Update: Little House in the Bush

It seems to be a common theme with all my fellow bloggers lately, we haven't blogged. I could blame Facebook or real life, but blah, I just haven't felt too inspired.

But I've had a couple of emails from people who are (shockingly!) not glued to my Facebook page in anticipation of my fascinating status updates, so I'll do it here. As usual, I'll say I'll keep it short and fail miserably.

I'm back in the bush with Beau, and once every 2-4 weeks we travel two hours to a nearby "big" city, sit in the small room of a very talented, though very expensive therapist, and hash it all out. It's exhausting, difficult, sometimes even anger or tear-filled, but totally worth it, even if paying the bill causes both of us physical pain. Honestly, without it, we wouldn't have made it this far. That sounds dreary, I know, but it's really just the truth. It's also the truth that in some ways, our relationship is better than ever before. I find that I feel a lot lighter, in a sense.

Best of all, there have been a lot of changes in both of us that seem to have stuck. That's really the key, being able to permanently change some bullshit you've been causing in relationships forever. It's pretty tough, because you get so comfortable in who you are, even the shitty stuff you claim to hate about yourself, and changing's a major pain in the ass. Luckily, the lady's good and we're willing.

I've started working at the school Beau teaches at. It's been wonderful in some ways. I began in the office, covering for the school's secretary (they still use that word frequently here, and it still makes me wince). It was a non-stop, go-go-go job, but one I could do with my eyes closed and standing on my head. The pay was about $5/hour less than Auckland, YIKES, but I was told that was "good" compared to other jobs around here, that some people took a 50% cut in salary once they came back to the bush. Uh huh. Anyway, I liked the contact with the kids, the ease yet energy of the job, and the short hours. Going home at 2:30 or 3:00pm every day ROCKS!

When that stint ended they asked me to serve in another capacity - a little difficult to explain. The colloquial term here is "tracker" though more knowledgeable people seem to take offense at it. It's similar to a "para" in an American school. Basically, I sit all day with one student, a primary school boy of 10 years whom I'll call "Trucker." Trucker's got some major behavioral and learning problems and a family background that would make you cry and dash over and hug your kids RIGHT NOW. Overall, he's a pretty sweet boy and my heart just bleeds for him. They've got him on drugs which I admit, I approve of. Not just because they're the same drugs that have been prescribed to me in the past for ADD, but when he doesn't take them, controlling him becomes "challenging" (a MAJOR understatement).

When Trucker does take it, I do my best to get him to do a little bit of work in each subject, learn something new, and not kill any other students. So far, I've been wildly successful and have received a lot of positive comments. And his absence rate went from 50% to zero. It's really all about him, though. He just needs a lot of love and a little push and he does just fine.

I've also LOVED getting back into teaching, though I'm being generous with the word. I find it REALLY hard not to just assert myself as a teacher, since I was one for 3 1/2 years and loved it, and feel like I know what to do. But I have to keep telling myself that I'm supposed to mainly observe, record, and help Trucker (or others if they ask), NOT run the classroom.

It's a weird situation - like a one-room school house from Little House on the Prairie. There are children in there as young as five and as old as ten years old. There's a main teacher and an assistant. The main teacher is quite good, but it's not easy teaching all these kids and all these levels at one time. The assistant's a really nice lady, but classroom control is not her forte. And there are several kids in there with some real issues that could rival Trucker's. Not to mention many come from MASSIVE pot-growing/gang homes. I can't tell you how many times a kid has told me, "My dad's in the Mongrel Mob, you better watch out!" (Mongrel Mob is the Maori equivalent of Crypts or Bloods in the U.S.). Parents will even send their kids to school dressed in the "colors" of their gang.

I've never seen kids like this though. Beau's been telling me for years, and now I see it in person. Teachers hearing a "fuck you" is a daily occurrence, and often students are just damn cruel, to each other, AND to the teachers. Kids are caught smoking cigarettes or pot EVERY DAY, and a couple of the little ones have even tried to hit me (it was the last time they ever tried that!). Destruction of property, especially the schools, is really just sad. Students will just sit there and snap pencil after pencil. And one that really pisses me off - rampant stealing.

Getting them to do any homework is a joke, and the absentee rate is shocking. It's not unusual for a student to miss a whole week, just 'cause. There's one kid who only comes to school every 21 days, with his mother's consent! She needs him there in that timeframe to collect welfare checks for him, but otherwise, she couldn't give a shit whether he comes to school or not. And he doesn't.

And I know kids naturally tend to scuffle, but these kids, from the wee ones up through high school, seem ready to tear each other's face off at the drop of the hat. They have NO fear. A five year old will jump a nine year old with no problem. I personally break up anywhere from 1-10 fights a day, though it's usually just little kids pummeling each other, followed by heaps of tears. Beau, on the other hand, has broken up several fights with high school students, and that's some scary shit sometimes, especially when several join in. Some of these Maori boys are NOT small and even tower over Beau, who is a rather large man.

It sounds like I'm describing the worst school ever, but overall it's not doing too terribly. It definitely needs some work, but the principal works his ass off and the teachers, though occassionally demoralized, are good people who work hard.

And of course, I find I love being around the little kids. I'm just "gosh shucks awww"ing all over them. The little girls are all already in love with me, vying to hold my hand or give me a hug, and I frequently go home with at least one picture drawn for me. As for the boys, depends on their mood; they vacillate between love and hate for me, usually depending on what they think I'm letting them get away with. But I love them all. Even the little buttheads. Don't know how long it will last though. I'm there on some emergency funding which lasts for a few more weeks. Who knows after that? I would LOVE to get back to my book which has been snail-pacing along.

I still work nights doing that online text service thing, but overall it's been a pretty big disappointment and the organization is in a constant state of chaos. Seems every few days there's another memo sent out with another set of rules, more scolding of various employees, etc. And just recently, they LOWERED the rates they pay (We get paid for each question answered, not our time online). They have heaps of justifications for this, but really, in the end it's just bullshit. That wouldn't even be so bad if there were questions AVAILABLE to answer, but when you're scheduled for a couple hours at night, you're already tired from working during the day, and you sit there, staring at a blank computer screen (and there are 4 other "agents" on with you doing the same thing), it gets a bit annoying. Bummer, really. It's a COOL concept for a job, and great for me as I live out here in the Land of Nearly No Jobs, but we'll see what happens.

Being back here in the sunny Bay of Plenty (I don't know why they keep calling this region "sunny" since the weather seems rather uniform across the north island) is rather soothing. I miss Auckland, a lot actually, but I also love it here. When I'm outside walking around the grounds, with the green all around me and the river and ocean in the distance... I have Tonks trotting happily beside me, trailing behind her usually 2 of the 3 cats, and trailing even farther, the "chooks" (chickens) tottering along...I feel full. I feel just happy. I'm happy to be back with Beau and have a lot of hope for us. Part of me would like to stay here forever, but I also know I'd eventually go fairly batty. I need to be just a bit closer to active civilization, fast food, Asian grocery stores, movie theaters, bookstores and of course, restaurants that sell more than pot pies and deep fried fish.

For now, that's just a few hours drive away....

Victory! Wave the Flag!

Shortly after I arrived at work today, I got this IM from Beau:

"I am looking at your photo.... and it is next to... your brand new... NEVER BEEN USED.... permanent work permit!"

Hooray! We're permanent residents of New Zealand!

Finally! It should have taken about 3 months, but between notoriously slow and sketchy Thai officials, medical reviews going back and forth across the country, and a hair-pulling epic waiting period for Beau's school to cough up his contract, it took about 14 months.

Oh well, all's well that ends well. HOORAY!

Inappropriate Behavior: Possum Huntin'

This is one of several posts I had hoped to write during my mourning time in Auckland, but never got around to for obvious emotional reasons. But I don't want to lose it, because these are memories I really want to get DOWN on "paper" before I lose them. As I've mentioned before, I've written blogs on events from my days in Bangkok that I TOTALLY forgot about. That scares me, but makes me grateful that I took the time to record them. So, here we go...

