Bridge St looking towards South Brighton

At 4.35am on Saturday morning, September 4th 2010, a 7.1 earthquake struck Christchurch, New Zealand with the epicentre located around 30km south-west of the central city and around 10km deep. To highlight what a major quake this was, the devastating quake that killed almost a quarter of million people in Haiti was only 7.0 so this was actually bigger. Fortunately, buildings are a little stronger round here. But despite there being no casualties (aside from a Lemur at the local zoo and an elderly man who had a cardiac arrest) it has still been a devastating quake, and we’re only starting to understand the full extent of the damage.

Of course, all 430,000 residents of Christchurch will have their own unique yet oddly similar tale to tell of the events that unfolded on Saturday morning, and many of them have been related in the media. My story is probably not a lot different from many others and you’re welcome to add your comments below to add some diversity to this experience that will no doubt be retold often over the months to come.

Early start

I guess one thing about earthquakes is that they don’t run to a timetable. You don’t get to choose when it arrives. So 4.35am probably seemed like a good a time as any for the tectonic plates when they got their groove on. We were up in a hurry but then I froze thinking ‘now what?’ Like a deer in the headlights all that school training counted for nothing, mostly because I had no desk to dive under. I didn’t even remember the ‘triangle of life‘ so just stood there thinking ‘will it stop’ or ‘will I soon be falling through to the lounge below with the house falling on top of me’. It was the scariest few seconds, with the house swaying like a drunken sailor, feeling completely helpless and at the mercy of the elements. You quickly realise you’re a speck of dust in the great scheme of things. It’s very humbling.

Fortunately it stopped soon enough and we dashed downstairs, and it was about this point it started to dawn on us that we were unprepared for a major disaster. Because the power had gone out, it was essentially pitch black so there we were desperately scratching around for a torch, only to find cases containing dead batteries. Typical. Fortunately cellphones were close at hand providing light and a link to the outside world. We couldn’t remember where we’d hidden the emergency go box (it’s actually really hard to think straight when you’ve just been shaken like a monkey up a tree!) and discovered we didn’t have a radio, which would have been very useful. Someone texted me about evacuating due to a tsunami risk but we felt that it was most likely too close to create any waves, and listened to the radio in the car to have that confirmed. However there was a steady stream of cars heading out across the estuary who obviously wanted to err on the side of caution.

So there we were, dazed and confused, not really sure what to do next, sitting in the car trying to keep warm and wondering what the ensuing days would have in store.

Soothing sunshine

Like a silver lining, the day soon dawned, warm and clear blue skies, a welcome relief. Still without power or water there wasn’t much we could do apart from text family and friends to check in and let them know we were ok. After some breakfast and coffee (still had gas cooking – yay) we decided to take the dogs for a walk and survey the damage in the area. After a beautiful stroll along the beach we headed up Bridge St, where the force of the earthquake was evident, rendering the bridge (and main exit for Southshore residents) unpassable. Blocked off to traffic, we ambled down the middle of the road along with lots of other sightseers, keeping an eye on the little dogs to make sure they didn’t fall down the cracks.

Crystal got called in to work (part of the official civil defence CCC response team) so she ventured into the city centre, where damage was extensive, particularly to older brick buildings. Claims of looting were greatly exaggerated but I guess the media need a story so without any fatalities, looting probably seemed like the next most exciting thing. To the media’s credit they were probably the best place to go for the latest information, even if it was dramatised.

More quake photos

I spent the day making contact with everyone else and got together in the afternoon with friends to make sure everyone’s needs were being looked after. It seemed like everyone, apart from a few, had got off quite lightly and were in good spirits. Personally I was a little jaded and grumpy from being woken up so early, but my problems were minor in comparison to others. I did a quick reconnaissance around the neighbourhood to survey the damage and headed home to start thinking about how we were going to cope without water or power. Fortunately by the time I got home, water had been restored so that was one less thing to worry about. Power would still be a whole day away.

Cold nights

At night the loss of power is definitely a lot more noticeable (so were the stars) but fortunately the warm sunny day meant the house had a bit of stored heat. Extra clothes, blankets and hot water bottles kept us cosy until the next day, and I had been able to recharge all our batteries at mums place earlier in the day so we had plenty of torches and camping lanterns.

