday after lunch. The nest was on top of a shaky trellis which supported a climbing geranium plant. the nest contained three almost fully grown blackbirds (I thought because they had speckled breasts they were young thrush). The secret of their success was to build on a trellis that was too shaky and insecure for cats to climb it. They might be in full view but they couldn't be reached.

The parents were still feeding them. Clearly the young birds did not want to leave before they were forced to. They sat on the edge of the nest flapping their wings. I was able to stand in the drive taking close up pictures of the mother feeding them. In one photo the mother has its head deep in the young bird's mouth transferring the food. As our friend Monica from the Cameroons pointed out to me, I should take lots of photos now because the young birds would be gone soon and by the next day she was proved right

A fantail once nested on a vigorous creeper under the surfeit above the front door. Again superficially it looked OK, but unfortunately the creeper was strong enough to take the weight of a cat. One day I heard our fantail chirping desperately as a determined cat reached its defenseless nest. It never tried to nest there again.

This year our birds at last got it right again.

Recently a thrush began making a nest in a very thorny climbing rose which grew beside the sliding door. So close in fact, I feared our comings and goings might scare it away. To my experienced eye this looks to be a very safe spot, and I wanted the thrush to succeed. The rose was shaky enough to discourage a cat and strong enough not to break. There are of course the thorns to provide more protection. I hung a tea towel at a position which gave the bird a bit of visual privacy. I didn't want people going up and peering into the nest so I told no one the nest was there, except sister Kay and then with the stern requirement she (like me)would not go over and stare into the nest.

I must say Kay rather resented such tight and unyielding instructions. Straight after I mentioned the bird she exited onto the patio, determined to take a peek but first she glanced back to find me studying her every move. Her eyes turn forward immediately. I forgot to tell her I have no objection to her or anyone else looking out the kitchen window at the nest. The bird remained undisturbed, so undisturbed that only Bruce got a glimpse of the young birds before they were gone. I was assumed I would hear the chicks demanding food from their mother but heard nothing. I realize now this was probably because of the double glazing cutting out the sound.

A blackbird nested successfully in another climbing plant on the fence the one beside the garage and again the young birds flew the nest before I caught sight of them. Then another black bird used the camellia tree as its haven and we think it also succeeded fledging its young. And finally yet a third blackbird nested successfully in the Choko vine. Perhaps the success of the birds can be traced to the reduction in the cat population in the neighborhood, I for one have not seen a cat in our garden for months, although Bruce tells me he occasionally sees one very early in the morning.

We are not pleased to see them at any time. I plan to pull out the old nests to encourage a forgetful bird to nest again in one of these safe places. Generally they never nest in the same place two years in succession. Whether it is because they suspect the cats will know where the nests are, or because parasites may winter over in the nest, I know not.

Our garden has been full of young birds recently.

The only time I ever got an indication of how many birds really hang out in Bruce's garden was when a hawk swooped low over the territory. From every bush, shrub and tree birds of many sizes exploded into the air, all fleeing the approaching predator. Unfortunately there was not time for a proper count, but I do know we only see the tip of the bird iceberg.

## Glorious Summer Days

There are some beautiful days in summer you want to clutch to your chest to keep the memories of summer alive during the coldest days of winter. 2013 is a hot summer after a series of the mediocre variety beset by passing bands of rain and cool southerly winds, summers you want to forget.

There are many lovely hot days in this summer, days that are equal to the best I remember from my childhood in Taihape. Sadly I don't take full advantage of these balmy summer days Yes I do walk every day, but then I walk every day in winter too. I only have myself to blame as I try to edit too many books at once, at a time when we are pressing on with work on the house.

Then it all changed, at least for two glorious days.

The first is 27th January when we held our annual picnic up the Pohangina valley at Totara Reserve. This year as usual it will be a celebration of Shirley's birthday too (this year on 28th January). We don't need to worry about the weather. For a week before the picnic it is hot and sunny and for week afterwards it will be the same. This is the type of summer where the high pressure systems get stuck firmly over the country. The low temperatures at night are in the low twenties and twice 30 degrees centigrade during the day. With the humidity seldom below 50%, 30 degrees feels like 40 degrees in dry desert air. I love it. Even on the hottest days we never use our heat pumps as air conditioners because we want to enjoy the heat.

At the picnic ground Megan Terry, Braxton and Talia take the lead and find a shady spot where we can lie down our table cloths; yes this is a serious picnic with plastic plates, real cutlery, chairs (eight) and all the other trimmings.

