Sights and signs

My recent cycle trip around Otago and Southland was great. The weather was pretty awful despite it being summer - rain, wind and even hail - but even so I had a fantastic time. Along the way I saw a few things that tickled me.

Everything a tourist wants to know.
How far from home a I?
And, where's the closest toilet?

I've got my own mountain in Namibia, too.

Weak, but I laughed.

Apparently the one in Canada is a little bigger.

Yeah, right!

Time to head north.

Just a little smaller and quieter
than its northern namesake.

Kenny knew something was afoot.

Colac Bay? Hmmm???

Try as I might I couldn't get a

shot of myself obscuring the "a".

What if the job's for a foot model?
Or you're an amputee?!

Where the ones who never made it
onto Coronation Street ended up.

Beth's Beer Bread

Late last year I cycled over to Akaroa. The ride nearly finished me off - a small but near lethal combination of lack of fitness, beer, hills and anti-histamines - but I survived. While there I stayed with a friend from T.Coll, Beth, went swimming with Hectors Dolphins - brilliant, who'd have thought they'd respond so well to my underwater rendition of Paint it Black and the theme tune from Flipper - and learned how to make beer bread.

It's not really Beth's recipe, but a flatmate of her's, however I like the alliteration, so "Beth's Beer Bread" it shall be.

The recipe is easy peasy.

Ingredients

• 3 cups self-raising flour
• 1 tablespoon sugar
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 330ml can chilled lager beer
  I use Speights - it's vegan!

Method

• Pre-heat oven to 210 degrees Celsius
• Combine together the dry ingredients
• Add beer and stir until combined
• Spoon mixture into greased loaf tin
• Bake for 45 minutes

The plain version is great as is, but I've been experimenting with several variations:

Italian (add oregano, basil, and sliced olives)
Super-savoury (red onion, rosemary, thyme)
Fruity (sultanas, raisins, ground mixed spice, cinnamon)
Curried (curry powder, onion, pumpkin and sunflower seeds)

The possibilities are endless and yummy! Enjoy.

Happy Birthday Abi.

Stu Stone. What a legend.


I first met Stu in 2003 and in 2004 the powers that be at Oasis took the (in hindsight) inspired decision to put us together. Yep, Stu and Stu working together. (If we had a pound for every time someone asked if we were really named Stu and Stu we'd probably have enough for a bottle of Grouse.)


Over the years we got up to some real fun in the Middle East and then in Africa where I hauled him out of retirement to join me for a year on the dark continent.


Those days are over (for now), but the memories live on. NZ's a little too far from the UK to be at Stu's 40th, so instead I've penned this tale of one of our adventures. It's one of my favourites...

"We like Efes. Can we look inside?"

On every trip through the Middle East we passed the Efes brewery on the outskirts of Izmir. It was massive and as we drove along the motorway, en route to Selcuk, we'd salute the brewery, its enormous brewing towers, storage sheds and billboards. One day we decided that a visit was in order. Efes is the beer of choice in Turkey and was responsible for a fair few hangovers, so it seemed only right that we stop, pay our respects and take a tour of the place.

Without telling our passengers we set out an hour earlier than normal in the hope that a tour could be organised. After all, who could possibly say no to a truck full of foreigners hellbent on drinking themselves stupid on the brewery's produce? At lunch, having made good time that morning, we told the passengers that we were going to see if we could get in. They were pretty excited and as we cruised through Izmir many of them jammed themselves onto the truck's beach from where they could spy the Efes billboard in the distance.

Our first attempt to get to the brewery left us at the local bus station, the off ramps from the motorway being a little hard to work out. A quick u-turn and we were back on track. The next exit was after the brewery, but there seemed to be small side streets which headed in the right direction. Edging carefully between multistorey apartments we scraped our way past the locals' laundry. At each turn the passengers would wail in delight as they sighted the billboard, our beacon, our yonder star, leading our mini-Hajj to the Efes Mecca.

Finally we found the right road yet a metre high median barrier separated us from our goal. A gap in the barrier let us into the local milk treatment plant where the guard's curious stare was greeted with waving and a hasty three point turn as we sped back towards the brewery. Pulling in at the gates we stopped at the security post. Coming out from his box the guard surveyed the truck like he was looking at an alien craft, huge and yellow and topped with scraggy looking people. A few reassuring words from Stu and we were directed to a parking space just inside the boom gates.

We'd made it inside the grounds. All that was needed was to ask nicely for a tour and Bob's your uncle's brother, so Stu sauntered over to the guards box and proffering cigarettes said, in his best Turkish,

"We like Efes. Can we look inside?"

