Sea Lion vs. Tourists

Dear Husband and I went to a party last Sunday where the hosts told this story.
The hosts were out for a stroll near the ocean when they saw two tourists too close to a sea lion. The hosts wondered if they should warn the group to stay away. Sea lions are not known for being nice to tourists, New Zealanders or penguins.

As the hosts walked closer, they watched as the tourists shouted, waved their arms, and threw rocks at the sea lion. Other tourists came over to take pictures. In New Zealand, we like our sea lions and we like our tourists. However when two tourists—with their cameras, credit cards and New Zealand book of wildlife—gang up on an animal who uses flippers to defend itself, we get upset.

Bracing themselves for a confrontation, the hosts strode over to the small crowd. But before they could speak, the taunting tourists turned to address the rest of the group.

“The sea lion is lying on our clothes,” they explained. “He can have the clothes. We just want the car key. It’s a rental.”

Sculptures by the Sea

Recently we took a holiday to Sydney, Australia, land of the Opera House. The Opera House is the building that was supposed to be a distinctive icon everyone would recognize as THIS IS SYDNEY! Land of the amazing Opera House! In reality, the building looks like a bunch of gigantic clams gasping for oxygen because they’ve been out of the water too long. But it is recognizable.

Since we were in Sydney, I wanted to engage in some cultural activity besides gaping slack-jawed at the Opera House and saying, “Yup, we’re in Sydney!” So I visited a sculpture exhibit at Bondi Beach.
You might think (as my family did), sculptures? Who wants to shuffle through marble halls at some stuffy museum to stare at works of art that make no sense. But you’d be wrong. This exhibit was called “Sculpture by the Sea”. You walk along a beach, getting sand in your shoes, staring at works of art that make no sense.

The sculptures had titles like “Pot,” “Crate,” and “Yeah it’s overwhelming but what else can we do? Get jobs in offices and wake up for the morning commute.” That was a title, really. It was the outline of a huge pink diamond made of aluminum. Something that the Opera House clams would definitely want, if they had fingers.

This event attracts over half a million people and they were all there the day I was there, a Wednesday. I overheard one patron say, “I’m coming back on the weekend. It will be less crowded.”

A prize is awarded for the best entry. I don’t know how you decide what’s “best” among pieces like a cement truck made out of cement, a “dream house” made from little plastic toys, and a lawn mower draped with a painter’s tarp. It’s like judging a three-year-old;s finger painting. “Johnny’s painting is good, but the orangutan’s shows more emotion.”

I read that judges decide on a winner based on the artist’s submission of a small replica of the piece they might have not seen the actual sculpture yet. Which may explain this year’s winner, Time and Tide Granite Monolith II. It wasn’t so much the title that struck me, it was the piece. It was a piece of granite. The artist carved on the rock to make it look more like get ready here, a rock. A big rock, like the kind you see lying around outside in remote locations away from residential areas. Personally, I don’t think the Opera House Clams would care for it.

One patron said, “I love granite.” And then he hit it with his palm. “Strong. Nice chunk of work. Has a presence about it.” But I ask you, what piece of granite the size of a VW doesn’t have a presence?
The winner in my book was Big Drink, made of and PVC pipes in the shape of a gigantic, bendy drinking straw. It was mounted in the water. My taste in art is what you would expect of someone who gladly watches reruns of The Office.

And I did what any person with my level of art sophistication would do. And you can see it in the photograph below.

Auckland Zoo: Home of the Not Dead Yet

On a recent trip to Auckland we stopped to visit the zoo. I went to a New Zealand zoo to see native species, the world’s smallest penguins, rare tiny frogs and animals that are not yet dead. I don’t mean extinct, I mean they haven’t gone stiff on their straight little legs and quietly as some yelled “timber!” keeled over. Yet, according to Margaret, our volunteer tour guide, this happens frequently. It wasn’t so much that she said all the animals are dying, it was that at ever other exhibit she showed us, some animal had recently kicked the bucket.