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

Possums abound in New Zealand, to the tune of 70 million, in fact (the human population is about 4.5 million). Legally, they're considered a pest, and most people who live in this country and own a gun take great pleasure in shooting them. There are several reasons for this. Like any mammal in this country, the possum was introduced, not native, and so, without any natural predators, has spread across these two islands like the Swine Flu. They eat your gardens, your trees (good luck getting a single fruit from a fruit tree), and damage and eventually kill a lot of native plants and trees. We have a few fruit trees on our property, peach and plum, and I got 2 plums and no peaches last year - the possums had gnawed on them all, and only partially, which is somehow way more frustrating. And they drive my dog batshit crazy.

Even a local school will occasionally hold a possum hunt as a fundraiser.

When you tell a local about possums around your house, like, "Hey, I think I heard a possum last night,..." the first response you always get is, "Did you shoot it?"

The first time I heard one, I was in the bathroom, and I heard the familiar sound of tires on gravel outside the house. I stayed still to make sure someone was actually visiting us (a rare occurrence) so late at night. One small worry about living in the middle of nowhere, is you have a small bit of unease, as if someone could drive up your hidden driveway and slaughter you to death and no one would ever know and your dog and cats would feast on your dead carcass to survive. Or even if someone did get an emergency call, it'd take them over an hour to get there, so we're totally dead anyway.

Or maybe that's just me.

Anyway, the possums,...right. So, I continued brushing my teeth or whatever, and I heard the gravel sound again. And then it stopped. Perplexed, I opened the door and peered out. Nothing. At some point I figured out I was hearing a possum instead of a car. Me armed with a searchlight with the power of the Sun, and Beau with a rifle, we found it perched on top of a tree. Well, we smelled it before we saw it. For a cute fuzzy little thing, they stink like a dead Ton-Ton.

And with a bang that shattered the still of the night and made my own heart freeze for a few beats, the possum was dead. We called up our neighbor, Paula.

"What do you do with a possum?"

- "You kill it."

"No, it's already dead."

- "Great!"

They're actually pretty cute, unlike their haggard-looking American cousins. They're more teddy-bear like with soft fur that is made into expensive socks and mittens. Well, teddy bears with evil red eyes. Oh yeah, and they carry and spread Tuberculosis too! Awesome!

I'm building them up as these bad guys cause well, we shot them. A few of them. Okay, by "we" I mean that One-Shot Beau shot them. My job was to hunt them down. And as much as I hate hunting, and as awkward as I still feel about the whole thing, a part of me, honestly, also liked it. Okay, I said it. Now I feel like a jerk and not the great animal lover I claim to be.

Anyway, it was late at night, and one of those nights with no moon, so when I stepped outside it was total blackness. I could hear the ocean, as usual, but I couldn't see anything. I made a couple of ginger steps down from the deck when suddenly I heard a bunch of thrashing and running about. That sent me back into the house pretty damn quick. Until I realized, of course, that there's really nothing in New Zealand that could attack and hurt me, duh. Well, non-human anyway. I realized I was probably hearing possums. I looked at the clock -- it was midnight.

Tiptoeing into the bedroom, I leaned over Beau.

"Um, Beau? I know you're sleeping..."
- "Whuh!?"
"Well, there's a possum out there, and if you want to stay in bed..."
- "Huh?"
"Possums, outside, in the darkness...But I totally get it if you don't want to..."
- "No, I'm up."

A few minutes later we were dressed and ready. Me once again with my power light and Beau with his shotgun. Or rifle, or whatever. I flipped the switch and began scanning the trees. It was like the searchlight from a helicopter. Seconds later, the light caught a flash of neon red. Yikes. That's how you find them -- their eyes glow a diabolical red, unlike any animal I've ever seen. I guess that makes shooting them easier, if you imagine they've the devil in 'em.

One shot-Beau did it again. It was almost like a magic trick. There was the mind-jarring shot and a half second later the soft *thump* as the body hit the ground. We checked to make sure it was dead (yup, real dead), and grabbing it by the tail, Beau tossed it into the back of his truck. We continued on. There were more. *BAM* *BAM* Two shots, two more dead, two more tossed into the truck. I was relieved he was such a good shot; I think if one were still alive I wouldn't be able to take it. My searchlight fixated on the last one - spotted a good distance off in a tall tree.

"Is it too far?" I asked.
- "Hrmmm..." said Beau.

He raised his gun and shot. There was a great cacophony of breaking twigs and branches as the possum exited the world, downward. We gazed down where it was -- an impossible-to-reach place without some climbing rope and crampons. Hmmm.

Back at the truck, we stared at the bodies.

"How many do you have to skin to make money on them?" I asked.
- "They told me it takes about 14."
"14? That's a lot. How much money do you get for 14"
- "They said about $90."
"That doesn't seem like a lot."
- "So, get after it."
"What?"
- "Skinning them."
"Fuck no!"

I found out later there is some kind of hand machine you drop the dead possum in, turn a crank, and it somehow de-skins them as you wind it like a hand organ. Still.

The weird thing about this, besides some small residual guilt about killing ANYTHING, I don't feel totally bad about killing possums. I still don't believe in hunting for a sport, and am RABIDLY against trophy hunting, but it's good to see the "other side" of the issue, not that there are m(any) animal rights activists crowing for the NZ possum.

Still.

Personal Update - November 2009

As all 2 of you who read my blog know, Beau and I separated at the beginning of June, so about six months ago. We never really stopped talking, and neither one of us were happy with the way things turned out. I won't go into all the gory details, and I doubt much people would care. But just to make sure the progression of this blog make some sense, things are coming back together....slowly...which includes us.

We're in therapy, which is intense and interesting and sometimes hard as hell (what happened to the fun kind of therapy where you get to blab your guts out and told how unfair the world was to you?). The therapist is sympathetic and thorough, yet she doesn't let us get away with anything, which I think is great. I think she's pretty awesome, and besides, how many of them allow you to bring your dog so it can have a playdate with the therapist's dog? It's not always easy to find out some of the stuff you do is really fucked up and needs to change, and that goes for BOTH Beau and I, but I'm pretty proud how both of us are facing it and making a sincere effort.

So, we talk every night on Skype, and nearly every weekend one of us drives to see the other (5 hour journey) or we meet halfway in between where the therapist is and spend the day there. Beau's going to be working at his school in the bush for quite some time yet, and my current job ends either at the end of December or January. There are a few options we're discussing like my moving back to the bush (and Beau...and Tonks and Fern), my staying here and getting a permanent job, or my moving to Tauranga, the city halfway between us, and getting a job there (since we'd like to actually live there permanently someday - the bush is not a long-term option), etc. There are LOTS of variables influencing our decisions, some which we can't force, which makes me crazy, because I hate not knowing the projection of my life, at least in the short-term. And the pro's and con's seem to be evened out no matter what we do. Argh!

In other news, it looks like our permanent residency status will come through in a matter of days or weeks (depending on fast they cash our "migrant levy" check). That's fantastic news for a number of reasons, one big one being that someone will actually be interested in hiring me for a real job instead of trolling for low-paying temp jobs. It also means cheaper and better health care, MUCH cheaper schooling (if I want to go back for teaching), the ability to buy a car/home/expensive furniture or appliances if need be, and a general sense of peace knowing you don't have to apply and pay for work permits every few months. I'm really excited about that. I want to do something big and celebratory for it. In New Zealand, that only means getting completely shit-faced drunk. I don't mind that part, but I need some food and entertainment thrown in too.