Even though the constant aftershocks were unsettling I found I was able to sleep through most of the night, and well into the morning. Crystal very nicely cooked omelettes, made coffee and we sat in bed listening to some Nat King Cole – all necessary elements of the coping mechanism. I heard of one guy mowing his lawns shortly after the earthquake – strange as it may seem it’s possible it was how he coped with stressful situations, trying to return life to normalcy as soon as possible.

Actually I didn’t do a lot on Sunday, I was so tired I slept most of the day. I really wanted to do something and make use of the downtime but just couldn’t think what, or even how without power. Ventured out mid-afternoon and traffic was bad, which was half-expected and half-not. Sure there’s now only one exit out of New Brighton but on the other hand where was everyone going?

Returning to normal

Life in this modern society does seem to come to a crashing halt without electricity, so I was particularly grateful when the power came back on around 1.30pm on Sunday, about 36 hours after the blackout. Everything swung back into action and the heatpumps were returning the house to ‘room’ temperature. Phew. The only thing now was the warning about water being possibly contaminated and supermarkets being overwhelmed by panicking and ill-prepared residents. I think I can cope with that. Aside from that, everything was returning to normal. Except for those darn aftershocks. They’re still going as I write this, many around 4 on the Richter scale. I thought they were supposed to finish 48 hours after the first jolt. Obviously not.

But I think going forward the key will be trying to get things back to normal as much as possible. That will be easier for some than others but I think everyone no matter how bad their situation can get some routines back in place, even if it’s just for the sake of the kids.

Lessons learned

• Be prepared is an overused expression but one that hits you over the head when a disaster actually hits. We will be making sure the kit is not only fully stocked but somewhere very accessible.
• Having a radio is really important, and preferably one that doesn’t rely on batteries (which are often dead flat in an emergency!). The car radio covered us this time but that might not always be an option.
• While there are official organisations like the civil defence operating, the best sources of information are the media, who seem to make more of an effort to find out what’s going on rather than waiting for something to be ‘official’. Twitter is always a ready source of information, but not always reliable. Apparently it’s best if you use the official hashtag: #eqnz. At least now you know.
• Emergency services are just as confused as us – Sure they’ll be standing around in high-vis vests and looking official but the truth is they often know as little as we do and are just as scared and confused, so don’t expect they’ll be your knight in shining armour the next time there’s a disaster.
• Be patient – Of course we all want power and water to be restored NOW but the reality is that so does everyone else and there are only so many hours in the day. We just have to trust they’re doing the best they can to restore services as fast as possible – although it would be nice if they had someone updating an official website with up-to-date ETAs.
• Here are a few lessons someone else got out of the quake…

Looking back it has been an adventurous and scary rollercoaster and it’s not over yet. At least next time we might be a little better prepared.

For anyone who wanted to make a joke or two about the geographically-disadvantaged, Invercargill has been a never-ending source of inspiration and, I’ll be honest, I’ve shared in making the odd jibe against the place too, and that has nothing to do with the fact that I dated a girl from there (yeh, yeh not related ok). So now that I’ve matured a bit, I like to think of myself as a reasonable and open-minded individual who asks questions before shooting.

So it was time to actually the visit the place so at the very least I could make jokes about the place with the respectable degree of a qualified opinion.

So I booked, and before I knew it we were winging our way from Christchurch to Invercargill on a reasonably-priced Grabaseat flight (a reward for misspent time online). A short one hour flight (after we were forced to switch planes) gets you direct to Invercargill from Christchurch airport on a Bombardier Q300. Flying down, it’s a good idea to try and get seats on the right side of the plane because on a clear day you get an amazing view of the Southern Alps and Central Otago.

The first surprise was leaving the plane via an air-bridge. We were expecting to be dashing across a paddock, dodging sheep and quad bikes, to get to the terminal. Round one to you Invercargill. Round one to you. We were greeted by single-digit temperatures, made worse by a frigid wind-chill of factor 10 (actually I don’t know what factor it was, I just added that for effect so hopefully you’re suitably impressed). Of course, it is winter and Christchurch isn’t a whole lot better this time of year. But you just felt like you were that much closer to a polar ice cap.