Margaret started off our tour by showing us the one lone elephant left in the zoo. I didn’t want to point out to Margaret that elephants are not a native New Zealand species. And that no one on our tour was under the age of five so we’d already seen all the elephants we needed to see. But Margaret felt it important to show us Burma because she was the last living elephant in New Zealand. Until about a month ago, the zoo had housed two elephants but Kashin, the other elephant, had died an untimely early elephant death. She was 40. In dog years she was 280, but we’re not talking about dogs here so I guess she was actually 40. I stared at Burma thoughtfully and wondered if she realized she was the last one of her kind in New Zealand. Before I had time to finish that thought, Margaret asked us to follow her to the kiwi house.

I was excited to be in a very few minutes actually see—up close these small round bundles of brown feathers (like the stuffed one I’d seen in the museum only moving—hopefully). I’d been meaning to look up on Wikipedia if kiwi birds were one of those New Zealand species that were extinct (meaning that ALL of them were dead, not just the ones in the zoo). It’s hard to keep track of which New Zealand species are extinct and which ones are on the endangered species list because A. native New Zealand wildlife doesn’t live anywhere else but New Zealand and no one outside of New Zealand keeps track, B. So many other animals like the ferret, rats, and wild cats have been introduced to New Zealand we can’t remember which ones are native and which ones are not, and C. Let’s face it, with the headlines all focused on a six year-old-boy potentially zooming around Colorado in a homemade hot air balloon, who spends time thinking about native New Zealand wildlife?

We entered the habitat into what, to me, was the dark clave of blackness. It was so dark Bat Man with his superior radar detection powers could not have maneuvered. I tried to get my bearings and bumped into, not too softly, a man in front of me. I said sorry and Margaret told me to keep my voice down and walk slowly. The kiwi—like the blue penguin—spend most of their time walking around in the pitch black and laying low during daylight hours. What is it with these native New Zealand birds that hate the sun? It is difficult to develop an appreciation for New Zealand native wildlife when they keep hiding!

For the sake of zoo visitors, the birds’ days and nights have been reversed. When it is daylight, and the zoo is open to visitors, the bird habitat is dark so they are fooled into thinking it is night. They come out of their private bungalows to forage in the mulch looking for grubs. Probably the birds are just pulling a fast one on the tourists. When the lights come on and everyone, including the zoo staff, goes home, I imagine the kiwis prance around, eat popcorn and laugh at all the tourist who they’ve bamboozled into thinking they only come out only at night.

But I saw one. I think. Staring into the blackness I watched a roughed up bowling ball with a thin, long beak poke around in the mulch and lob across the enclosure. That was it. At least at this exhibit Margaret didn’t mention that any of the kiwis had died.

Then it was time to head on over to the blue penguin habitat. The penguin habitat is home to two penguins. One was an old timer here at the zoo. The other had been rescued from the sea after an unfortunate incident where his wing was ripped off. The injured penguin has been rehabilitated and was even swimming straight. Margaret was very excited about this news. I can’t figure out the advantage of swimming straight when you swim in a tiny circular pool. It seems it would even be advantageous to swim with a curve in your stroke to help you bank corners and attack your food.

I was thinking this as I peered at the penguin huts. We didn’t actually “see” the penguins because they were inside their huts, sleeping. For some reason the zoo hadn’t thought to reverse the days and nights of the penguin habitat like they had the kiwi habitat. This would’ve been helpful since we the tourists had spent nearly the same amount of money on zoo tickets we’d spent on plane fare to SEE the native New Zealand species.

As we rounded the—empty—pool, Margaret casually mentioned that it was great that the old timer penguin had a friend now. This penguin had been living alone since her five companions had died last year. From a report in the paper I learned that they had died from a “mysterious illness.”

Then it was time to head over to a facility the zoo was very proud of, a $4.6 million, national centre for conservation medicine. Wow. With a title and money like that I wondered why they couldn’t keep more of the animals alive. Before I got a chance to ask, I read a sign about the first surgery performed at the clinic.

So if you had a big, fancy medical center like this one, what is the first thing you’d do? Open heart surgery? Help someone with an injured eye, foot or fix a broken tail? Well the Auckland zoo felt that the zoo’s hippo was getting a little too big for his britches (and I can only imagine how big that would be). So they brought in the hippo. Although Margaret didn’t know exactly how the vet coaxed a vexed hippo into the surgical suite. Perhaps this could explain the mysterious death of the five penguins.