By the time all the cars arrive there are seventeen people. Terry, Megan, Braxton and Talia have already been mentioned, it's Shirley's birthday so she is here with her special needs son Jordan, Martine has her two sisters out from Belgium with her, Bob our fluent French speaker is along, and so is Len Blackwell who handles the basics of the French, Italian and German languages, His wife Pam always enjoys a picnic and Aloha is along with her togs, Bryan prefers to be a gentlemen on the banks and does not bring his, Mark will be out on a tire floating later and will Bruce and I. You'll have to check if this is seventeen.

The food as always tastes much better out of doors. The fresh baked bread adds flavour to sandwiches made with mashed egg and herbs and the quiche never allows itself to be out done in the taste stakes.

By the time the adults finish the first course seven year old Braxton and four year old Talia are already rolling the tires down a stopbank as they plead to be allowed into the water. However the appearance of Shirley's birthday fruit cake with its piles of vanilla icing draws them back quickly enough. Mark lights the candles and Jordan hands the cake on to his mother, as we sing a very ragged and untuneful _Happy Birthday._

After the cake and the home made squares have been eaten, no one has any room for the watermelons. They must await another day.

With the river running low we have to seek out the deeper holes for best floating. Since last year parts of the cliff that towers above us have fallen into the river, warning us of the dangers they present. As usual the winter floods have shifted the rocks around creating new rapids and new pools. Martine's sisters, Edith and Anita, adapt immediately to local customs and joined us in the river.

We return to town well satisfied by a glorious day filled with summer activities shared with good company.

Next Sunday is as blazingly hot as the last. Marine invites us out into the countryside to picnic on her veranda. We eat lunch out on the traditional veranda with its curved corrugated iron roof. Braxton and Talia enjoy playing in the hammock that is strung invitingly across one end of the veranda. From the veranda we have a view out across the Manawatu Plains out to the coast but a view mainly screened out by the high trees. On sunny days Mount Ruapehu can still be clearly seen on the northern horizon.

Martine has left a gate open so her horses can stroll up to the house, eat fresh grass and see what's going on. Braxton and Talia are fascinated by the size of these animals and check with Terry to see if it is safe to take a closer look. They provide a gentle kind of entertainment for the rest of us, as we watch their initially very tentative approach quickly change as their confidence grows. Martine gives them tips on what they should or should not do. For example she warns them to stay clear of the rear hooves, "If surprised by something from behind, horses may lash out with their back legs."

Mark who loves animals, as usual is down there with them. I always mean to take an apple out to give to Mark to feed them as usual I forget. Mark usually only has grass to offer and that does no interest the horses for long.

The day gets hotter and there is no river running beside the house but later in the afternoon, Martine leads an expedition down to the Tokomaru River a few kilometres away. Unlike last week today there are lots of other people around, who have the same idea as us on such a perfect summer's day. Some of us swim but only Braxton gives jumping off the cliff a go.

And so ends another perfect summer's day.

## On the Sense of Smell.

One morning recently I drew up a list of things I most definitely wanted to buy in town and I decided I would do this shopping before lunch. When lunchtime came I had not even left the house. Determined to fulfil my promise to myself and get every last item before eating, I set off clutching a shopping list and a strong feeling of hunger.

This feeling only grew as I worked my way down the list. It certainly gave me an incentive not to be diverted from task. Quite early on I become aware of every faint food smell wafting out of each cafe, coffee bar and restaurant. These smells became more and more intrusive and more and more difficult to ignore as the shopping continues.

But at home I have my lunch prepared and awaiting my return. I'm not going to allow the meal to go to waste by eating in town. This only heightens my awareness of every tempting smell. Never has the Subway Shop, the shop with the strongest smell in town, held a greater attraction for me. I always think it has the odor that is the essence of hot bread cooking in the oven. On the other hand, Bruce is sure the smell is generated artificially and just pumped out to bring the customers in. He hates it.

As I walk through this orchestra of smells plays, food is ever more strongly on my mind. The delicious odor of Chinese food cooking in a wok, ready in just a couple of minutes, almost breaks down my resistance, but not quite. For once the pumped up smell of hamburgers in MacDonalds does not turn me away, nor does the choking fatty smell of Kentucky Fried Chicken, they are both transformed by my increasingly desperate desire for food. The of Japanese food has a subtle but distinctive smell, even the vegetarian sushi. I love it.