From Invercargill airport it’s a pleasant 20 minute walk alongside the estuary, into the central business district. Don’t expect a whole lot of tall buildings but there are a bunch of traffic lights and some heritage buildings that are worth photographing. We loved the old-school parking meters too, so quaint. We only had a few hours before our flight back so we had to stick to the main drag of Dee Street.

We hit the museum slash art gallery, which you can’t miss simply because it’s styled like a massive white pyramid and sits in Queens Park. Trust me, it stands out. I still haven’t decided if it’s in a good way. We were there to visit the Tuataras but were regaled by stories of shipwrecks and castaways on the nearby islands including the Auckland group (nowhere near Auckland) which were harsh environments for anyone stupid enough to try and live on them (such as the radio watchers during WWII who were there because the Germans were seeking to claim them, imagining that they were idyllic islands of the Pacific; for some strange reason they chose not to fight for them).

Eventually hunger got the better of us and while we know that scallops are typical fare down this way, we were after something a little less feisty. You generally can’t go too far wrong with Irish pubs so we dropped into Waxy Osheas. Good solid pub food complemented with a Pitch Black beer, brewed right there in Invercargill. Once again, a pleasant surprise and another tick in the right column for visitors coming to this maligned part of the country.

It was time to go so we made our way back to the airport having satisfied the ‘stay in a place for longer two hours before you can officially say you’ve visited it’ rule. Tick. I have to say we came away impressed. It’s possibly because our expectations were really low, so don’t take this review as anything remotely scientific.

Invercargill wouldn’t be at the top of our winter escape destinations (or even in the top ten) but it gets more bad press than it really deserves. I know how that feels; Christchurch is often criticised by those north of the Bombay Hills for being cold, grey and unfriendly. But I know it’s a lot better than that. So I can appreciate when a town gets more stick than it should. Sure it had more than its fair share of mullets and moustaches (and even a few on the men) but maybe that’s just character and every town needs some of that.

In summary all I can say is that Invercargill is possibly better than you imagine. Like the ad says: know me before you judge me. And Invercargill, you taught me that lesson well.

Secretly this man harbours a dark secret - he is a C# addict ...

Tonight I started up swing dancing again with Crystal, so I thought it was an appropriate time to bring a theory I’ve had for some time, out into the open and hopefully shock a few people in the process. Or not.

Ever since I took up swing dancing lessons I’ve noticed that a good percentage of the people I spoke to, including some of the instructors were geeks and worked for geeky companies like Tait Radio or Jade Software. A really good percentage. I’m talking north of 67% (it was 66.666667 but I’ve kindly done the rounding for you on this one – of course the swing-dancing geeks were one step ahead and calculated the standard deviation at the same time). Even one of the guys I work with at an extremely geeky company is a swing dancer (my geek shield is holding up well; no iPhone for me and I only tweet once a day … although I did find myself flicking through an iPhone app magazine at lunch – that’s a bad sign especially considering I have no plans to get an iPhone anytime soon).

So that’s the observation – geeks like to swing dance. But what’s behind this slightly unusual phenomenon? Could they be attracted to the lack of rules, having been confined to the overly strict ten commandments of coding all day they are bursting to break out into a sloppy hop? Maybe it restores their mojo, which drains rapidly during the day as they pick bugs out of lines of code. Maybe it’s simply a necessity to keep the right side of their brain from shriveling up or walking out on them due to being completely ignored for 95% of the time. Maybe you have your own theory, feel free to share it below (just nothing that might imply I’m one of these swing-dancing geeks ok!).

As crazy as this theory might sound and as unscientific as my correlations are, I’m not alone in making the connection. In fact, the big chiefs at Google itself obviously make the link between geeks and dancing, employing their very own dance manager. Yes that’s right Google have their own dance manager, whose job it is to put some fire into those otherwise sedentary office geeks. One lesson is called How to Dance at a Club or Party: an Analytical Approach. Yep I kid you not, the analytical approach to dancing at a party. No wonder Google loves her, it gives Googlers a formula for what is most likely their biggest fear in life. They’ve most likely coded the entire thing into a single iPhone app that gets loaded automatically on arrival at any social engagement. Handy. In fact, one lesson is about parsing the rhythm. Wow, she actually speaks geek too. Google have hired well.