Anyway they prepped the hippo and cut off his balls. This I know to be true because his balls are on display in the medical centre foyer. These appendages are as big as bowling balls. Okay, not really. They’re as big as a Buick. Really, they’re the size of two misshapen grapefruits. And way uglier. I was just glad the hippo didn’t die. Although the hippo may felt otherwise.

Leaving the zoo we rounded another pool. Margaret pointed out the tops of the head of a mother hippo and her son. We couldn’t actually see them because they dove deep the moment we appeared. I can only imagine what advice the mother was giving her son. “Lay low, honey, lay how.”

So what we’ve learned from our zoo visit is that you may or may not see native species. It’s harder than you think to keep zoo animals alive. And if you are a hippo don’t piss off the zoo administrator.

Phone Woes

Last week my cell phone stopped connecting to the Internet. This problem seemed like a no-brainer: I’d take it back to the store where I purchased it, hand over exorbitant amounts of money, and the store would return it—still broken. No, wait, that’s in America. In New Zealand, they return it and it actually works. As a
Kiwi person would say, “Good as gold.”

Before I go on I must tell you how struck I am by the Kiwis’ efficiency. When we got here, I realized I’d need a driving lesson because in this country, you drive on the left. I called Jim Pine’s Driving School, where Jim himself said he’d be delighted to help me learn to drive on the left, parallel park on the left, and cross a round-a-bout on the left without taking out other cars in the process. (I’m still taking out pedestrians on the left, but really, shouldn’t they be driving?)

I asked Jim, “Where should I meet you for the lesson?”

And Jim said, in that great Kiwi accent, “I’ll be round to your flat at half-past fah.”

He was going to pick me up! This, of course, had the added benefit that if we were in an accident, it was my car that would be totaled, while Jim could with his hands shoved into his pockets, blithely walk away, claiming not to know the crazy American driving on the right side of the street, directly into oncoming traffic.
He came. I had my lesson. All was fine. I now drive on the left side of the road except when I forget. For their own safety, pedestrians really should get a car.

I found the same efficiency at the grocery store. If you walk to the store rather than drive, as I did when we first got here (not having met Jim yet), and you have a lot to buy, no problem! The store will gladly loan you a cart. Just give them your address, push your groceries home, and leave the cart in your front yard. Someone from the store will pick it up later. Just imagine trying this at Giant Eagle.

So I took my phone, a Palm phone, to the store where I had purchased it and talked to Dave, a very serious young man who will, I’m sure, be moving up the cell phone corporate ladder. He thoughtfully and efficiently took my information while I told about my Internet problem. He explained perhaps with an upgrade in the system, my phone would once again connect to the Internet. I could get used to dealing with such efficient people. Then, as he finished filling out the form, he asked, “What phone number can we reach you at to let you know your phone is fixed?”

Remember, this is a very accommodating country. They put banks and mail services together because it occurred to them that you might need to mail bills, checks, or letters right from the bank. When you want to cancel your paper to go on holiday, a cheery person actually answers the phone on the second ring and takes care of your request. And she does it in LESS time than any web service I’ve used for the same purpose.

So there I stood at the cell phone counter. Dave looked at me expectantly, holding my only phone in his hand. “I don’t have another phone,” I said. Then I added hopefully, “Can I give you my email address?”

“We don’t have a space on the form for email, just a phone number.” Reluctantly, I gave him Dear Husband’s work number. This doesn’t solve the situation, though, because there’s no guarantee I’ll get the message. DH is working. He doesn’t need to be my personal assistant. And he wouldn’t make a very good one anyway. Early in our stay here, before I had a cell phone, a woman colleague of his invited me to lunch. The day before our lunch meeting, she needed to change the location. She asked DH to let me know. He did—two days after the lunch date.

A week after I dropped off my phone, I returned and spoke with Dave. He told me the software was updated and assured me that it should work just fine now. It was the way he said “should” that concerned me.

I called Dear Daughter to test the connection. The phone part worked fine. Technology is so great. We can read newspapers from China, check stock prices on Wall Street, send pictures from New Zealand to Pittsburgh. However, all these functions required an Internet connection which—on my phone—does not work.

Still exploring the phone, I noticed a new text message. It was from Dave! I figured he was texting me to check how the connection is working, ask me to fill out a customer satisfaction survey, or just to say hope you enjoy your stay in New Zealand. Here’s the message in total: “Hi this is Dave from the Vodafone store. Your Palm has been returned, from the repair agent and is ready to collect. Thanks, David.”