Several phone calls and cigarettes later and it seemed Stu was making progress. Turkish custom dictated that there was long discussion of football and Stu's allegiance to Galatasaray must have helped as after maybe half an hour he relayed to us that someone was coming to show us around. It was time to get ready. I locked up the cab and the passengers readied themselves, one guy donning his Beige Brigade cricket shirt.

From a side door to the building emerged a gentleman in his mid- to late-fifties. He asked Stu, in Turkish, if we spoke German which received a shake of the head and a "yok". What about English? Yes, we all did and even better our guide's English was perfect. He quickly introduced himself; trained in Munich, he was the head brewer for Efes worldwide. He went on to apologise for the inconvenience and explained that they didn't do public tours, except for the odd chemistry class, but he'd be happy to show us about. So in we traipsed a rag tag bunch of Kiwis, Aussies and poms, clad in t-shirts, boardies and jandals.

We headed into the building and up to the control room. A bank of computer screens showed the levels in each brewing tower, the temperatures and pressures. All very hi-tech. From there we exited back to where the truck was. I was gutted, some dodgy driving, a half hour wait and it all seemed to be over in five minutes. No wonder they didn't do public tours. But I was wrong and our guide led us on and into the heart of the operation.

Slipping through a small side door we found ourselves at the base of one of the massive brewing tanks. There were eight in all and each held one million litres of beer. At the bottom of the tank were two workers with a large stainless jug, a mug and grins on their faces. Drawing beer from a tap they filled the jug right before our eyes. Here it was the world's freshest Efes lager and the jug was quickly dispatched as we were all given a sample. It may have been a little warmer than ice cold, but it was GOOD.

From here we headed to the bottling room. The brewery produces a million litres a day, half going into bottles, the rest into cans and kegs. The whole operation was enormous. As bottles whizzed past, up and down along their tracks being washed, filled, capped and labelled, we slipped and slid in our jandals on the highly polished but damp floors. The red painted safety lines were ignored as we sought a closer look.

From the bottling room we moved to the adjoining warehouse. It was the biggest space I've ever been in. Pallets of beer, stacked seven and eight high stretched as far as the eye could see. Miles and miles of Efes. A truly unbelievable sight. I even managed to phone the other Oasis Overland crew to let them know where we were - they were, to say the least, very jealous. Turning a corner we saw light at the end of the tunnel and headed outside every one of us sporting ridiculous grins.

Thinking that the tour was over we began to offer up our thanks, but our guide had one more surprise and led us into the staff cafeteria. Inside plates of potato crisps had been placed on a couple of tables and one of the workers stood in the servery cracking the tops off bottles of beer.

Icy cold, free beers were handed out and greeted with rushed thank yous, sounds of gulping and none too surprising "ahhhh"s. For once, being "only the driver" wasn't a good thing as I saw Stu and the passengers getting stuck in while I drank a few glasses of the local water. The water was good, that being the reason the brewery was sited there, but I'd have rather had a couple of cold beers.

After about forty minutes or so a few people were getting a little pissed and, knowing that we still had an hour's driving to go, I called a halt to proceedings and started readying people for the onwards journey. People grabbed photos with our host, traded email addresses and promised to only drink Efes from now on. A couple of the passengers even dragged him onto the back of the truck, opened our largest Eski and showed him the contents. It was jammed full of Efes lager.

We drove away, tooting and waving and promising to call again. Health and safety concerns meant we never got the chance (something about jandals rather than safety boots) and in a way I'm glad it was a one off. It's more memorable that way.

This is only one of the great moments I spent working with Stu. No matter what anyone says about him working with him was fantastic. Sure, he's the man that led us to the wrong the country, who drunkenly brought over a hundred kilos of female back to our room one night (when I told him the next day that there were two women, he just chuckled and said "see Abi, I brought one back for you too!"), who lost his passport and some truck funds, who struggled to balance a budget, who spent more time in front of a mirror than most women, but at the end of the day he's the only man I know who literally can "organise a piss up in a brewery".

Thanks for that and happy 40th Abi. You're a great mate.

Stu

Trout and lamb

A couple of weeks ago I was in Queenstown and Tim, one of my old friends from Wellington was over from the UK, sadly for his grandmother's funeral. Back in Wellington we'd been fishing a few times and we agreed to catch up and spend a day trout fishing around Tim’s old family farm.