So the next time you see someone swing dancing there’s a sporting chance they are a mild-mannered computer programmer by day, or possibly it’s just Moata. Whatever you do do not, under any circumstances, ask them to explain their XML schema or what they think of the current state of object handling and global variables. It will completely ruin their night, or more specifically ruin their date’s night. Just let the geek cut loose, otherwise we all suffer.

It's not easy getting people to listen to you these days

I write a lot. I write blog posts. I tweet. I update my Facebook status regularly. I comment on other people’s blogs. I send emails to people. And a lot of the time all I can hear is the quiet chatter of my inner voice. Yep that’s enough to scare anyone. So as the tumbleweed rolls through my rambling writing it might be easy to take it personally, to get offended that my legions of fans are not hanging on my every word, not realising I’m the next Leo Tolstoy or Oscar Wilde. That I’m some kind of Forrest Gump, with people following my every step, lost without me.

Well if you do believe any of that is true in my case, or yours, then this is sadly your long overdue, bubble-bursting wake-up call. The internet is a really big place and there is a lot of noise. And a lot of the time that noise is the sound of people talking about themselves, their business or their cat. Or maybe all 3 at once. So unfortunately people are too busy talking about themselves that they really don’t have time to listen to you. I wish they did because you’ve probably got something worthwhile to say but it’s just getting lost in the cacophony of the out-of-control dinner party that is social media as we know it in 2010.

Even in my own small social media circle, things roar along at a maddening pace with tweets, status updates, LinkedIn messages and a ton of emails flying in from all directions. Not to mention the guilt-inducing unread count in my Google Reader creeping higher every day (I love that Mark All As Read button). The creative minds of many, even in this small haven known as New Zealand, are busily at work, generously foisting their warbles of wisdom on us all. In our local news website we have the acidic sarcasm of Moata, a real face-melter in a librarian kind-of-way, and the latest blog idol winner who is a raving homosexual, who raves about homosexuality (and I thought the Rainbow Warrior was a Greenpeace boat that got bombed by the French?) or there is a pint-sized celebrity who feels the need to share e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. Their blog posts are shot out into the crowd like they were using one of those t-shirt cannons at the Big Day Out, except you’re not getting a free t-shirt. You’re just getting smacked around the head with their ‘of-course-I’m-right’ opinion. You’ll be expected to wear it politely, like a good little blog reader, keeping your comments conservatively in line with the mood of the poster and their supporters (unless you really want them to release the trolls. ps trolls are not short for toilet rolls although a lot of what trolls say is pooh bum; they are cowardly cyber bullies who hide behind the seeming anonymity of the internet to flame anyone who disagrees with them).

Whoa. I just realised this post was getting a little dark there for a minute. The tumbleweed was getting replaced with a very black and very ominous cumulonimbus. Ok sun’s back out again. I guess all I’m trying to say is, if you’re reading this and you have a blog that doesn’t get a lot of love, or your tweets and Facebook status updates aren’t greeted with at least a dozen electronic high fives and witty repartee then don’t get down about it. Just keep on with the very therapeutic and cathartic process of venting online, turning up the volume every now and then so you can be heard over the din of all those oh so very boring people who seem to find their way online. Damn the internet and its open-door policy!

Ok so last post I talked about embracing danger. Now I’m not so sure. Most of you know me as a gung-ho surfer who charges waves wherever I can find them, unlike this poser who is more interested in posing, as posers do. But I’m going to share a little secret with you that is just between you and me. If this one gets out it could seriously hurt my hardcore reputation – surfing reef breaks scares me. Yep there I said it. In fact, they’re enough to cause a spontaneous surfer sauna, to put it nicely.

So why the freak-out when I’m the gun surfer? Surely this can’t be right? Well I hope you’re sitting down because here’s another bombshell – I’ve never surfed reef breaks before. Ouch two big reveals in the same blog post. But all that aside I guess it’s like a lot of things you’ve never tried – it’s the dreaded fear of the unknown, something which is notoriously difficult to assuage. I mean how can you calm your fears when you have no idea how you’ll cope? It’s the same feeling I had skating vert ramps, that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach, sick from adrenaline but possessed with the need to do it now you’ve put yourself up to it – of course it had nothing to do with the fact all your mates are cheering you from the sidelines. Yep no backing down now.