Today the whole town is bedeviled with mouth-watering smells, and my limp lunch of a fresh cheese scone begins to fade in my memory. I think of Oscar Wilde who wisely said, "The only way to get rid of temptation is to give in to it," but still I don't yield.

It makes me realize how many smells I routinely block out of my mind, or is it the act of eating food that disables my awareness of smell. As my father was fond of saying, usually after he had eaten a good meal, "It's amazing how eating takes away you appetite." No such luck for me today.

Despite all this temptation, I do make it back without relenting and I do enjoy the cheese scone after all this denial. Unfortunately this unrelenting self-denial has alerted my subconscious mind to the possibility that lunch may not be the regular feast I always expect it to be. It unilaterally decides I had better stack up the reserves. The result is this afternoon I eat much more for lunch than I usually would. Clearly this is not a good practice for someone trying to diet. But I don't regret the custard slab I demolish before go walking.

## When Changing Trousers was Easy

The time when changing trousers was easy, seems a long time ago now.

I used to yank off my shoes, unbuckled my belt, or if they have elastic at the top not even do that, unbutton a fly (now that was many years ago) or lower a zip and pull the trousers down. Then I grab the next pair and reverse the procedure. Transfer a wallet, a bunch of keys and a handkerchief and you are on your way. Right? Yes. No sweat it was all over in barely a minute.

The changes for me came slowly, almost imperceptibly but come they did. I know where to place the blame, namely the advent of long and then short trousers with extra side pockets. I think this design must have military or hunting origins. These are pockets are essential for men who have to carry wide range of equipment needed to meet the diverse demands of their owners.

The ubiquitous spread of these cargo pants, because they appeared at a time when the use of the term shorts was stretched to include trousers that come down below the knee. We can argue about whether they were truly shorts or rather just longs that had been shortened. However arise they did and, the added length gave lots of room to attach commodious side pockets.

With the arrival of cargo pants, although I did not know it at the time, my fate was sealed. If you have convenient side pockets then you end up using them. My first step, on what was to become for me a slippery slope, was to start carrying an extra wallet. One wallet contained all the diverse cards that are needed to survive life in the city such as credit cards, a library card, a driver's license, an AA card, my Gold card, a Film Society card, a copy Centre card, _Hire a Hubby_ card, Farmers club and a Kelly's Shoe Shop VIP card, I think you get the picture. The other smaller wallet contained money and was used for most transactions.

Quite quickly after that, I realised could carry a notebook of significant size, a notebook in which I could make notes of fast moving incidents I wanted to write about later in the annual book. Smart phones were not available when I adopted these notebooks.

The notebooks brought extra demands on my pockets. At the start I decided against carrying ball point pens in the pockets. As good as they are under normal usage, if stored in pockets and heated by the warmth of the body, they often fail and the ink leaks out leaving unsightly and indelible stains on trousers Instead I use pencils, which have the added advantage that errors could easily be correct. Furthermore once I have typed a description of the incident in question into the computer, I can rub out the pencil record and use the book again. I must say after repeated rubbing out the graphite does in the end accumulate and make the page increasingly difficult to use.

Pencils do require some maintenance in the form of sharpening. So I needed a pencil sharpener and I soon discovered the pencil sharpeners with plastic supports crack under repeated assaults it inevitably receives during day to day wear. I needed durable, metal sharpeners. So the weight in my side pocket increases further. I also needed erasers and as I find these easy to lose, I have taken to carrying a number of fragments of erases with the hope that when needed I will find one at least.

It doesn't end here, these days everyone needs a cell phone, an object that is notoriously easy to lose and can only be replaced at some expense. The best solution I found was not to use the side pockets in the cargo pants to store them, but to attach a small camera case to my belt and put my cell phone in that.

When we bought a Toyota Prius and a most impressive key came with it. The car will not move unless it senses the presence of the key either on the driver or in the car. At least this key does not have to be thrust into a lock, instead simply brushing your hand across the top of the door handle will unlock the car.

This is very convenient but it comes at a price. If I lose a key, it will cost me $1,250 to replace it and if I lose both keys (we were only given 2) the cost is $7000, since the whole computer would have to be replaced. With those prices, you do not want to lose a key. After some thought, we bought a metal dog collar clip and chain and clipped the key onto one of the loops that hold my belt in place. More weight but essential weight. We cannot afford to have the key rolling around free in our pockets and risk losing it.

Now I think you understand why changing trousers became for me has become a tedious chore.