:)

It's Not an Illegal Drug if its for Cultural Purposes

Back when Beau and I were doing the "He drives, she reads aloud" thing I loved so much, we read two hysterical books called, The Sex Life of Cannibals and Getting Stoned with Savages by J. Maartin Troost. They were written by a (Dutch-born) American guy and his gf who spent years on obscure Pacific islands. She did life-saving development work. He...got high with locals and occasionally wrote about the surroundings. But in the end, he published a highly-successful series of books. So maybe I should shut-up and think about trying his method of writing instead of my own.

So obviously, a large part of the plot of Getting Stoned with Savages detailed just that. The author easily befriends the locals and they all frequently consume the narcotic of choice: kava. Beau and I had never heard of kava before, and in the book, the author initially described it in Vanuatu as roots of the kava plant chewed up by young boys then spit into shells to be drunk. The first time the author tried it, it tasted awful, but it really fucked him up. So of course, he was hooked.

Later in the book, when they move to Fiji, his only source of kava is markedly less...authentic. Now it is in powder form which the author turns his nose up at though begrudingly still consumes.

As you can imagine, Beau and I were intrigued. We're not drug takers, and Beau's occasional reoccuring smoking habit is a source of powerful tension between us, but the book was so entertaining, and the author made the experience seem so interesting, we always wondered.

One night, I was -HORRORS- out of rice, and had only realized it after I had already started preparing stir fry. I dashed to the car and drove to the nearest "dairy." In New Zealand, there is a dairy on nearly every major corner and always one in the thousands of mini strip malls that dot Auckland. Dairies are basically Ma & Pop shops, a 7-11 if it had a soul. Since the demographic of my neighborhood is heavily Indian/Sri-Lankan, I figured the local dairy would most likely have rice. Yeah, it's a stereotype, so what!

I drove up, and as I got out of my car, I saw a ginormous sign in the window with large black letters: KAVA SOLD HERE.

No way.

I entered the shop and was immediately hit with a plume of Indian spices. A dark, balding man approached me with a big smile. I self-consciously inquired about the kava and his face lit up. He reached over and grabbed a small, white pouch of powder. "Five dollars," he said.

Cheap high.

I then started asking him exactly how the whole process was done. He got excited and came from behind the counter and started motioning me toward the back of the store. "Come on, come on, I'll show you!" he said.

I hesitated. Isn't this the part in every C&I show I've seen, and I've seen a LOT of them, where the woman gets abducted? On the other hand, isn't this also how every one of my crazy adventures across the world has started out? Really friendly people, a language constraint, an interesting experience.

I followed him to the back where there was a curtain obscured a doorway. He pulled it back to reveal a tiny space with only a sink, a large bowl with murky grey liquid and a crate. A very placid, happy-looking man was sitting on the crate. He looked up and serenly greeted me. I felt weird.

There was already a silky-looking cloth tied to the faucet and the man, who now introduced himself as Mohammed, began showing me exactly how to strain the kava from the powder into an awaiting bowl. "Do you want to try some?" he asked.

Sure!

He took a tiny bowl and dipped it in the grey water and handed it to me. I looked up at both of them, "Um, all at once or sip it?"

"Whatever you like," they both shrugged.

I took the biggest swallow I could and made a face. It tasted like gym sneakers.

"Good?" Mohammed asked.

"Not really," I said. "Can I still drive home? Is it safe?"

They laughed. Of course it was safe.

After a few moments, I was starting to lose feeling in my tongue. I mentioned this. The men were unconcerned.

"The more you drink it, the less that will happen," said the man on the crate.

Erm, okay.

Honestly, I didn't feel much at all, maybe just a little.

So, I got my rice, my little bag of kava powder, and waved goodbye to the still beaming Mohammed, who told me he was always open very late so feel free to come whenever I needed something.

I got home and looked at the bag of powder. Being a work night, I wasn't going to have it then. It'd just have to wait til the weekend when I was going to see Beau, and of course, that's another story.

Prairie Dog Days

Life keeps truckin along, nothing too exciting, THANKFULLY. It always seems when you're at your lowest financially and emotionally that shit seems to snowball. I've had a few bad events, but nothing that will wipe me out. It's just forcing me to be even more of a hermit than usual.

The new job is kind of interesting. It's exam time and my main duty is to type them up to Very. Specific. Specifications. Overall, the professors are nice, except for one ol' curmudgeon who I seriously considered strangling and dumping his body in the ocean, but quickly realized that I might lose my temp job, so decided against it.

The best part are my co-workers, who are the most amazingly motley crew in age, ethnicity, and attitude. There's the sour but witty ginger gal; the strangely apathetic yet hard-working young Maori woman; the tiny, silly Filipina; the barely-audible, ethereal-voiced older white Kiwi woman; and the highly-detailed yet easily confused and gullible Vietnamese woman. And me, the smart-ass, goofy American with the ever-changing hair (I just re-dyed it back to brown because I'm so damn broke I couldn't keep up with the blonde highlights -- *sniff*).

In my usual way, I immediately befriended the Filipina and Vietnamese women by speaking their own languages to them, even going so far as to sing the folk song Katakataka in its entirety to the the former. My smart-assiness fit in well with the ginger gal and anyone could get along with Miss Ethereal. The Maori woman, though, is a tough nut to crack.

When I started the job, I had already been carrying a stupid cold for over a week, so figured I wasn't contagious anymore. Still, it was pretty damn embarrassing to be new at a job and find yourself bellowing phlegmy coughing fits every 15 minutes and snorting buckets of snot into dozens and dozens of tissues. Also, I sounded like a 75 year-old Lucky Strikes smoker with lung cancer -- and this is me after feeling much better!

When 2 days later, Miss Ethereal came down with a wicked cold, I felt like a complete fucking jerk. But when you're a temp, sick days aren't an option. I had gone to great pains not to touch anyone and washed my hands with OCD-faithfulness. Still, what an ass.

Another week went by and though I was feeling even better than before, I would still find it hard to breathe when I exerted myself and would get chest pains. The worst part? About 1/2 deaf! My ears were hopelessly clogged. I waited it out for a couple days, then gave in and bought ear drops. God, ear drops SUCK! Squeezing a slimey liquid into your ear and then encouraging it down the canal is one disgusting feeling. Another 3 days went by. Still deaf. I could tell it was becoming annoying to my co-workers, who working in one large room, were used to just shouting to each other. I lived like a prairie dog, occasionally catching something that sounded like my name on the wind and then promptly popping up from chair, head above my cubicle, head swiveling around for the origin. Then I would usually have to walk over to the person so I could actually comprehend what they were saying.

I realized I would have to see a doctor, but was concerned since having no residency, health care costs were a major issue, and I was, as usual, low on cash. My co-workers surprised me in their sweetness -- all of them simultaneously started either calling their own GPs (general practitioner) or searched on their computers for a cheap, local one. Withing minutes, various printouts and notes were being pushed my way, until we found one not too far from my house that charged just $40 for a "casual patient." A few hours later, I was off, squirming about missing the several hours of work from my paycheck, but knowing it was necessary.

The medical centre was like walking into a Cambodian rural clinic. It wasn't exactly...dirty...but had a run-down, dirtiness about it. It was packed with some scary looking people and several screaming babies. Many people did not speak English, which made me think this is where immigrants (like me) came for cheap health care. I was told the doctor was running "a little behind" which made me wince. I was right too -- I would sit in my chair, my clothes soggy from the downpour outside, for well over an hour waiting for my turn.

When I got in, I was greeted by a Filipina who must have been pushing 100 years old. I explained to her about my 2 week+ cold and she immediately launched into a scolding rant while I listened, as best I could, with jaw agape. Who goes to the doctor for a cold unless it gets to this point anyway? After a short exam, she started scolding me again, telling me I was on the verge of developing pneumonia. PNEUMONIA. Great. JUST great. Look, give me the prescription and let me be on my way. Lecturing just pushes my homicidal button.