Actually had a comment from a guy who’s just got back from a Tonga surf trip and he said they didn’t get any reef cuts just bruises so that’s making me feel better. Bruises I can handle; it’s the cuts, the flaps of skin, the stinging betadine and the toothbrush to extract coral bits from the wound that freak me out. Apparently the reef isn’t razor sharp so that’s quite the relief. I think I’ll just be stoked to be paddling out in 23° water while back home its a blistering -3° frost. I don’t think I’ll take my full-length wetsuit (I don’t have a springie) just boardies and a rash vest should do it. And booties. Don’t forget the booties. If I really was Mr Safety First I’d be taking my Garth helmet too. But this bad boy likes to play it a little on the unsafe side.

Actually the whole of Tonga is for me an unknown quantity. I’ve heard mixed reviews of the place as a tourist destination because a lot of it is third world but at the same time it sounds like the people are really hospitable and for me that’s a trade-off I’m happy to make. If the people are anywhere as friendly as Steve from Ha’atafu Surf Resort then I think we’ll be in good hands. There’s also the whole modesty thing on the beaches so there’ll be no flexing of the guns or showing off my gold speedos (gutted) and Sundays the whole island shuts down pretty much. But like a lot of our travels, it’ll be an adventure and I think that’s half the fun. The other half is making it back in one piece.

So I’m amped to do this now – I’ve talked myself into it, there’s no getting out of it. Especially now that I’ve gone public to you guys about all my fears and insecurities. My masculinity is on the line and I’m under the hammer (way too many metaphors going on here) so not only do I have to do it – I have to bring back evidence. Will a reef scar do?

It's a freaky feeling when you can see the bottom of the lake

I don’t invite danger but I don’t always run in the other direction. Even when I know I should. And even in situations where the ‘I’ve been here before’ radar is going off the chart and historically it hasn’t worked out well, I still don’t back away. Part of me says be sensible, the other part says ‘sensible is boring’. There’s also a little bit that says ‘your sensible wife will most likely give you THAT look’.

So danger it is, because I believe that in 90% of cases the only thing that’s dangerous is your own fear of the situation. Hesitation is what often gets people hurt, and I learned that lesson well from surfing and skating for many years. Of course, I’m not saying anyone should be downright stupid and take idiotic risks with their life, like going on a cross-country crime spree or couch surfing in the back of a van, I’m just saying sometimes it’s healthy to stare that danger down and say, while standing tall, you’re more scared of me than I am of you (even if secretly you don’t mean it).

So I get to the point of this week’s little adventure – skating on natural ice at one of the many outdoor ice skating venues in the Canterbury area. Lake Ida is probably the best around and most consistent of the lakes but does involve a bit of a hike from the carpark, which is even further if the Mt Olympus skifield is closed. Either way, I’m keen for it, simply because I’ve never been before and that’s reason enough for me. I have made attempts before but conditions conspired against us, and you have such a limited window of opportunity, which passes quickly leaving you making plans for next year, or the year after.

Of course, there are the common sentiments from others that outdoor skating on a lake must be dangerous, and I guess that could be true. But there’s also a danger of being bored to death and I know if I’m going out, I want to go out in a way that has a touch more panache than ‘here lies a man who died of well nothing’. Apparently there are rumours if you fall into a frozen lake it does suck you down, possibly into a portal that takes you to another dimension. I guess if nothing else you could defend yourself and hunt for food using your skates. But danger aside, I’m going, following the golden rule of stay in the middle where the ice is always thickest and if you feel the ice breaking beneath you, do what any other self-respecting human being would do and grab the nearest small child to help slow your descent, while simultaneously raising the alarm.