How efficient! Of course, I had no way of receiving this message since Dave had my phone when he sent it.
For the most part NZ is a smooth-running place. Mail a bill right from the bank, push your groceries home in the cart, or take a driving lesson. But don’t try to cross the street when I’m driving. And DH, I hope you’re reading this, because I’m tired of my Palm and I want an iPhone. Like the Kiwis’ most of the time the iPhone works.

Moving Day: Bringing Families Closer Together

Moving day is so much fun. It brings family and strangers together to work in harmony and a feeling of good-will to all. No, wait—that’s Christmas Day. Moving day is the one where the movers knock over an ornamental tree on the porch, break the drawer on a handmade desk and ask where they can smoke.

Moving day started out pretty normal. I was doing what any sane woman would be doing when she’s waiting for the imminent arrival of the van that contains 2,572 boxes of the highly valuable stuff she’s had shipped from one hemisphere to another.

What I was doing while waiting for the van was making chocolate-covered pretzels rods. Okay, I wasn’t making them, Dear Daughter was, and she was in a huff. I had packed all the borrowed chipped dishes, mangled cookie sheets and mismatched silverware so the kitchen would be empty, ready for the onslaught of our personal chipped dishes, mangled cookie sheets and mismatched silverware.

All we had to cool the pretzel rods on was tinfoil, which is as about as useful to dessert-cooling as roller skates are to professional furniture movers. I’m not sure why she had to make them this particular morning, but years of painful experience have taught me it’s safer not to question the decisions of 16-year-olds. They can drive. An appointment you waited six months for with a medical specialist can slip by while she takes her friends to the mall with her cell phone on vibrate.

She finally left for school, taking all the “good” pretzels and leaving the broken ones on the kitchen counter. I was cleaning the counter when the movers, Darrel (“Deer-ull”) and Ronnie, arrived.

The day went pretty much as planned except for the unplanned parts. I asked Darrel to help me pick up the loose wrapping paper on the bedroom floor. Instead, he picked up one end of a bookcase, putting it at a precarious angle. A bookcase door flew open and cracked off at the hinges. We both looked at the door, now on the floor, and he said,“Is this an American style?”

I did not answer, “Why, yes, we like it when the doors fly off and land on the floor with their
hinges in the air like a flattened cockroach.” I just said, “Yes.”

The other unplanned part of the day was when Darrel lost hold of the wardrobe box he was carrying through the front door. Being a professional mover, of course he picked it up right away, but upside-down. My suits and good skirts traveled five zillion miles staying neatly on their hangers, only to tumble free on the last three steps and land in a rumpled mess at the bottom (make that the top) of the box.

Meanwhile, Patrick, a colleague of Dear Husband, came by and asked DH if he would like to see a windmill. Something about sustainable living, renewable energy resources.
A windmill? I thought. No! Stay and help me! What I said was, “Go ahead,” and broke out into a rousing verse of “The Impossible Dream”.

I put plates into kitchen cabinets, blankets onto shelves, and helped Ronnie and Darrel figure out how to reassemble the beds. After that, Ronnie and Darrel figured it was time to go. After all, the truck was empty, every inch of floor in the tiny house including the garage was covered with boxes, and they were out of cigarettes.

At 4 pm DD returned from school. She marched to her room to survey her loot. I’d been piling stuff on her bed so she would have room to walk and put things where she wanted them. She opened a box of clothes and found a striped blouse. She squeezed through the maze of boxes, rearranged several in the living room to make room for the ironing board, and began pressing the blouse.

I continued unpacking and DH returned. The wrapping paper and boxes strewn everywhere did lend a slightly Christmasy air, except all the stuff was used, and instead of good little children we were drones looking for the rightful home for every screwdriver, paper clip, and hairbrush. Only rightful places were in short supply because we had moved from a house with four bedrooms and a den to one with three bedrooms—and no den.

By 10:30 pm DH was in the living room hooking up the television. I announced I was going to bed. DD asked me to help her clean off her bed, since at no time in the previous six hours had it occurred to her to do it herself. I said no. She said, “Next time you want help and I don’t want to help you? Remember this moment.”

I said, “I’d offer you a broken pretzel rod but I ate them all.”