I finally got out of there and made it to the tiny pharmacy where 2 people I recognized from the waiting room were already there. One girl, talking to the pharmacist, was holding up a heavily-bandaged finger, where I caught part of her conversation: "...and every time I tell someone it happened because I got bit by a pig, they start laughing at me."

I burst out laughing.

The girl whirled around, where next to me, the other woman was chuckling too, though a bit more furtively than I. I laughed harder.

"HOW did you get bit by a pig?" I asked. I mean, back in the bush where I lived and pigs were either raised or hunted wild, I get it. But in Auckland?

Apparently she had been at some sort of petting zoo and got chomped there. Still funny.

So, it's been several days since I started taking my antibiotics and...well, my ears are still plugged, I still occasionally cough, and I still can't exert myself too much. But there's some hope -- every once in awhile when I yawn one ear will pop deliciously open for a brief 1-2 seconds before clomping closed again.

sigh

Back for Now

I knew I would never stay away forever, but though I have nearly written a blog a couple dozen times, I always stopped part way through it. I guess I just wasn't ready. I even started to try to write pre-break-up blogs, because there were some memories I wanted to write down before I forgot them...because I will forget them, beyond vague imagery and the powerful feelings left behind (I always remember how I felt about something more than the event itself), but they never quite materialized, though I did get quite a bit way through the midnight possum hunt Beau and I had. I'll finish that at some point.

The other reason I didn't post was that my very first job -- that great one I began with such promise and hope -- my first Kiwi position, ended unbelievably horribly, and except for several hyperbolic moments in Bangkok, can easily be said to be the worst work experience of my life (Montana couldn't even compete). And knowing how my work experiences in the past few years have been less than fortunate, I grew tired of once again getting into the whole story -- of explaining why and how. But I can't resist explaining...just a little bit.

I started working at a health clinic as the clinic manager, and entered the job with gusto. Two of my co-workers were great people, and the psychologists there were all friendly and welcoming -- one was even a gregarious American. But the boss turned out to be a complete and total psycho control freak. It started nearly the moment I arrived, though I couldn't really know at the time, when she walked me around the clinic and instructed me just how EXACT the pillows had to be placed on each couch, how I had to straighten up and throw away papers on the shrinks' desks (touch their shit?), how I had to use THIS pad of paper to take notes, and never use that one, etc. I mentally shrugged at the time -- big deal, I can do that -- but didn't know that the woman's control went farther than how many rolls of toilet paper I had in the cabinet or what kind of shirt I was wearing (yes, she critiqued how I dress).

Let's just say, for only the second time in my life (see my Roadhouse experience here), I walked out on a job. Oh, I stayed that last night and tied up EVERY SINGLE loose end, as well as leaving long, type-written notes for everyone in there who might be affected by my departure. Still, it was awful, despite the fact that my leaving was a mutual decision. That day, 2 psychologists came up and hugged me and said, "You're doing the right thing to get out of here." (One has since left, the other only worked one day a week and was already finding it trying).

Since I left in June, 3 psychologists and 4 other staff members have left and I hear that 2 psychologists are now grumbling and another staff person is considering leaving. That's 7 people in 3 months. Oh, and the place was thousands and thousands of dollars in debt when I got there, and the bank was ONLY paying out our salaries, but nothing more, so every time toner ran out or the copy machine stopped working, it was a major disaster. Not to mention that every day I had to field calls from a slew of justifiably angry bill collectors who hadn't been paid for 3-4 months and had had enough.

One good thing came out of it -- I made a fantastic friend there, one I really have a lot in common with. She has since quit (naturally), and we meet up when we can and always have a great time together. So, I guess it wasn't all bad.

That was my introduction to the workforce, and it was rather demoralizing. All the while, I had rent to pay, electricity, which is WAY beyond what I ever paid in the U.S., and all the other usual stuff to keep you alive. My salary at the clinic was a good one, and I figured it wouldn't be long before I found another job and could settle in again.

Shit, I was wrong.

And of course, I was also dealing with the crumbling of my marriage, which had left me with a deep ache alternating between sharp pains and a burning sensation which emanated from my chest and spread outwards. I walked around half-zombie, half mental patient, feeling so fragile, and constantly fighting off the urge to burst out into ugly sobbing at any given moment. Those are the days where you can't imagine getting through the day and you think the pain will never subside enough for you to lead a normal life. But it does, slowly.

I went through a myriad of things during this time, some of it was actually good, for though part of me was wounded and part of me was enraged, another part of me was full of love and wonder, and I used that to keep myself afloat and to clean out some of the cobwebs in my head.

Anyway, now I'm here, in Auckland, still. I really love Auckland -- all the perks of a big city with all the beauty and tranquility of a suburb. What I didn't quite realize was that in this recession (yes, here too), a foreigner with a simple work permit is of no use to a company who is already laying off workers AND who also has to prove to the government that there isn't a single other Kiwi who could do the same job - not easy when your skills lay in the un-skilled realm of administration. As soon as it was learned that I didn't have permanent residency, backs were turned. Still, I applied eagerly -- 30 jobs in about two weeks.

Nothing. Zippo.

I registered with temp agencies. EIGHT of them. Finally, work started trickling in. I worked for the government doing data entry. That was fine, and had some interesting people. I did mock interviews for big corporate company, which was fine as well. Then most recently I got a position with one of the universities, hooray(!), for a whole month to cover a receptionist on leave (you can do that here in New Zealand, go on leave for a month). Everyone in the department was super nice, and the month flew by. The wages sucked (after paying rent and bills, I was down to about $70 NZD/week for food, gas, parking and anything else), but it was just such a wonderful place to be in after my awful clinic manager experience. My last day at the department was this past Friday, and I was sad to say goodbye. They were just the kind of people you love to work with -- kind, funny, close, cat lovers.

And tomorrow I start another assignment, also at the university, though in a different department on a different campus. It's another clerical job with a big emphasis on typing. That's fine. At this point, until I get my permanent residency (hopefully, sometime in October), there isn't much I can do but just keep treading water.

And that hasn't been all my own doing. Part of my staying afloat has to do with my landlord, who lives on the property and has been completely understanding and kind. Many times my rent was late, real late, and he was always fine with it. He said, "I'll never come over and demand the rent. Please, don't worry about anything." Wow...wonderful.

But the truth is, it's really Beau that has thrown me a life preserver (or two). There were a few weeks in between my leaving the health clinic and finding any kind of steady work, and during those lean times it was his paycheck that kept my heat on (it was still winter) and food in my belly. And here it is, about 4 months later, and he hasn't had one paycheck that I haven't pilfered in one way or another. I am now at the point where I am caught up on rent, electricity, and internet bills (yeah, as poor as I am, you don't go without internet unless you want to find my cold, dead, bored body), but I'm still unable to make it completely unsubsidized. It's pathetic, but it's getting better.

I did have one hiccup. One day, out of the blue (after biting an olive with a pit inside), my front tooth came off. Yeah, broke right off. Okay, it wasn't like my real-real tooth, it was one of those veneer things. But it was RIGHT IN THE FRONT!. The NEXT day I had an interview for a REAL job at the university for gobs of money. How can I go in there like a fucking hick? I panicked, but did find a dentist on a Sunday and promised him sex and my first born child to fix it. He did stun me when I pulled out a wad of damp bills and said, "I only have $90, can I give you $50?" and then proceeded to say, No, he was going to take the whole $90. Bastard. An hour later I left with a new tooth and a bill for $650 (minus the $90).

Oh, and as for the job interview, they said they loved me, I was their #2 pick, but they picked someone else cause they'd already worked with her before. GODDAMMIT.

And as for Beau and I. I don't know. We don't know. We had a few good, long talks on the phone, and then we downloaded Skype and talk quite a bit every day. We've visited each other several times, and as usual with Beau, it's always been a great time. I love being around him, always have, that hasn't changed. I love him. But, things are different now. I want it to be better, and frankly, I'm willing to do quite a lot for it, but there are things that have to happen first.

