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....

July

Back in March I read Grazia magazine's horoscope for me for 2009. It said

"It’s all about July. Love, career and money."

Pretty clear then and now that July has rolled around I'm waiting expectantly for all of them.

I'm not just sitting around waiting mind. My teacher training course starts on the 6th so that's the career part crossed off. I've got an interview with a company that tutors kids in maths so that should look after the money side. As for love? Well two out of three ain't bad and given that I'm doing the work to get those two, I reckon Grazia or the stars or whoever's responsible for horoscopes and their outcome, can put in the effort for the Love part.

So I'll just have to see what happens on number three....

The Rugby

What is it about men and sport? Why are we so addicted? How can the result of a game played by men who are, at the game at least, far superior to the rest of us have such an impact? The book, and subsequent movie – the UK version not the American one - ‘Fever Pitch’ by Nick Hornby is a semi-hilarious look at this phenomenon. And a good insight for all women into the grip sport can have over men.

Every time I watch a game of rugby involving either my domestic team, Otago, or my national team, the All Blacks, I go through the same set of feelings; pre-game nervous anticipation, gut wrenching anxiety and childlike hopefulness. Worry that we’ll lose and hope that we’ll win. Then abject despair if it’s the former or tempered elation if the latter.

Even as I write this it’s apparent that the team and I are intrinsically linked. I’m typing “we’ll win” rather than “they’ll win”. And when “we” do win there’s never that complete and utter joy. We could have always done better.

So on Saturday night I sat at AMI Stadium here in Christchurch and watched one of the worst wins of my life. We were woeful against Six Nations minnows Italy. The All Blacks have a winning record unmatched by any other national team in any other major international sport. They’ve won something like 75% of all their international matches. Yet they continue to let the nation down. Not since the first Rugby World Cup have we been deemed World Champions and now we run out against Italy and scramble through a bumbling effort to win 27-6. Pathetic. Hopeless. Embarrassing. And most importantly not an encouraging sign so close to the Tri-Nations fixtures against the other two rugby supremos Australia and (World Champions) South Africa.

My brother managed to let everyone in earshot know how he felt. Individual players and even some of the lacklustre spectators were offered an array of advice. At one point I offered to buy our first five an air ticket so he could “piss off back to France”. But we had fun. The game wasn’t the try scoring festival it should have been, but Vaughan, his partner Melissa and I had a few beers and enjoyed each other’s company. I got more entertainment from Vaughan’s antics than the All Blacks so I walked away happy. Glad that I’d spent the evening with people I love but saddened to be let down by the team I love. As rugby slips further and further into the realm of entertainment maybe the New Zealand Rugby Union should look to field a side made up of blokes like my brother who can truly entertain rather than a team of 15 who seem to have only mastered the art of looking hopeless.

myPod update

The myPOd is long overdue for an update.
For some reason this song is going round and round in my head

Men at Work - 'I can see it in your eyes' from the album Business as Usual. Men at work are best known for their hit Down Under which is played over and over in walkabout pubs throughout the UK, but the rest of the album's great too. It was the first one I bough twith my own money. On vinyl. Back in the 80's. Ah, nostalgia.....

A few old photos

I've finally got round to scanning a few of my older photos. They're favourites from earlier travel days. Pre-digital. Some are even from slides. Kodachrome 64 for those in the know. A fantastic slide film that is no more.



Sossusvlei, Namibia


Lioness, Ngorongoro Crater, Tanzania

Zebras, South Luangwa National Park, Zambia


And my favourite...

Pakistani girl, Peshawar, Pakistan

Cooking up a storm

Sorry for being away from the blog for so long, but I've been rushing aorund like the proverbial fly with a blue bum! In between enrolling at uni and doing reading assistance at my cousin's primary school I've taken over the cooking duties at my brother's place. And I think I've been doing a pretty good job, even if his daughter eats just the nacho chips and the sour cream and leaves the beans and mince. Not that my cooking is Ramsey class yet, but if I can offer one hint it's this. Lots of loud music. And I find dancing along to Jamiroquai's "Canned Heat" works best.

New Brighton Beach

Ah the joys of the long weekend. What the Brits would call a Bank Holiday happened here this last weekend - no school and no work on Monday so we could celebrate the Queen's birthday by shopping. Funnily not even the Brits get a day off for Liz's birthday but out here in the furthest reaches of the Commonwealth, we do. Like with Amex, membership, does have it's privileges.

Not being too keen to face the crowds and being a bit tight with my money, I decided to brave the typically cold winter's day and ride out to New Brighton. I'd spent a couple of days observing at one of the primary schools there and was going to go back for more, so thought I'd see what it would be like to ride over. It's flat and only a half hour ride, but if the sub-zero mornings I've been waking up to continue, I think I'll be busing!

The school's only a few minutes for the beach so I rode over for a look. It's stunning and despite the weather there were many surfers in the water and people walking dogs along the beach. The light was really good and I managed to get these photos.

Poor dolly

I've spotted this poor wretch a couple of times. Abandoned near the side of the road she lies in the rain a victim of society's neglect for those no longer loved.