So like I said, moving day brings families closer together. But only if you move to a smaller house.

Auckland

We are in Auckland right now. Went to a fantastic Chocolate Boutique on Parnell road. Oooh rich. Hot chocolate (more like a rich pudding), Mexcian hot chocolate. Chocolate Jaffa (hot chocoalte with a splash of orange). Hot milk with malt-no chocolate. Chocolate waffle-to die for. Cherry pie with chocolate crust. I had to study the menu for 15 minutes.
Wired? Me? Nooooooo. Just a slight buzzzzzz.

THE UNDIE 500 HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOUR UNDERWEAR

Every year, University of Canterbury Engineering Society Inc. (ENSOC) hold a charity event called the Undie 500. I heard about the Undie 500 over coffee at my neighbor’s home. As people talked, I struggled to keep up with the conversation. Were they really saying undie, or was this Kiwi-speak for indie? Were they talking about A) race cars, B) underwear or C) students drag-racing in their underwear?

It turns out Undie 500 has nothing to do with underwear, and not a great deal to do with racing (though it does involve driving). It’s an event in which the entrants purchase a car for under $500NZ, decorate it, and drive it from Christchurch to Dunedin – while wearing costumes. This year’s entries included a Lego car complete with smiling Lego-head costumes for driver and copilot, and an upside-down pig with tree trunk-sized legs sticking straight up from the roof. It could’ve doubled as a pink piñata for the Jolly Green Giant’s birthday party. One car wore a size 500-D sports bra on the grille and a size minus-2 G-string on the rear. This string was really, really skinny. A mini Cooper style car sported a pair of snug Fruit-of-the-Loom underwear.

To help legitimize the event, the organizers added a food drive. In addition to buying and decorating cars, students were to donate cans of food to the Dunedin Food Bank.
Now for the driving part of the event. To get from Christchurch to Dunedin you go straight down Highway 1. Let me make this clear: You drive out of Christchurch, turn left onto Highway One, and drive until you run into Dunedin. I suspect that each student entering—I mean donating to—the Undie 500 has driven this route multiple times. Yet the engineering student organizers, like any thoughtful organizer, give every driver a roadmap showing exactly how to navigate straight down Highway One. Going that extra mile, so to speak, the organizers also highlighted and provided distances between the six bars located along the route. College students—always thinking, always preparing the way, at least when beer is involved.

Maybe it’s my American English, but I thought this event sounded a lot like a wild and wacky car rally and not much like a charity event. But maybe that’s a Kiwi thing.

The rally, I mean charity event, ended on Castle Street, where the students admired each other’s costumes and decorated cars. Then, naturally, these creative minds needed something else to do. So these bright future engineers—who will one day discover how to run our cars using nothing more than used chewing gum and recycled beer cans—decided it would be really cool to drag a couch from an apartment into the middle of the street. Then, after the novelty wore off of sitting on the couch and having the Christchurch late arrivals nearly run them over, these highly imaginative college brains decided to set the couch on fire. Because once you’ve navigated the complicated route from Christchurch to Dunedin, probably while loaded with alcohol, what could be cooler than starting a bon fire in the middle of a busy street with a couch that’s not even yours?

I’ll tell you what—jumping over the couch. The first student launched himself into the crackling, amber filled air. His tiny brain electrodes bravely slogged through the alcohol to connect with his brain cells and deliver the following message: “Don’t do stupid things.” This connection was accomplished while he was in midair, at which point he realized he could not actually jump over the entire couch and instead landed squarely on the couch, which was totally lit up in flames. Fortunately, not all his friends were as drunk as he was and, using their great powers of deduction (because after all these are college students), dragged him from the burning couch and stamped him out on the street. They also called 111 (that’s Kiwi talk for 911).

At this point, the Stupidity Center in Jumping Jack’s brain realized he would probably not get back his deposit on the Lego costume since the left sleeve was black and charred, and so was his arm.
So let’s recap. In New Zealand, charity events look a lot like road rallies, 111 and 911 are the same thing, and college students everywhere like to drink and come up with cool things to do that frequently land them in the hospital.

It was either a wildly successful or a wildly scandalous party, depending on which side of the police pepper spray you were on.