I feel like I've been gone (from him, our dog, and our gorgeous place in the bush) forever, and some things about that have been really good for me, and some things have just sucked. I'm not in intense pain anymore, though I still have my moments. I'm just trying to live my life, which frankly, feels a bit in limbo right now. Without a husband, but not divorced, without a real job, but still working, without any kind of citizenship, but living as a lifetime Kiwi. I'm trying to be patient until these are all resolved.

And I'm not a patient kind of girl.

Warm Chilly Nights

New Zealand homes are notoriously NON-insulated, so even when the weather is only slightly chilly outside, you can be shivering in your socks inside. It's the strangest thing to be living in such a truly temperate climate, and yet if the weather is just a tiny bit hot or tiny bit cold, you suffer. As soon as I hear the house start creaking and stretching, I rush to fling open windows and the sliding glass door to get as much air in as possible, or it'll start sweltering inside.

And now that we're in Fall and heading toward Winter, it's time to heat the house. And how is our home heated here? With a fireplace. Sort of. It's a cross between a fireplace and a pot-bellied stove, which makes it both charming and inefficient. It's a tiny fireplace too, so it can only hold a couple pieces of wood at a time. But it does the job though, as long as your sitting in the living room. Luckily, we have the snuggliest down comforters and crocheted blankets for the bedroom, so all's good.

Also luckily, we don't lack for wood considering we live deep within them and so, have unlimited access to fuel. After much trolling, Beau finally scored a new chainsaw off of TradeMe which is New Zealand's version of ebay. He was so jazzed to get it, and when it came in the mail and seemed to be of a totally mysterious brand (i.e. NO brand discernible and questionable English in the user's manual, uh oh), he realized he probably got a cheap Chinese import. Ahhh well, so far it does the job, which is to cut wood, so as long as it doesn't fly apart and slice his face off, we're satisfied.

Over the weekend, with Tonks sitting happily in the back of the pick-up, we drove down the road to our neighbor, Paula, (the owner's sister), who had a giant pile of tree branches to be cut for fuel. Beau went to work chainsawing away, and me, with my new leather utility gloves (gift from Beau) started loading the wood into the back of the truck as Tonks was having a playdate with Paula's black lab. I even had a go at the chainsaw myself, but it spooks me, so I gave it back to Beau.

The air was crisp and as usual, the scenery was rugged and beautiful. I just couldn't help but think of the Italian line, "strano il mio destino," or "strange my destiny." Here I am, this total city girl, loading wood into the back of my beat-up "ute" as my pig dog runs around me in the middle of the woods, the middle of nowhere, in New Zealand.

Am I happy out here in nowhere land? For the most part, yes. I'm still dazed and amazed by the view of the ocean I see out my windows and the gorgeous forest around me. I'm writing, another dream come true. And hell, I'm in New Zealand. This is where I want to be.

But I've also been shocked how such solitude, something I always dreamed of (complete with satellite internet and cable), can actually be rather difficult. Many days can go by where Beau is the only other human being I have any contact with, and there are times when he gets home, where I just pounce on him verbally, since I have SO MUCH to tell him. As much as I adore Tonks, and the kitties, Fern and Claus, they're really not enough unless I want to be crazy talk-to-her-pets-like-they're-REALLY-people lady.

We drive into town once or twice a week, but even the closest town is pretty pitiful and you can only frequent the same restaurant or same stores so many times before it stops being that satisfying.

So, strange my destiny, that a woman who has lived in Bangkok and New York is now living in a place that doesn't even have a real postal address. A woman who now takes care of her chickens, and hunts possums (more on that one later). A woman who walks around in gumboots more than she does heels.

The truth is, I'll always be a city girl, I just will. I miss the access to food, classes, entertainment, and jobs. But I'm living in a beautiful little dream right now, and I'm going to do my best to truly appreciate that. You never know when things change. Hell, it's me we're talking about. I could be moving in another month!

Big Bang Baby, It's A Crash Crash Crash

I should have just written about this here instead of posting a provocative "status update" on Facebook. The power of Facebook! Instant sympathy with no details needed!

Yesterday I had to drive to the town an hour away to pick up Tonks. Beau and I have been in Auckland for over 4 days, and there are only 2 two-hour windows each day to pick her up which is kind of impossible to make when road tripping by night. I picked her up, she went SUPER spazzo like I expected (she's still a puppy, she's still a puppy), and put her in the back on the car and we were off.

It was a great day. I got to stop at the pottery place I love and buy 2 bowls and one coffee container. We are slowly accumulating all our dishware this way, in two's, like Noah's Ark, but at a bit of a slower pace.

I picked up some groceries, got the good dog food from the vet for Tonks, and even filled up the gas tank -- I felt immensely responsible and headed for home after a couple hours. Tonks had her head hanging joyously out the window.

I had only gotten about 10-15 minutes out of town. I was rounding one of 10,000 corners on this road when the car swerved a little. I immediately tried to correct it, and suddenly it was as if car was alive, and I was driving Christine. The car was violently careening back and forth, while I made desperate attempts to control it. With each jerk, out of the corner of my eye I could see Tonks being flung around the car, letting out a sharp howl each time she hit something. It's amazing how in just a few seconds, so many things fly through your head. It's not like they say -- "everything goes in slow motion" -- it didn't. It was so fast, and I was just barely reacting to it all. But it was like my thoughts were matching the lightning speed of the events around me.

I thought about how bad I felt that Tonks was being thrown around like a rag doll. I thought about how I couldn't believe I couldn't get control of this car. I thought about how stupefied I was that the car had gained a life of its own like this, I saw the embankment coming and thought that I was about to be in a lot of trouble... or worse.

Supposedly, I hit the embankment full on (about 12 feet high) and then spun 360 degrees to hit it head on again. The seatbelt locked in and the airbags deployed. "It's a miracle you didn't flip," said the ambulance worker, "Cars always flip in these situations."

Immediately after the final head-on hit, I stared at the hood, which was now smoking alarmingly. As if I was in a Hollywood movie, all I could think of was, "It's gonna blow! It's gonna blow!" I scrambled to free myself from the car. The seatbelt was stuck. The key (the car was still running) was stuck, the door was stuck. "The car's going to explode!" was all I could think of. I finally got the key to turn off, though it wouldn't come out. I got the seatbelt off and the door open. I turned and grabbed Tonks's leash (still attached to her collar) and led her out with me. I staggered away from the car...my hips and chest aching, my neck and arms burning.

Within seconds, people started appearing. A large Maori man with his eyes like saucers stared at me. It was his large place that I had crashed near. "It was so loud," he kept saying. Others started pulling over, including a woman who had just minutes ago annoyed me in the grocery store. *blush*

The trunk had blown open and all the groceries were strewn across the road, including the expensive bag of dog food. I just stood there, holding onto Tonks's leash, stunned, shocked. "Beau's going to kill me!" I thought over and over. He always thinks that I go too fast and I had no idea why it might have happened except for the fact that maybe I had come around the corner too quickly. It all just seemed too weird though.

A young girl had called the police and ambulance, and they arrived from town rather quickly. There was now quite a crowd, and I was feeling a little awkward. The girl let me use her phone, and for the second time in as many months, I called the school and told the woman who answered, "Get Beau, it's an emergency."

Everyone was very nice, and what was left of my groceries and dog food was picked up off the highway and placed on the side of the road. The onlookers, police, and ambulance workers unanimously stated that the back tire had blown out and been the cause of the accident. I felt immensely relieved by this. I knew I hadn't been going over the speed limit (100kph), but I was wrong. Sort of.

It seems awhile back there had been a 30kph sign posted. About 3 feet in front of my accident sight was the 100kph sign. The 30kph signs are used for construction which is frequent on the highway between our place and town. Usually this involves a group of burly and burnt men standing on the side of the road while we drive by at a crawl, gravel crackling and popping around us. In the area I had been in there were a couple of cones on the side of the road, but no construction. This had annoyed the police officer at the scene who grumbled that construction crews often left their signs around when there was no real work in the area anymore.