First I have to take the belt off the trousers I am wearing and free the cell phone case. Next I thread the belt onto clean trousers, stopping after the first loop to slide the cell phone case into place, before threading the belt through the rest of the loops. Then and only then do I put the clean trousers on. Next I have to work my way systematically through each pocket and put each item into the fresh cargo trousers. If an eraser has been misplaced, or there is no pencil sharpener, these items have to be found in the spares drawer. Pencils are often lost becoming victims of their repeated use in a variety of places.

Handkerchiefs are a particular problem; they have a tendency to drop out of my pockets as randomly and frequently as leaves in autumn. The whole surrounding countryside must be strewn with my old hankies. For a time I fastened my handkerchiefs on a stretchy to a clip on my belt. The stretchies wore out so quickly, I decided that replacing handkerchiefs was cheaper.

And now to my dismay, cargo pants are starting to become unfashionable and it becomes harder and harder to find a suitable replacement. Fashion is such a fleeting thing, even useful fashions like cargo pants, are finally discarded by the remorseless march of the changing fashions, changes that have nothing to do with utility.

Women have much to complaint about because there has never been a time when pockets are fashionable for women. Without pockets on their clothes, women are forced to carry purses, with all the attended dangers of leaving them behind at a restaurant table or having them snatched by a thief.

My response to the threatened demise of side pockets, was to do some pre-emptive shopping. Whenever I see trousers, shorts and longs, with side pockets I buy a couple. These I stack away for use in the hard times après le cargo pants. I never seem to buy many at one time but they do accumulate.

Then as I reported in an earlier book in this series, there came a day when I went to the back of the closet and dragged out an enormous stack of cargo pants. A search of a couple of drawers produced heaps more. At that moment I understood and sympathised with Madame Marcos and her insanely large collection of shoes.

Looking through my collection of trousers, far from being well satisfied, and grateful for my careful forward planning, I am dismayed to recognise what a dead end this collecting of cargo pants is. Far from beating the restless and largely useless tide of fashion, I am trapped by it. I had not counted on the now obvious conclusion that the fads of changing fashion would lead to cargo pants I am not prepare to wear. I discovered I too liked to keep up with fashion. So I was not free from these superficial, shallow, stupid trends after all; I was just as captured as anyone else.

I now realise what the answer is, and I think I have heard you shouting this word at me through most of this blog, it is a smart phone. Most, but not all, of the functions I use the objects on my belt can be replaced by a cell phone. Not hankies, not wallets, not car keys, but the notebook, the pencil, the rubber and the pencil sharpener would be gone. A smart phone could also replace the camera I often carry, and reduce my weight more.

Now I just have to buy a smart phone. Watch this space.

## Marcus loves Buttered Chicken

Pam Blackwell is up in Auckland staying with daughter Kerry and grandson Marcus.

Pam has been lucky, first winning a slab of Tofu, from a Tofu shop and second a meal at an Indian Restaurant. Pam kindly brings the tofu back to Palmerston North to give to Bruce and me but as to the free meal at the restaurant, Pam of course takes Kerry and Marcus out to eat with her.

It has been a good week for Marcus who has a passion for Butter Chicken. He had buttered chicken one night, but there was enough buttered chicken left over for the following night as well. Now he is off to the home of buttered chicken, namely an Indian restaurant. There is never any doubt what Marcus will order on this third night.

As soon as Pam, Kerry and Marcus entered the restaurant, Marcus tells the man who seats them what he is going to order. "I want buttered chicken, that's my favourite," he says. When the waitress comes to give them the menus, Marcus tells her what he wants, "I don't need to look at the menu, I want buttered chicken. That's all I want."

The waitress says, "I'll just give your mother and grandmother time to choose what they want and then I'll come and take your orders." When she returns she has bad news for Marcus, "I'm very sorry but we have sold all our buttered chicken for today."

As Pam tells it, Marcus's face falls. He can't hide his disappointment.

"I'll show you the children's menu. They have some very good dishes too," the waitress says.

He stares at the menu but nothing looks half as good as the wonderful buttered chicken. This is the worse outcome for him, to have his expectations raised and then dashed.

Then the waitress finally says, "No, it's alright. We have some buttered chicken. I was just kidding you."

As Pam tells me, "Marcus's jaw drops for a second time. He has never met an adult who has tried to trick him before, and he has to come to terms with something totally new. Adults too can play tricks.

I hope the buttered chicken finally raised his spirits again but he has learned a very valuable lesson. Adults can't always be trusted.