Mango Rice

Right before leaving Pittsburgh we at dinner with friends at a Thai restaurant. A mango rice dessert was on the menu and was fabulous. I had tucked that little bit of information away to look for a recipe when I had the chance. And there is was! In the thin little recipe book that came with my New Zealand rice cooker (my old rice cooker has the wrong electrical voltage and sadly I couldn’t bring it along). This recipe seemed similar to the dish we ate in Pittsburgh. I made it and it was an immediate hit with Dear Younger Daughter who had two bowlfuls. I hope your family enjoys it as well.

1 ¾ cups short grain rice
1 ½ cups mango nectar
1 cup water
¾ cup coconut cream
1-2 mangos (peaches, bananas, cantaloupe will also work)
1 tbsp cinnamon sugar (sugar with cinnamon tossed in)

Place rice, mango nectar and water into rice cooker and cook.
When rice if finished cooking, add coconut cream.
Place in serving bowls, top with mangos (or other fruit) and cinnamon sugar.

Penguins at “Dusk”

This weekend we drove out to the edge of the Otago peninsula to see the blue penguins. Which is a great experience if you like shivering by the seashore behind an electric fence, watching the tide in the pitch black, while your 15 year-old whines, “I’m cold, there’s no penguins, let’s go HOME.”

I read about New Zealand’s blue penguins, affectionately called “little blues,” in a visitors’ brochure, and since I know nothing about New Zealand wildlife beside the fact that the possum were brought over by the British and we are all suppose to hate them. I wanted to see these little guys (the penguins, not the possum) for myself. So I dragged—I mean invited—Dear Husband and Dear Youngest Daughter for a road trip to the edge of the Otago peninsula. Being brilliant, worldly Americans, we began our adventure late in the afternoon. We were forty-five minutes up the coastline (halfway) when DH said, “Huh. Would you check the GPS and see how close we are to a gas station?” I glanced over to see the gas gauge arrow hovering around the E. Who but a family of American tourists drives to a sparsely populated peninsula to see penguins that may or may not want to be seen, without first confirming that they have enough gas to get there? But thanks to modern gadgetry, I learned from the GPS that the closest gas station was a mere two miles away. We could coast over on fumes, fill up, and continue up the narrow, windy peninsula road to see our little blue friends.

Then we discovered that the gas station we so desperately needed was on the other side of the bay (maybe two miles away or a zillion kilometers) unless our car could float, we would not be redeeming our New World grocery store coupon for four cents off a litre at this gas station.

We were in Portobello, the last big town on the peninsula. By big I mean the post office, candy store, and newspaper stand were in the front of the building and the fish and chips deep-fryer was in the back. I went in and asked if there was a gas station nearby. The owner said, “Well, I have some in a can, but it’s for emergencies. How much fuel do you have left?”

“It’s on ‘E,’” I said. “We wanted to see the penguins.” I pointed in the direction of the car, not knowing how this would help but hoping that he might see my child and husband and maybe he would remember from The Grapes of Wrath how travelers can sometimes be down on their luck, helpless even. Of course, The Grapes of Wrath is an American classic, and considering the fact that I can’t name a single book written by a New Zealander, the chances of the owner being familiar with Steinbeck were slim. I added, “It’s a rental car.”

He turned to assist a teenager who was attempting to buy a $4.12 bag of pink and white marshmallows, but whose cash card was repeatedly being rejected by the card reader. The teen left without his marshmallows and the store owner turned to me asking, “Where’s your car?”

I showed him and did my best to look pitiful. I hoped he realized from my accent that we were American idiots who didn’t know enough to get gas BEFORE going to the end of the peninsula. Whatever his reasons, he got his emergency gas can and emptied four liters into our tank.

I remembered my New World gas coupon. I decided not to ask if he would redeem it.

At last we arrived at the edge of the peninsula, where the little blues swim out to sea before the sun comes up, and then return to their nests at dusk. This is what we read on the sign posted at the beach; it was really easy to read because despite our gas problem, we had arrived well before dusk. So we waited behind the electric fence, squinting and shivering.

This is when I learned that dusk must be one of those words that Americans and Kiwis define differently. By “dusk,” Kiwis mean “so dark you might as well be in a cave.” Not even the glowing screen of your cell phone is going to help you.