I’d never been fly fishing before, but Tim is an old hand at it and knows the river like the back of his hand, so we parked the car outside the Garston pub and hitchhiked 5 miles south to slowly walk our way back upriver and see what we got. Before setting off Tim asked me how I felt about catching a killing trout. I told him that though I’m a vegan, I believe “if you’re going to eat it you should be prepared to kill it! And besides, trout tastes fantastic.”

Tim is a great teacher, patient, encouraging and kind, and I soon had the basics down, but not until Tim had emulated my mid-90’s, hook-through-the-lip feat. It was hard not to laugh. The river was beautifully clear, but trout are very well camouflaged, and while Tim spotted about 30 or more trout during the day, I spent most of it replying to his enthusiastic “Can you see it? There by the …” with unconvincing calls of “Ah, I think so.” all while gazing in entirely the wrong direction. All up I reckon I spotted about two trout before he did, plus a handful of submerged rocks, a few shadows and a couple of eddies. Tricky stuff this fly fishing – and we haven’t got to the act of fishing itself yet.

After spotting a feeding fish Tim would direct me out of the danger zone and then set into his work. Working the rod back and forth he’d extend the line and send his fly arcing out across the water landing it within inches of the trout. All too often the trout would take a look at the fly, think “Nah. I’m not eating that today.” and simply ignore Tim’s efforts.

I had a couple of goes and managed to lose flies left, right and Chelsea. In bushes and trees but more often than not simply broken off the end of the line when I’d begin my forward thrust too early and the line, like a whip tip, would crack and the fly would break away.

After a few hours of traipsing up river, from trout to trout, through fields with ewes and their new born lambs, a few lost flies and many disinterested trout, Tim finally got a the right fly into the right position by a hungry trout. It gobbled the fly and Wham! Tim struck.

The battle was on. I got the landing net but the bank we were fishing on dropped into the river where the water was flowing fast. Several times Tim managed to work the fish to within inches of the net but try as I might, I couldn’t get the net around the fish. The current was strong and the trout would recover enough strength to swim away. My dry feet policy went west after about five minutes – surely one foot in the drink was worth it for Tim to land his fish. One foot soon became two and the three of us, Tim, trout and I played out a scene worthy of Last of the Summer Wine.

One attempt and I missed. Two, and then three and still I couldn’t steer the net around the trout. Then it ran downstream and the line passed over my shoulder. “You’re in the line. Don’t break it!” cried Tim. Ducking and weaving I tried to avoid the line, keep my feet and spot the fish. If my flailing around broke the line the trout would be gone. Then, there it was, only three feet behind me. “Watch out! The line’s under your arm!” Tim called. “Bugger the line,” I thought, “there’s the fish!” and I stepped forward, and in one (I picture it as graceful) movement scooped the fish up and deposited it and the net onto the bank. One beautiful 3lb brown trout.

The thrill of the kill soon wore off as I watched Tim bludgeon the trout with a stout stick. A quick killing, but still not nice. The joy on Tim’s face, his little-boy-at-Christmas-look, dispelled my feelings. I was spending a great day with a great friend enjoying something he truly loves. The skill and effort he’d shown to get his (and my) dinner, the patience, grace and care he’d shown seemed to balance things out.

With one in the bag we continued up river. I had a couple more goes for a grand result of two more lost flies and Tim, though spotting about a dozen in one short stretch, got no more bites.

Around three in the afternoon I spotted a young lamb caught on a ledge above the river on the far bank. It was about a foot above the water and three or four feet from the top of the river bank. I couldn’t see any way for it to get out. Eventually it would end up in the water and get washed downstream. As far as I could see the banks downstream were too steep for it to clamber out and for all I know sheep aren’t the strongest swimmers. “Is that lamb gonna die?” I asked Tim, pointing to it. “Yeah,” he replied and seeing the look on my face asked “Do you want to try and rescue it?” We could see the lamb’s mother pacing above it, unable to spot her child, bleating plaintively. Every so often the lamb would muster enough energy to call back.

There was nothing for it. Time to repay the trout. I rolled up my trouser legs, took off my jacket and stepped into the river. It was cold, but my earlier wading meant my feet were already numb. Tim advised me to approach the lamb from behind which meant heading downstream a bit as I crossed and then moving up to it against the current. The water was beautifully clear so I could see where to place my feet as I crossed. It didn’t look too deep, but as it rose to my knees and then halfway up my thighs I had thoughts of Billy Connelly’s “and then it kissed the underside of my bollocks” line. I couldn’t back out though. Luckily, I ended up with a few inches of freeboard between water and tackle and made it to the far bank.