I felt Tonks all over her body, pressing into her muscles and feeling her legs, but besides a little shock, she seemed totally fine. I couldn't believe it, especially since she had been thrown around the car like a rag doll.

I was then led into the back of an ambulance by a very nice EMT lady, and Tonks was allowed too! I was quickly checked, and after several "tsk's" at the sight of the seatbelt marks across my neck and chest and some mysterious welts in other places, it was determined that I was merely banged to shit, and had nothing broken. "You're very lucky, you know," she said, "Air bags don't deploy without quite an impact."

I have no memory of the air bag, none at all, though it's shriveled afterbirth is still stuck to the steering wheel.

The police officer took my statement, and after investigating a bit, determined it wasn't my fault *phew* He looked up and chuckled. "They sure clear out fast, don't they?" he said. The onlookers, ambulance workers, fire truck, other police officer, and tow truck (with totaled car attached), had all vanished. It was just the two of us now. He let Tonks and I sit in the back of his air-conditioned car (it's still the edge of summer here) and wait for Beau to arrive.

Then, after what seemed FOREVER, Beau pulled up in our now only remaining vehicle -- a beat-up ol' 1987 truck. Seeing him emerge and walk toward us was a wonderful moment.

I know I'm lucky. My injuries, though painful and colorful, are all superficial. The biggest reason though? Just a few miles further up is when this "coastal highway" does just that -- hugs the coast. The view is impressive, not just for its beauty, but for its drop-off that makes your stomach somersault with just a glance. I had no control over that car whatsoever. If it had been just 5 more minutes into my drive, I'd probably be dead.

This morning I feel like total shit. My entire body is stiff and the few remaining places that didn't hurt yesterday are screaming in protest and pain today. I walk around like I'm wearing a neck brace and do the Playboy bunny squat when trying to pick things up. The most amusing though is literally rolling out of bed and then pushing myself up from all fours until I can stand. My entire torso is too sore to pull myself up from any kind of position.

And so today I putter around the house like an old woman, and soon the call to the insurance agency. Hopefully, I'll have as much luck with them as I did with my crash.

Tonks Sucks, I Suck

My "puppy" Tonks is 7 months old, which Beau keeps reminding me means she's "still a puppy" but I'm pretty much fed up with all the puppy shit and think it's about time it ended. I'll go through about a week of totally loving this dog -- she'll be perfect! Fun, funny, a good companion, obedient, etc. Then the next week, she'll chew the shit out of 5 favorite things, bite the cat's head, and the one that makes me the craziest -- takes off from our "land" and runs off down the highway. Yes, the HIGHWAY! I know it's a 2-lane country highway, but it's mad curvy, sees a very small, but steady stream of traffic, and ... it's a HIGHWAY!

This is a big bummer for me, because when we moved here, one of the best things was that Tonks could just basically live outside all day, running around the hills and different yards of our place. Spending most of the day inside, I'd occasionally see her trotting happily around, tail high and slightly wagging, face looking jolly.

Then we figured out that she had not only figured out how to make it down to the highway (which is actually not all that easy since we're in a dense forest area), but that she had found a dead hawk on the road and... WAS EATING IT! I know! Gross! She brought it back up to the lawn around the house, and there were brown feathers and hawk guts EVERYWHERE. Totally puke-inducing.

So, I started going outside more often, at least once an hour, and I'd call her name to make sure she was around. After a few bellows, she usually would bound up to me at 100 mph, tongue lolling out, all expectant. I'd usually give her a tiny treat for her obedience.

But we let her into the house in the evenings, and just the other day, just around dusk, we let her out to go wee. After about 15 minutes, we noticed that she hadn't returned on her own, as normal. We went outside and starting calling and calling, whistling and whistling. No dog.

"She went to the highway," said Beau. I knew he was right...and I was scared. She'd never NOT come back before, even when it was clear she had been up to no good -- coming back after several calls, drenched, and covered in mud.

So, we got in Beau's shithole pickup and started down the highway looking for her. Beau looked out one side, me the other. We got all the way to our neighbor's place a few kilometers down the road.... no dead dog on the road....phew, but still, no dog.

We turned around and started driving back, and halfway there, she popped out of the bush on the side of the road -- the OTHER side of the road by the ocean, a couple miles from our house. And this all in about 15 minutes!

I was slightly relieved, but a lot more pissed. She jumped into the back of the truck, and we went back, before I killed her on her own.

So, more and more often, she's been spending a lot of time hooked on her long chain. Of course, even though it is rather long, and she is under an enormous car park shelter, she hates it. Better than having her splattered all over the highway, but I still hate keeping her chained up so often.

And how does she show her dissatisfaction? By chewing the FUCK out of anything she can possibly reach. Bags of soil, shoes, garden tools, plants, etc. It's like a little kid -- you try to remove anything you think they can possibly reach, and yet, they still seem to get to stuff...

Yesterday, I came out and was surprised to find Beau's NEW swim fins on the ground, near the guilty-looking dog. They had been hanging in a net bag on a hook up on one of the carport's wooden beams. Tonks had chewed through the net bag, the fins had dropped out, and she had then proceeded to chew on the fins themselves, taking them from shiny and new, to shitty looking. After smacking Tonks on the butt with one of them, and giving her a few choice words, I placed them on top of the car's trunk to get them out of her way. Then I went to feed the chickens.

A couple hours later I had to go to the local medical clinic to get some blood drawn. It's approximately a 20 minute drive to the clinic, and when I had called them from home, they had told me if I had to make it there within the next 30 minutes. Naturally, most of the way there I was behind a slow car, which can be rather maddening when you're the ONLY two cars in the universe, which is what it feels like out here. Finally, we reached a straightaway, and the car sped up a bit, hooray! As I was singing along to my iTunes player and speeding up a little, I looked into my rearview mirror. I saw two bright blue shapes explode into the air behind me, flutter gracefully, and then disappear out of my view.

FUCK!!!

The swim fins. I had totally forgotten they were there. And I had already been on the road for 15 minutes! I immediately pulled over next to an old tractor, then turned around and drove as slowly as I could up and down the road. Didn't see them anywhere. Lots of yellow brush grass on the sides of the road. I looked at the clock -- I had 10 minutes to get to the clinic. I was about 5 minutes away. But I did have a small dilemma -- you leave something like that out here for more than a few minutes, and it's probably going to be happily claimed by someone as their new prize.

Well, I decided I had to go get the blood drawn (immigration thing) and then I'd come back and do a better search. I walked back to the car and saw the old tractor, which I thought was just a piece of junk on the side of the road, pulling onto the road. A man, who looked like he was about 126 years old, was driving.

I got in the car and pulled slowly up beside him. I tried to talk to him through the window, but nothing could be heard above the rattle of the tractor. We pulled over.

"Hi!" I said, "I live here...over at the river...at Dave's place..." I was trying to establish that I wasn't the typical white devil that many Maori can see us as, but as a legitimate local. I was okay!

The man opened his mouth, which appeared to be lacking any teeth, and kind of moaned. Uh oh. It was quite possible that he was a local who only spoke Maori. I immediately went into my ESL-Teacher mode, gesticulating with my specialized language-barrier-beating sign language and talking slowly and clearly. He made a few more moan sounds, and I wasn't sure if he was getting any of it. Then, he began to speak English to me, and the more I talked, the more aware I became that yes, he spoke English, and yes, idiot that I was, probably understood every word I was saying. I told him about the fins.

"Ohhhh, someone probably picked them up..." he said. This almost made me laugh, since like I said, a few more minutes and yeah, I could probably kiss them goodbye.

After a few more awkward moments, I just let him know that if he should see them, they were mine, and I'd be back ASAP. Then, feeling a little more stupid, we both got back on our vehicles and were off.