But we kept waiting because 1) all penguins are cute; 2) these are the smallest of the penguins so they must be even cuter; and 3) I had to confirm that they were actually little and blue, because if they only come out in the dark, how does anyone really know what they look like? Perhaps they are iridescent pink and so embarrassed by their non-penguinness that they hide until the sun goes down, I mean dusk.

While we waited I busied myself taking pictures. Here is a picture I took about 5 minutes past the American definition of “dusk.”

And here’s how it looked 30 minutes later.

 

And this one I took 17 minutes after the last one.

 

While we waited, I was reminded of my adventure five years ago in Sydney, Australia. While DH was at a meeting, I had booked a seat on a boat to see the whales. Whale-sightings were a guarantee, I was told; we would not return to shore until we’d seen at least one blowhole and one real, life-sized whale. We took off from the pier and sailed around for about an hour. We learned where whales feed, what they eat, and which channels they prefer. We hadn’t seen any actual whales yet, though, so we sailed to another area known as a favorite whale hangout. To me, it looked exactly like the part of ocean we’d just come from. Since we didn’t see any whales there, either, the captain decided to go further out into the choppy sea, where we rocked back and forth and back and forth between intermittent up and down, down and up lurches. This was where I started puking my lunch, breakfast, last night’s dinner, and a Taco Bell burrito I’d had a week ago.

At least with the penguins, I was on solid ground.

Finally we saw something emerge from the water. Resembling an egg with feet, it lifted itself out of the tide, shook itself off, and wobbled its way to the nearby tall grass, never to be seen again. That was it. That’s what we’d been standing in the cold for, all for even longer than it takes to punch in all the numbers needed to call long-distance from New Zealand to the U.S.

It was so dark by the time Mr. Egg showed up that there was no way to tell what color he was, blue or black or the color of bile. These so-called blue penguins might not even be birds! Maybe they were really raccoons or baboons, or squirrels with a water fetish.

Still: we saw something. And it was definitely worth the drive back to the store in Portobello, where we ordered the fish and chips for dinner.

Over our fish, we talked about the little blues.

DH said, “It was a spiritual experience, sort of.” DYD said, “Not for me.”

Munching crispy fish, I wondered what we did see. I think it was a smart possum, trying to stay alive by painting himself blue and darting around under cover of the moon.

Pav bhaji (vegetables with bread)

One day last week in downtown Dunedin, I dropped into the Fair Trade store and found this, The World of Street Food, by Troth Wells, New Internationalist Publications LTD, 2005, www.newint.org.  Now that’s a book I can get into.  I said to the store clerk, “I wish I’d created that cookbook.”  And she just laughed.  The recipe is reprinted below (with permission from the author).

Vegetables with Bread
Friday nights, I like to eat greasy foods.  Fridays are time to say, “The week is over, we’ve eaten low-fat meals for five days, let’s kick back and enjoy some greasy fries or deep-fried everything.”   However, some of the recipes from Street Foods aren’t even that “bad” for you.  Yet they are as tasty and filling as any food I’ve ever eaten.  We had Vegetables with Bread on our second Friday night in our little rented house.  Dear Husband thought this was one of the best dishes ever. 

4 Tbsp butter
2 onions, chopped
1 green bell pepper, diced fine
4 garlic cloves, crushed
4 tomatoes, chopped
2 potatoes, boiled and crushed
2 carrots finely diced
1 ½ cups cauliflower chopped small
½ cup peas
½ tsp turmeric
1 Tbsp masala (I couldn’t find any so I used garam masala, which seemed to work out okay)
Salt
8 pieces of bread (naan if you can find it.  We used Pita and it worked fine. Or make your own.
1 jar of chutney or cilantro sauce

 Melt 2 Tbsp butter in large pan (iron skillet works best) and cook onion and bell pepper until the onion is brown.  Add garlic and cook one more minute.
Add tomatoes and let dish simmer, about 10 minutes. 
Parboil the potatoes, carrots, and then cauliflower, and lastly add the peas. Drain and keep the water.
Add the vegetables to the large pan and stir.  Add the seasonings and water to thicken to a broth-like consistency. 
Heat a griddle and coat with remaining butter. Place bread into griddle and heat.  Remove bread, coat with chutney or cilantro sauce, and add vegetable mixture. Roll up like a burrito or leave open like a taco.