Having got there I thought “Now what do I do?” I’d never picked up a lamb before. “Where should I grab it?” I called across to Tim. “When you get close, it’ll try to get away. So grab it behind the shoulders, under the arms.” That wasn’t in the script. I’d pictured a compliant lamb, helping me to help it, not a struggling, wrestling mass of sodden lamb’s wool, muscle and bone, writhing to get away.

Edging forward, my hands stretched out in front of me, I urged the lamb “It’s okay, little fella, I’m here to help you.” The poor thing was so cold and exhausted it didn’t move until I clutched it behind the front legs. Then it tried to bolt. Holding on for dear life, I hoisted it up and swung it in one motion above me over my head, launching it onto the bank. It was heavier than I expected and part way through my throw I thought I wasn’t going to get in up onto the bank so I added some extra force. The lamb sailed through the air and disappearing from view, landed with a mighty thud on the bank. “Oh shit,” I thought. “Nice one, Stu. You’ve killed it.”

Wading back across the river I could see Tim watching from the bank. His face was lit up and he called to me, “Quick. Look. It’s beautiful, mate.” I turned but was still too close to the bank to see what was going on. Tim told me later that the lamb sprang to its feet and the mother and lamb ran towards each other, bleating, to meet up. By the time I’d got to the other shore the lamb was happily feeding and the mother had that typical ewe’s nonchalant “I’m being suckled on” face.

I was a beautiful sight and I felt really proud of myself. I’d killed a trout and saved a lamb. I think they balance out. Sure at some point the lamb will end up on someone’s dinner table, but for now it’s with its mum. And the trout? It tasted fantastic.

Wading back across the river I could see Tim watching from the bank.His face was lit up and he called to me, “Quick. Look. It’s beautiful, mate.” I turned but was still too close to the bank to see what was going on. Tim told me later that the lamb sprang to its feet and the mother and lamb ran towards each other, bleating, to meet up. By the time I’d got to the other shore the lamb was happily feeding and the mother had that typical ewe’s nonchalant “I’m being suckled on” face.

It was a beautiful sight and I felt really proud of myself. I'd killed a trout and saved a lamb. I think they balance out. Sure at some point the lamb will end up on someone's dinner table, but for now it's with its mum. And the trout? It tasted fantastic.

Sesame Street songs

Is my mind turning to mush? On the way to school today I caught myself singing the Sesame Street classic "Who are the people in your neighbourhood?" Now I'm wasting time at school looking for it on Youtube so it can be on my myPod. And I found a lovely picture of Ernie and Bert with the rubber ducky - an even better song!

Too much mush. Too much. I've got to start a lesson plan.

Trying to upload a movie

Having seen films on other people's sites I thought it was about time to try putting up one of my own. So as a trial, and only as a trial, here's a very short film (a filmette?) I made in the computer lab.



And it works! So now I can go home and make a quick film of my new gaff and put it on the web.

One of my papers here at uni is about using ICT in the classroom so I'll have to start making more use of the inter-ma-net. This is a sort of first step, I suppose. How connected is that?! I am a geek! I AM a geek!

Which has brought to mind today's myPod update "Computer Games" by Mi-Sex. I really only remember the chorus "Com-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-puter-puter, puter games
Com-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-puter-puter-puter-puter, computer games."

Meika and Monsters Inc.

Last Friday night Vaughan asked me if I'd mind looking after Meika for the evening while he went and helped his partner Melissa and her two kids who were all sick. He left me with plenty of instructions and checked up via text, but we had a great evening together watching a DVD.

Meika picked Monsters Inc. which is one of my favourites. Meika hadn't seen it before and it was great to watch it for the first time with a four year old. Her favourite words seem to be "How come?" which she offers up whenever she's asked to do anything, or has something explained to her, or encounters anything new. She's definitely curious and that's brilliant but it can be frustrating at times.

At one point in the movie Meika asked me who the scary monster was. "It's Randall," I replied. She looked a little thoughtful and then said "Denise has a Randall." Which is true as our auntie Denise is married to our uncle Randall. I said "That's right. This is another Randall." To which she replied "So there's two Randalls."


Later on, when Sulley takes Boo back to her room and says goodbye, Meika turned to me and said "I cry when the movie gets sad." I nearly cried myself. Luckily being a good Pixar picture there's the happy ending. And afterwards Meika put up no fight as we read her book from day care, brushed our teeth and she got into bed - while I set about tidying up!

Anyway, here she is....