I returned from the clinic about 20 minutes later, and parked the car on the side of the road. I got out, and started to walk, searching the side, peering into the bush. After I rounded a corner, and the car was out of sight, I started to wonder if leaving the keys in the car, even in the middle of nowhere, was really such a smart idea. Well, must have been, because I continued walking up the road, searching searching.... I got pretty far, and crossed over, to come back. Uh oh, this didn't look good.

Finally though, after passing a couple farms and a perplexed cow, I came upon one dusty fin sitting in the brush. Yes! Okay, the second couldn't be too far off, right? I know I never took Physics, but still. I didn't see it at first, but finally spotted it....down in a ditch about 10 feet down. Of course.

After a humorous descent through brambles and bushes, I reached and retrieved Beau's poor fin.

The ride home was surprisingly without incident.

Daily Routine; Cocksucker!

I was just thinking this morning that I never write those neat, little "update on my life" blogs that most do, and that I should, since although my life isn't terribly exciting, I don't always need to be writing on an issue or peculiar cultural occurrence, especially since the latter don't happen as much as they used to, and I spend the majority of my time alone in the midst of a jungle-forest.

So, here I am about to describe my daily, mundane routine. And then I remembered that cocksucker!

Every morning I get up and after emerging from zombieland, I go out and put on my gumboots. These are the shoes of choice in our area where rain is a common occurrence and there's lots of muck about. Of course, I got myself a fashionable pair, which are now respectfully stained, so I can always look legitimate, but fabulous!

I put those on, and whistle to my dog, Tonks, who spends most of her time outside, as it makes her happy and having her inside usually makes me unhappy, as in the cartoon-like set of muddy tracks she left on the carpet from front to back door the other day *mutter*

But she loves doing stuff with me outside, and accompanies me each morning on this little chore. Typically, we are also accompined by our cat, Fern, who runs around in the background, tempting Tonks to 'come and get her!' This usually ends up with me hollering at Tonks to stop attacking the cat and at Fern to stop antagonizing the dog. Tonks will try to look appropriately ashamed, as she is displaying in this photo from this morning. Fern could care less.

Then, we set off to the "chooks." This is the term for chickens here, which most people have wandering their yard or in a coop like mine. From the owners of our house, we have inherited their own clutch of five hens... and one COCK.

At first the rooster seems rather benign. He's slightly smaller than the hens, who push him around. For example, there's a whole line of silverbeet, a kind of nasty-tasting cross between bok choy, kale, and celery which grows along the outside of the coop. The owners planted it, and showed me how they picked off leaves each day and threw them over the fence of the coop to the chooks, who quickly devour it. I've watched many times as I've done the same -- the hens literally shove the rooster out of the way where he stands, a bit awkwardly, and kind of waits for them to get their fill, or more likely, for them to get distracted by the next piece thrown over the fence.

And the best part -- he's fluffy. He's a fluffy rooster! Cute, right? He's a damn cocksucker, he is.

So next, I'll go around the coop where the chicken feed, a vat of boring, brown pellets, are stored. I scoop up a batch of that in a little white bucket with a handle, and I enter the coop, where by now, the hens are RIGHT at the door waiting for me.

I admit, I'm a little spooked by them. I know they can't really hurt me, but still! They have beaks and those gnarly, nasty-ass claws, and they're rather aggressive. This is one of the main reasons I wear gumboots. That way I don't have to worry about them pecking my feet or something, which they seemed inclined to do when I enter their coop, bucket in hand. All they seem to know is: human = brown pellets, and so they swarm me in an alarming way.

So, I'll throw out their feed, some on the ground to distract them, and the rest goes into a cute little chicken trough which is under cover from rain. I then go to their nests, of which there are four. But they all seem to lay their eggs in the first or second one, almost totally ignoring the third and fourth. I collect the eggs, and the chooks, still totally immersed in their feeding frenzy, have by now ignored my presence.

On this particular day, I was finished and was on my way out of the coop. I was reaching for the door when suddenly *BAM*

That fucking cock had attacked me -- FROM BEHIND! And he must have put his all into it, cause it was quite a thump. If I hadn't been wearing my beloved gumboots and sweatpants, that might actually have been uncomfortable or something.

I wheeled around. That little cocksucker was standing there, all proud of himself. I don't know who he thought he fucking was, or who he thought he was impressing, since the hens hadn't even looked up from their chow session.

Okay, you little prick, BRING IT!

I walked toward him, bucket in my hand. He started coming at me again, but this time I was ready. I swung. *BLAMO* I hit him while he was in the air, claws extended out in front of him like he was in a G-D Filipino cockfight. He came at me again and again, sailing through the air with his nasty claws flying in front of him. I met him each time with the empty bucket. I wasn't out to hurt him, but I was going to make sure he knew I wasn't going to be target practice. After a few smacks with the bucket, he stopped and backed off.

It seemed to work. Since that day, each time I enter the coop to feed the chooks, he gives me a wiiiiiiide berth. That's works just fine for me. He knows who the real boss is now.

Cocksucker.

Bush Walk

Beau and I have been wanting to take a "bush walk" since we moved into the new homestead a few weeks back. If you look out our "back door"... which is basically a giant sliding glass door ... all you see is a river running into the vast ocean. Awesome. If you look out our "front door," all you see is "bush" heading straight toward the heavens. "Bush" is a term used here loosely to mean forest, jungle, thick foliage, stuff-that's-hard-to-gauge-without-a-machete, etc. Basically, the area of New Zealand we live in is all bush bordered on one side by the ocean, with the occasional house and land. There are a few kiwi orchards around, some random cow or horse herds, several junked cars, and a rare appearance by a criminally-over-priced Ma & Pop shop.

We want to go out into it because we're curious. And because we're now officially fatties. I am 10kg (about 22 pounds or so) fatter than when I was in Thailand a few years back, and when I was there, I already felt chunky. It didn't particularly help matters that Thais found great enjoyment in telling me every day, "Teacher, you are very fat!" I almost had to beat that phrase out of my students.

In fact, one day my tailor took a look at me and said, "You've gotten fatter," and all my future suits for work were then made a bit less snug. And now I'm 10kg beyond that. Fan-tastic!

So, we put on our good hiking shoes (cross-trainers) and slathered on the bug repellent and headed for our goal -- a telephone pole situated at the very top of the ... I dunno... hill, mountain, giant green thing covered in foilage behind our house. I have to tell you, this was one of those moments when NOT being pregnant was a big relief, since I fell a couple of times when I was, and that was always a bit scary. Now, I knew I was destined to fall on my ass or face in this straight-up climb, and at least all that would be hurt would be my pride.

We started our walk, with our dogs Tonks happily padding at our heels. I love my dog, but really, she's a giant pain in the ass, and if she isn't within 3 feet of you at ALL times, she becomes a big whiny baby. So, walking along with us was just bliss for her. As we were rounding through one part of the property (it is MASSIVE), I started to hear Fern, our cat, crying as if her heart was breaking, somewhere behind us.

"Oh, for the love of god. Ferrrrrrrn. Ferrrrrrn. FERN!"

*bar-romp bar-romp bar-romp* Here comes Fern. Great, the whole family is here...it's like we're filming a new version of The Incredible Journey.

We start ascending, and it's a bit challenging, and THICK, but it's pretty cool. I mean, it's like instant jungle, instant rain forest, instant ... fern land. You only need to spend about 30 seconds in the New Zealand bush to see why the fern is one of their national symbols, including nearly all of their sports teams.

We were doing okay for awhile. Beau had found himself a good walking stick to help haul himself up the steep incline, and I was in his wake, trying to find footholds where I could. The big joke of the forest, was that there were branches -- EVERYWHERE -- but every time you grabbed one in desperation, *snap* it came off in your hand and you nearly catapulted backwards to your doom.

