Rescuing Tonks

Our dog Tonks is pretty wonderful. She's super sweet and loving, loyal, obedient and will follow you to the ends of the earth. And as I've mentioned, there's just one flaw: every once in awhile she takes off anywhere from 30 minutes to a couple hours. It doesn't happen a lot, but when it does, we worry because of the highway below. As Jenn mentioned, (from when she was growing up), you kind of want the dog to have a happy dog life, to run around and just take the chance of the danger.

While I was in Auckland, she took off once and didn't return until 3am. Beau got out of bed to let her in, and told me, "I expected her to smell like booze and cigarettes."

I've been back here "in the bush" for about a month now, and she hasn't taken off once. I was kind of hoping her wandering days were over. Well, until yesterday. Around 7pm, she took off. We called and called, she didn't come back.

At first, it was not a big deal. She usually turns up a couple hours later, appropriately sheepish where she gets lectured and put on the chain to think about what she's done. Yeah, that works really well.

It was getting pretty dark and she hadn't returned. We kept going outside, calling, whistling,...which usually brings her crashing back, but no, no dog. This was our pissed off stage. "When she gets back, I'm gonna kill her!"

It was a coal black night, and I'm not exagerrating when I say you could hardly see in front of your face. With no city lights, no street lights, nothing but surrounding jungle and no moon, there's nothing to light the way. I got in the car and with the brights on, drove slowly down the road, back and forth. If it wasn't in the beam of the lights, it was total darkness. I saw a dead possum and a live possum, but no Tonks. At least I didn't see a dead dog on the road.

It was well past midnight, and several more attempts to walk around and call/whistle to her hadn't worked. Now I was at the worried stage.

"She'll turn up, she always does," said Beau, "She'll come up on the porch and wait for us to let her in."

I went to bed nervous and laid there half-awake, half listening for her return. After an hour or so I got up and brought my pillows to the couch which is opposite the sliding glass doors and porch. I laid down to sleep. Didn't sleep well, and when I finally got up, no Tonks.

I went back to bed and crawled in. I thought if I could just make time pass, I'd wake up and she'd be there. Shortly thereafter, Beau woke me up.

"I'm going to go look for her, want to come?" I immediately ogred out of bed and threw on some clothes. We drove up and down the street, much farther than we thought possible for her to travel, crossing the river far to the other side. No sign.

"There's no way she wouldn't have returned by now. There are no good reasons to be gone this long: hit by a car, injured or someone took her." (I'm always worried she'll be kidnapped since every pig dog owner within a 20 mile radius has eyed her lasciviously and commented on what a good breeder she'd be. Wonder how long it'd take til they figured out she's been fixed).

The day continued. I walked our land calling her name and pausing to listen for a possible whimper. I returned with soaked pants but no dog.

The day passed slowly. By now I was resigning myself to the fact she was gone, most likely hit by a car and bounced off the road. It's weird all the strange stuff that goes through your mind from regular sad feelings to bizarre practical thoughts. How depressed I felt because I really love that dog, but at the same time I was thinking things like, "Aw, she's just a dog," and "Well, I guess we won't have such a hard time getting a new place without a dog..."

For some reason, I grabbed our binoculars and walked to the picnic table that sat at the edge of our property before it dropped off like a cliff. Straight ahead (west) is the ocean. Directly to the left (south) is the river. The river meets the ocean in the southwest. Also right there is a long sandy strip that narrows or widens depending on the tide, and is always populated by some hardcore fishermen. Except for today.

Today is Saturday and you're not allowed to fish there on Saturdays. In 1900, 16 Maori children of a nearby village were being ferried across this very river by two men in a canoe. They attended a school on the other side and it was the only way to get there. It's not certain what happened, perhaps a flash flood, but all on board were washed away and drowned. The village lost all its children in one terrible accident. So to this day, you cannot fish there on Saturdays or the 12th of the month.

I climbed on top of the picnic table and stood on the edge. I raised the binoculars and looked out at the strips of sand orphaned from the river and ocean's embrace. I scanned a little and suddenly....there she was!

I couldn't fucking believe it. Beau was out on the porch watching me and I started calling frantically at him to come over. I looked again, there she was, tiny even in the scope of the binoculars, marooned on a thin strip of sand surrounded by water. WTF!? Beau took the binoculars and looked himself. "Tonks!" he shouted out. Her head snapped around and looked in our direction. Thank god she's a red dog, otherwise she would have been imperceptible amongst the endless stretch of sand and rocks. She must have ran out there and somehow got stranded by the tide.

We tore out of there and sprinted to the car. Beau careened down the winding driveway. "Beau.." I said. "Sorry," he grinned and slowed slightly. We hit the highway and after a minute had pulled off of it near the entrance to the beach. It's the same entrance those children used 110 years ago. A natural stairway stomped out of the roots of trees and hardpacked mud, so steep in some parts you have to practically climb down from one step to another. Beau and I scampered and skidded downward through the dark foliage.

We finally hit the beach, which is made entirely of rocks and driftwood. We crunched and wobbled over the ground. I couldn't see her, but Beau kept leading me forward. "There she is, there!" he pointed. I squinted. I couldn't see her. "Look over my shoulder and follow my finger," he suggested. I planted my chin on his shoulder and looked. There was her tiny form.

"She's trapped," I said. I had taken Tonks to another part of the river just a week before and as she and I had crossed a part that was about 3-feet high, the current had scared her as she swam across. Now she was surrounded by water. I wondered how long she had been there.

After walking around some more obstacles, we finally got to her, water separating us. "She looks hungry," said Beau. We took a few steps into the water. It was too deep for her to walk, but didn't seem too swift to swim in. "The tide's coming in," said Beau.

"Come on, come on, Tonks!" Beau called out to her. After prancing back and forth briefly, she dove into the water and started swimming toward us. I sloshed toward her, hoping to meet her halfway in case. But she made it alright, shaking off the water next us. I was so happy I burst into tears and had to sit on a large piece of driftwood. The dog was ecstatic, dancing and wagging away. I felt emotionally spent. "I thought she was dead," I said.

We walked back and heaved ourselves up the path back to the top where the car was. And now we're back, and it's as if it never happened.

Weird.

Hey 2009, EAT SHIT

Let's face it, 2009 was one of the worst years of my life, and as far as I'm concerned, it can kiss my white butt!!!!

*exception made for getting NZ residency which was AWESOME.

So suck it, 2009, here's looking forward, with GREAT eagerness, to 2010!

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