Here’s a little sneak look at some of the amazing conditions they get out at Lake Ida (courtesy of Aardwolfs Lake Ida page):

So aside from the necessary snacks and hot drinks, and whacking stick if I do get sucked through to another dimension, we’re all set for this Saturday. We’ve been checking the ice reports and it seems like it’s all go. I’ve dropped my skates off at Alpine Ice for sharpening, bought Crystal some ex-rentals, set for pickup this Friday. Actually the whole thing almost went a bit dog at that point. Some grumpy lady at the Zamboni cafe wanted to cancel my dream even after I’d made all the arrangements with Kim from the Skate School. Fortunately as we were walking out nice guy Brynn chased us down and put everything right. Nice. And while we’re on the subject of customer success stories, Caroma finally sorted out our leakable taps the other day when another nice guy Andrew fixed them all up, organised by yet another nice guy Tristan the local Caroma rep. It took awhile but we got there in the end and that’s what counts for me.

So it’s all go for Saturday (which incidentally is also the day Ridley Scott wants to capture a slice of everyone‘s day on film for his next movie – I might have something for you fella!) – got skates, snowboard, sleds (thanks Scott!) and other bits and pieces. Danger, ha I laugh in the face of danger …

I can stop at anytime ...

There are times in your life when you have a nagging feeling in your brain that won’t go away while also playing hard to get. These are the times you suspect you should be doing something but, for the life of you, can’t remember exactly what it was, or the text you copied to the clipboard but have now forgotten about (and are now worried you might copy something else in the meantime and lose it forever!) or it could be when you have a vague suspicion you started eating a biscuit, got interrupted partway and now have a half-eaten cookie lying around somewhere.

Now aside from the fact that this breaks all sorts of rules on not leaving food unattended (I come from a large family and that’s a survival rule) and the potential contamination (sorry but the 9-second rule is a complete urban myth and blowing on it will not send all those germy jims on a whirlwind ride to the land of oz) a half-eaten cookie lying around the house is a hazard and worse, it’s a waste.

The half eaten cookie hazard is truly one of the underestimated hazards of the 21st century. Unlike a complete cookie, properly housed in it shiny packaging and winking at you like the old spice guy, a half-eaten cookie is a shadow of its former self. It has lost all self-respect and now happily rubs shoulders with disease-carrying bacteria huddling in dark corners of your carpet and swapping naughty jokes around a drum fire. It lounges about, swapping notes with other food bits that have been forgotten about, like the french fries from last month’s Big Mac combo. In this state a half eaten cookie become a household terrorist, and will not resist being used by the evil underlords of your home’s nether regions to make its occupants paranoid, embarrassed and even a little unwell.

Of course the half-eaten cookie doesn’t want to be found so it now become a hidden hazard. Well that is until its been in cookie wilderness for at least 6 months after which time it will reappear, often in the strangest places, like between the cushions on your couch or circling the buttons on your TV remote. When half-eaten cookies are found there’s a mix of relief and disgust, and a small, yet persistent, sly thought about finishing that cookie to put your internal cookie symmetry to rest. Don’t do it. That will only end badly. Unlike cookies which are a sometimes food half-eaten cookies that have gone AWOL for 6 months are a never food.

While we don’t know everything about the half-eaten cookie, we do know there are plenty out there, lurking in the strangest of places, their owners perplexed and puzzled, in a quandary of ‘where did I leave my cookie’, ‘maybe i ate the whole cookie’ and ‘should I give up the search and just get another one’. It’s not surprising that the notion of the half-eaten cookie has taken on a meme of its own to represent all those unfinished ideas, half-baked projects and anything else we start on and then get bored with or find something far more interesting to busy ourselves with, like complaining about parking fines.

Maybe this is a good time to contemplate all those “half-eaten cookies” in your life and think “where are they now?” Just remember to check your shoes before putting them on.

Bevin, from GetNet Website Design, had kindly offered to pick us up from the airport and drop us off at our hotel. Top bloke. We stayed at the Kingsgate and while that sounds posh it really was a b-grade motel with a fancy name but it would suffice for one night. Me and Bevin had a chat about all things web, and then me and Crystal headed into town for dinner. It was time to really get to the heart of what Palmy was like on an ordinary Wednesday night.

I felt like I was part of the Target team, a mystery visitor, secretly taking notes of the good, the bad and the boring. Admittedly it was quiet. A lot of NZ towns are mid-week. The square was actually pretty fascinating with a pleasant light show accompanied by classical music to scare away any wasted youth that might be lurking in the area.