It got steeper and steeper, and we were following a trail that really only existed in our minds. Beau was sure that men had previously come this way many times to get up to the phone cables at the very top (far...far). I seemed to remember being told the helicopters were used to get up to those lines. Beau feigned ignorance of such a fact.

I also was a bit uncomfortable with Fern following us. Tonks following us is one thing. She's a dog and loves to push through thick brush. But...a house cat? I mean, I know we let Fern outside now since we moved here, but I still see her as our little kitty, our house cat who spends a lot of the day curled up on the couch. We were getting high up this mountain and our house kitty was hiking right along with us. But Beau said, "J., she's a cat. She'll be fine." And so, whatever. Super cute, kinda weird. Our animals have some serious abandonment issues. Wonder where they get THAT from.

Onward, I continued to "see" trails in the thick brush. I felt like I should be in a Hollywood movie, dressed in khaki Snobby Colonial clothes and wielding a machete as I exhaustedly hack further and further through the mosquito-infested jungle. It was crazy, but when you know your own HOUSE is just like, down there, you don't get all dramatic about it. It's kind of fun! What's the worst that could happen?

It seemed to be getting steeper, and thicker, though once in awhile we'd get a break and find another "trail." There was only one type of branch that was both hearty and strangely flexible and curved and twisted in strange ways, so you found yourself contorting your body to get under and over the same branch. It too, would suddenly 'let go' of its hold in the earth and I'd find myself tottering once again. Beau finally relinquished his stick to me, which I used to keep myself going up, up, upwards. Those telephone cables were real close, right?

We did have a few nice stops where you could make out a breathtaking view of the ocean below, as seen in my lovely photography here. You can just make out the cable on the left-side of the photo.

Unfortunately, there weren't any places you could really stop for long. Definitely no picnics. Usually you had one leg bent at 90 degrees, with your knee just under your chin, and your other leg straight as an arrow, perched on a tiny bit of dirt somewhere below you.

We got pretty high, and like most mountains, you climb and climb, get to a point where you're feeling pretty super-human (as seen by Beau's photo), and suddenly someone goes, "Oh no, the peak is actually over there!" and you look and see another peak, MUCH higher than you've already climbed, and you realize you have like a ton of more hiking to do.

Fuck that.

The telephone cables were hanging just above our heads, and we knew that the pole itself wasn't too far. We felt pretty accomplished, and had no shame in turning back at this point. Besides, how long would it take us to get back down such a steep incline?

We started down, now with me in the lead, one hand on the walking stick, and one hand clutching my camera. I shouldn't really say "me" in the lead. My initial master plan was to let the innate intuitiveness of Tonks lead us expertly through the bush and safely to the ground somewhere far below. Good idea? Well, I spent a lot of time on my ass, so you decide. Most likely the photo to the right is blurry because Beau was laughing too hard watching me slip-n-slide to keep the camera steady.

I was hearing a lot of grunting and various "ow"s and "ouch"s coming from behind me. I turned around and offered Beau his walking stick back. "No, that's okay, I'll just keep grabbing onto this razor-sharp grass for support," he replied.

I guess the bush makes some people a bit snarky.

Finally, at the bottom. Tonks is covered in burrs and both Beau and I are covered not only in burrs, but scratches and scrapes EVERYWHERE. Of course, Fern is still the princess she always is, clean and dignified. When pulling some dead leaves out of my underwear a few minutes later in the bathroom, my dignity kind of went out the window.

Water, Water Everywhere....

So, our new place, which still gets comments like, "Man, you really ARE out in the bush" from locals hit its first major snag the other day. And it kind of sucked.

We have our own water, which is basically rainfall that is collected into this giant cistern a little off from the house. (see photo to the right). A smaller storage tank is nearer the house and a pump connects them. Supposedly, assuming we're not water-sucking hippos, every once in awhile we flick a switch and the pump does its thing for about 25 minutes and voila, we have water! We have a filter for drinking water, but otherwise, it is what it is. It's a bit...rustic, like everything else, but this city girl is trying to be a sport!

On our first night in the house, we slept in the only room with a bed (ours was still at the old house, halfway disassembled), and plugged in a fan since it's summer here and gets a bit warm. We had a nice night's sleep with the cool air oscillating over us.

Sometime the next morning, when I finally got out of bed, I was having a drink and looking out the window that overlooks the storage tank. "Hmmm," I said, "It must have rained; the ground's all wet." Continuing to sip my juice, I glanced up at the tank, only to see water pumping out the top of it, spilling all over the place. Oh shit!

Within a minute, we figured it out. Here in New Zealand, their outlets are really great -- each one has a switch on it, so you can switch the electricity on and off. Eco-wise, I think it's a cool thing since I was told that plugged in appliances use "40% of their electricity even when they're sitting there." This way, you can just switch individual outlets on and off at will. And since we plugged in that fan the night before, we had switched on the outlet.

Well, we had forgotten from our 2-hour tour of the house before we moved in, that that particular outlet switch also switched on the water pump. The water had been pumping from the cistern to the water tank ALL NIGHT LONG. Oh, fuck.

Now, the owners had told us they'd done that once themselves, and it hadn't been a HUGE tragedy, just a dumb mistake, so we sort of laughed it off and went on with our lives. I have been pretty conservative with the water overall though, always keeping in mind that it's not an endless supply. It rains here -- a LOT -- but not for several months yet.

Then yesterday, Beau noticed the water tank was getting low and he turned on the pump and adeptly set an egg timer for 25 minutes. But after some time had passed, he noticed that the pump didn't seem to be pumping any water. He went down to the cistern, took a look inside, and all he saw was some damp sand at the very bottom.

Uh oh. That's probably not good.

I mean, that is our WHOLE water supply -- drinking, toilet, shower, washing machine, etc. I couldn't believe it had all been gone. The owners, who had raised 3 daughters on this property over the years, said they had only ran out of water one time in their 25+ years of living there. How had we run out so fast? Could our little pump mishap really have sucked out THAT much water.

And I really needed a shower.

A call was made to a woman I'll call Paula. She's the sister of the owners of our house. She lives just down the road and has been living in that house since birth and so in turn knows our place pretty damn well as well. She's our go-to gal. We told her the situation, she was pretty shocked, but then told us she'd make some calls.

Well, sister hallelujah, she worked fast. She had called us back pretty quickly and said she had a relative who would help us out. Now, in our Maori community, almost everyone is a relative. All the teachers are Beau's school are called "Auntie" or "Uncle" and it's not just a term of affection. This close-knit community thing can really come in handy when you need something done, since you always know someone who has a truck, or a chainsaw, or can fix your drain, or whatever.

"It's going to be the local fire department," she said, "They'll fill up your tank."

No shit.

A couple hours later a fire truck rolled up our drive and backed in near the cistern. Beau, in his typical way, made fast friends with the guy, and the two of them were chatting away as the firehose was inserted into the cistern. Within minutes, the truck was empty. "We gotta go get more water," they said. What? Are you shitting me.

The firetruck made FIVE trips total! Five! That's how much water that damn cistern holds! We knew we hadn't pumped THAT much water out with our little folly.

And the next to the last trip took a few hours (we were hoping he'd finish so we could leave). When he finally rolled up, apologetic, he told us how he had rounded a corner by the bridge, just in time to see a drunken pair of 17 year olds swerve around the bend and crash their car, flipping it upside-down. One had to be air-vac'd out of there. Sheeeeesh! No problem about the water then!

But now, here we are a day later and all is well. We haven't actually paid for the water yet, which we were told was a $1 a K. What the fuck's a K? We hope a K is a big buttload of water, cause 5 trucks of water seems like a helluva lot to pay for. I guess we'll see when we get the bill. Maybe we should start up a raindance or something.

Of course, Beau's colleagues always find our little troubles endlessly hysterical, and one pointed out that since we were living just about a giant river, we had plenty of water if we needed it. Too bad I left my donkey back home in the U.S.