Battery Life

Way back in 2003 I had the misfortune to spend a bit of time at the duty free in Dubai airport. I was on the way from Tanzania to Turkey to start work for Oasis Overland with my good friend Emily Newman. We were both very excited to be off to Turkey and yet really bored to be stuck in Dubai so as a way to chew up the time we hit the duty free stores. They were massive and, like casinos and other duty free areas, hid all of the signs of the outside world. It was a shiny, sparkly glass and chrome set-up with no hint of what time of day or night it might be. Eventually we ended up purchasing a watch each. After all, why not?

Emily went for an oversized Casio Pathfinder series watch with multiple bells and whistles: altimeter, barometer, thermometer, stop watch, compass, alarms ....


I went for a Tissot T-Touch. With almost as many bells and even a couple more whistles, the only major difference seemed to be the T-Touch's touch screen activation of fuctions versus the Casio's solar power. I took great delight in showing off the touch screen, while Emily kept reminding me that one day I'd need to replace the battery while her watch kept on going.

Well that day's come. Nearly six years later I've had the battery replaced. And what of Em's watch? Well a couple fo years ago it started to lose a few of the bells and whistles as one by one the functions started to play up and now the watch is in the hands on her nephew.

I still love the T-Touch even if it's on its second battery and doesn't tell me the day of the week. I'll be interested to see if it survives another six years.

Cold as Ice

It's freezing here and I thought the current myPod song deserved a post. Foreigner's "Cold as Ice"

I'm only the driver

Before setting off overlanding back in 2001 I needed a bus driver's licence. As I was in the UK at the time I surrendered my NZ car driving licence for a British one and then took the bus driving test. All easy peasy. My UK licence has taken me all over; India and Nepal. Turkey, Syria and Jordan. Even Zimbabwe, Ethiopia and Lesotho, so I was a bit shocked to find that all of the driving I've done in NZ since 2004 has been illegal.

My understanding was that holders of overseas driver's licences could drive here for 12 months no worries. And almost all of them can. But not me. Because I'd previously had a NZ driver's licence and that had, in NZ, now expired, I was driving illegally. If I was stopped I could have been fined and the car impounded! Oops! So to all the people who've let me drive their cars here over the last five years, "sorry". To the rental company I hired a car from ... "More fool you."

So now I've got to apply again for a NZ driver's licence, but because it's within 90 days of returning from overseas I don't have to resit any tests. I might not mention my extended "holiday" here in 2006! The up-side, if there is one, is that I'll get to keep my UK licence. The downside is that my UK bus licence can't be converted to a NZ one - apparently we have "stricter requirements here."

Oh take me back to Africa where red tape is much less prevalent and oh so easily avoided.

L and R

And I don't mean left and right. It's the strange habit of switching the "L" and "R" that Far East Asians seem to have.

The other week I was in the local takeaway shop and got excited at the chance for a feed of felafel only to be told, by the Chinese woman behind the counter, that they had "lun out". In a joking manner I tried to get the lady to say "run". Nope she couldn't pick up the difference. So we tried "ring" as I repeatedly rung the counter's bell - much to my brother's amusement. "Ring the bell." of course came out as "Ling the bell." "Ring"? "Ling"! It was very funny and she took it on good humour. I ended up without felafel and just had chips.

And it's not only when spoken. Just a couple of days ago I hit the local Asian food warehouse, which is a treasure trove of everything from the Middle East through to Japan, only to find that the miso soup instructions said to "... stir gentry until ..." Stir gentry? Am I supposed to add some of the upper class to the soup? Is this a recipe for proletarian revenge?

Reflections on hot rods

Strolling through Cathedral Square in Christchurch today I stopped to look at the hot rods on display. All of a sudden I came over all arty and noticed the incredible reflections offered by the the chrome finished bumpers and highly polished roofs and fenders. The following photos got it out of my system.

They are a 1957 Ford Customline 300 (photos 1 and 2), a 1955 Chevy replica (photo 3), a 1935 Ford Tudor (photos 4 and 5) and a 1923 Ford Model T (photo 6).

1

2

3

4

5

6

And this has brought a new track to the myPod. "Love Shack" by the B-52s....

Christchurch's artie stuff

Christchurch seems to have a lot of displays of art like stuff. I'm sure there's a proper word for permanently on display works of art shown in a public space, but I can't remember it. Alzheimer's here I come...

Anyway, so far, without even trying I've found some pretty incredible things. Like this park that's dedicated to dyslexics. It should help (as the t-shirt says) "Dyslexics Untie." Seriously though, it is really nice and has sit-down activated speeches.



Then there's the Firefighters memorial made from steel girders from the Twin Towers. The piece suspended in the centre of the larger bit in the background apparently comes form the 102nd floor! It's a very bizarre work of art, but also very thought provoking - especially as 343 firefighters died that day.



But the artwork isn't only modern. This building really caught my eye. Erected in 1929 as a combined streetlight, telephone box and clock tower it has really weird gargoyles spouting, not water, but the street lamps.