I find myself back in the 80s	Palmys outdoor nightclub	Banner proud
Its a street	Its a sign	It looks bigger from the air

We enjoyed some wholesome winter fare at the local Speights Ale House (always a favourite) and headed back to the Kingsgate to watch Bucket List and get crumbs in the bed. The next day we had a few hours to kill before our flight home so we wandered the main street, graced with silver-haired retirees and mums with strollers, eventually tracking down where all the villagers were hiding – The Plaza. Palmerston North’s shopping Mecca. And that’s where I tracked down my purchase of the trip – a super Pac Man hoodie. Thanks Jay Jays. Flying out we were robbed of $5 by the airport, which is claiming to use this money to upgrade the place, but they’ve been doing that for almost 20 years now, and with over half a million passengers passing through every year, that’s roughly 10 million dollars. With all that moolah you think they could update that cringe-worthy neon sign out the front! Misappropriated funds anyone?

Auckland

Last on the list was the sprawling metropolis and largest city in New Zealand – Auckland. This time I was prepared with a GPS, which made driving around a whole lot easier (not quicker, just easier). Mike and Magda kindly let us use their car so we headed to where it gets wild, real wild. No, not the Viaduct but Auckland Zoo. The weather started to clear, in fact we even got a bit of sun. I’m not going to complain at all about the weather – it was noticeably warmer than our point of origin. Sure I’ve seen zebras and lions before but I never got tired of communing with nature and talking to the flamingos. I just feel like animals have got it sorted in a lot of ways we could learn from. Maybe that’s why deep down I really want to be a park ranger and have a grizzly bear for a working partner, or maybe dolphin called Flipper.

Sunday we enjoyed a taste of why they call Auckland the city of four seasons. Started out sunny, then half sun half rain, then all rain, and then rain with a double dose of rain. Being an unprepared Canterbarian I got caught out without an umbrella – round one to you Auckland, round one to you. We did the traditional South Auckland thing, stopping for KFC in Manukau then hit the modern-looking Auckland Botanic Gardens finishing up with a coffee at the cafe. Our Auckland adventure finished up with Lamb Saag and Butter Chicken from Sahal Sweets in Papatoetoe, the heart of the Indian community in Auckland. Great Butter Chicken but the Saag wasn’t up to scratch.

Sumatran Tigers

Last of the chimps finding comfort in a tub of icecream

An Emu checks out a herd of humans

We finished up in true Auckland style by driving up to the top of One Tree Hill (now No Tree Hill) and got a fantastic view of Auckland city under the glow of a full moon. A nice note to finish on before we flew out and winged our way back to Christchurch. Thanks to Mike and Magda for putting us up, Ebony for looking after the dogs and Christchurch airport for still offering free parking.

Travelling is always fun but the last few weeks have proved to me that fun is sometimes a lot closer than you think. Thanks New Zealand for being a great place to explore. Kia kaha.

Anyone who knows me knows I love to travel and while I have been known to grumble because I was forced to take the plastic stool on a bus ride from Poipet to Bangkok, I’m always looking forward to the next adventure (Tonga’s sneaking up quickly). But I have to admit I’ve really neglected to visit much of my own country of New Zealand (ok technically I’m Australian but that was a really long time ago and an accident of birth so don’t start getting all haere mai on me). Fortunately my good mate Rob Fyfe is determined to help me get better acquainted with this great country by foisting $1 flights on me and making me fly to all sorts of exotic locations. Like Palmerston North.

Wellington – Home of the sophisticated hippy

First on the hit list was the urban paradise and geek capital of New Zealand. A short 40 minute flight north of Christchurch, we landed at Wellington airport and surprisingly a smooth descent. Crystals lovely aunty and uncle were there to collect us and took us back to their place in the suburb of Mt Cook (not to be confused with that really big mountain – climbing to the top of this suburb doesn’t require oxygen tanks or pick axes). They have a fantastic place with a very convenient downstairs flat that is fully self-contained. And when I say self-contained I really mean you could camp down there for days, obviously the big-screen cable TV helps.

We didn’t actually have anything planned for Wellington so we took it as it came. A walking tour of Newtown unearthed the Pacific roots of Wellington and a few curious curiosity shops, along with well-rounded Wellingtonians. One shop we didn’t get to, but in my mind typifies the homely goodness of Wellington, is Deliaro, a shop run by a good friend’s mum that specialises in high-quality locally produced foods.

Mt Cook is also a short walk into the city centre so we did the obligatory wander through Cuba mall, sadly disappointed with the single-shot coffees at Espressaholic but the rocky road and yoghurt dessert made up for it – partly. Finished the day sniffling like a girl after watching Hachi. Don’t get it out if you’re a little insecure with your own masculinity.

Sunday was time to head down to the waterfront to experience the farmer’s market, which included buying fresh snapper or whatever else they’ve brought in that morning. The lead singer on the boat is more showman than fisherman, which makes it worth visiting even if you’re not into seafood. Hang around too long though and you’re setting yourself up to be the target of his next bad joke – you have been warned.

Anyone can get a licence in Wellington	The Basin Reserve - Home of ball tampering and white pants	Protesting Cuba mall style
Farmers market by the waterfront	Underwater trolleys - apparently it keeps them fresh	Water feature Albatross style

The eclectic mix of people that hit the market is representative of Wellington itself. A underlying bohemian current that thumbs its nose at the conventional and looks with disdain on the mainstream. The modern hippy movement could well be a knee-jerk reaction to the boring politician and web 2.0 world that permeates modern Wellington.

Palmerston North

Next up was Palmerston North and while many of our friends gave us the ‘you’re mad’ look of disapproval for even suggesting we were thinking of visiting this hidden gem of the Manawatu, we were determined to let the place speak for itself. In fact, we very nearly missed our once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. My tardiness had us sitting in traffic on the way to the airport with barely 20 minutes to go – and we had bags to check-in. My wife was incredibly self-restrained and hardly said a word. I counted myself lucky and even luckier when she texted me while I was parking the car that we’d just scraped in. Obviously our trip to Palmy was meant to be.

Check back next post for the mildly exciting conclusion to this whirlwind tour of this country’s hottest hot spots.

FACT: Scooters perform better resting against a tree next to Vita Don Teese

In a fast-moving world we all like to think, regardless of what profession we’re in, that we are leading edge, that we are moving with the times and emulating the Olympic mantra of ‘faster, higher, stronger’. We commend ourselves for accepting or initiating change, we applaud innovation and those who are first to try something new.

But it’s all a smoke screen because nothing has really changed.

Politicians still lie, we will never grow tired of denim jeans and sex still sells. Now herein lies my quandary. I’ve accepted dishonest politicians and I don’t see myself ever parting with my super comfy jeans but the fact that sex sells bothers me. Whichever way I look at it, it just feels like a cop-out, like ad agencies are cheating.

You can see it now. It’s been a long day for the marketing team in the boardroom, drawing coloured charts, playing tiddly winks with M&Ms and catchy with the koosh ball. It’s getting close to five o’clock and they all have cocktail parties to attend but they haven’t even made a start on the new campaign. “Hey guys we can’t come up with anything remotely intelligent, catchy, witty or thoughtful. Let’s just show them some cleavage and call it a day eh?” Meeting adjourned. For me, that’s the same as giving up on trying to reason with your little brother to get out of your room, and just giving him 50 cents instead. It works but it’s a cop-out.

I doubt this approach will change anytime soon. As long as men like women, men have money and men don’t mind being manipulated, advertising executives will continue to thrust images of semi-naked women, gorgeous women, in our way for us to blindly trip over and lose our wallets in the process.

So don’t feel bad guys when you feel yourself strangely compelled to buy a second chainsaw just because you see a 2-page spread of Megan Fox holding one – it’s a universal power beyond our control and advertisers both know it, and exploit it.

Of course you could argue I’ve done exactly the same thing with this blog post (in a weird ‘reverse psychology’ kind of way). Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t. But now that I have you under this strange, hypnotic marketing spell, I will say you need this amazing product for the low, low price of your dignity. I’m joking of course. We’re above that kind of nonsense. Not above being fooled by a pretty girl but definitely advanced beyond shuffling every square inch of our polished floors in our $10 dusting slippers. It’s a cruel, cruel world.