Journey to Cape Town

When I started off on my biggest adventure this year, I was feeling pretty good about my preparedness for the trip. I had completed all my charts. I had packed everything and forgotten nothing, as near as I could tell. I remembered to take out the compost before I left, return the library books, download every electronic book and podcast I could possibly imagine myself reading for two weeks and fill my entire waitlist of requests for e-books. I even remembered really obscure items on my to do list, like emailing the folks at home a list of the foods that needed to get eaten or they would spoil, and I had traded in a bunch of old $20 bills for recent year bills at the bank, since they can fetch a higher exchange rate. I had also done something incredibly dumb, which was that the night prior to my departure, I worked all night, then obviously slept very little the next day as I spent hours arranging my suitcase contents and hugging my children repeatedly, then went to work again at 4pm with a plan to drive straight from work to the airport at 2am for my 6am flight. I had brought a large nitro cold brew coffee and I was drinking it constantly, but I was exhausted. Fortunately there were no other cars on the road, and I made it to the airport and onto my flight without any issues. Don’t ever want to make that mistake again.

I sailed through with my TSA PreCheck, flew from Boston to Washington DC, and then boarded the longest leg of my journey, a flight to Addis Ababa in Ethiopia. I was pleased to find out that I had gotten my request of a window seat, until my seat neighbor appeared. He was a very portly Ethiopian man, and he settled in next to me with a thud, immediately encroaching on my space since he had no room for his arms except over the armrests on either side. He appeared very jovial and wanted to chat. I decided to deploy my ‘sleep outfit’. When I travel, I typically wear a set of “athleisure” clothes that could double as pajamas. I also wear this great old find from Betabrand (an experimental clothing retailer, if you don’t know them), which is a travel sweater. It’s drapey and cozy and has a hood with a built in sleep mask that you can fasten behind your head with an elastic. It probably looks absolutely ridiculous, but I love it. I popped on my Ethiopian airlines socks, the sleep mask hood, and my travel pillow, and…. Someone in a nearby seat started coughing. It was no normal cough. This was a paroxysmal, can’t stop, wheezing death cough (official medical terminology being used here). The cough kept going on, and on, and as a person who had just spent 16 hours of the past day or so taking care of sick people, I was on edge at the thought that my services might be needed, since this person didn’t really sound OK to get on a 10 hour flight, and then also cross with myself for being irritable about a person who was clearly quite ill through no fault of their own. This lasted an interminably long time. I really think they might have made the passenger disembark the plane, because I never heard the cough again for the rest of the flight. I fell asleep to my guilty thoughts that I was glad the coughing person was gone, but I was really in no mood to be summoned to an in flight medical situation. 

I slept for about 4 hours, which I thought was decent considering there was a large man with his elbow and his knee in my seat. When I woke up, I felt clever since I had brought an empty water flask and had the flight attendant fill it up with cold water. I started watching Guardians of the Galaxy, since I like watching movies I’d likely never watch otherwise on planes, and again feeling pretty slick. Have I done enough foreshadowing to suggest that I’m going to end up screwing something up later on? I think I have. But the remainder of my flight to Cape Town was safe and uneventful, and I arrived over one day after I had departed Boston, very sore all over but excited as we landed and the crowd of people in the plane all started applauding and ululating with glee. I think being part of a cheering and ululating crowd is an experience everyone in the world should have at some point in their lives.

I found the proprietor of the small lodging house I was staying at waiting for me at the airport arrivals area, a very friendly and helpful gentleman who seemed excited to introduce me to his beloved home city.

On Severity Levels and Suffering

There are so many reasons why I'm glad that repealing or replacing the ACA failed, but I want to tell you about just one of them. 

There was a patient I saw one night in the emergency department. I was sitting there watching the tracking board, as you do when things aren't so busy, and I saw a patient's information pop up on the board. In the emergency department, we have a triage system which classifies people into five possible levels of severity. Level ones are essentially patients in cardiac arrest, or close to death. Level fives, on the other end of the spectrum, may be something like dandruff, or a stubbed toe (yes, they do come to the emergency department - that's a story for another day). Level fives are unusual. This patient was a level five, "Insect Bite." I couldn't help myself, I laughed.

I only laughed for a moment, because oftentimes when the triage complaint is "insect bite" it's actually a skin infection secondary to an insect bite, and the severity score is often incorrect. I previewed the triage note which read "patient with scabies since 6 months ago." This brought the smile back to my face, although it wasn't truly funny per se to think of a patient with scabies for 6 months, it certainly does make a physician wonder when a patient shows up with a complaint like this. Why now? Why, after six months of having this minor condition, was this the moment when you just couldn't take it anymore? You never sought help before, but now is the time? WHY? There often isn't any satisfying explanation, which is a source of humor in that "people never cease to baffle me" kind of way.

I walked into the room, and I couldn't even maintain the polite smile which I usually try to keep there as a customer-service minded physician - my expression changed to surprise tinged with mild horror. The patient indeed did appear to have scabies. All over his entire body. And he looked miserable. He couldn't stop itching as we talked. The red tracks made by his nails crisscrossed his arms, and some of the spots had become open wounds.

Surely you can guess the answer to the question now - the answer to the question WHY this moment? Why had this man been living in misery for six months rather than being treated for a parasitic infection that he well knew that he had? "I just got insurance yesterday," he told me. "so now here I am."

After pity, quickly I was overcome by a new emotion: rage. I'm normally a very calm person, but this situation made me feel angrier than if a school bus full of narcotic seekers had pulled up and started heckling me about my opiate prescribing patterns. 

I had the answer to my first question about this patient, but I still don't have the answer to the logical next one: WHY, in this affluent nation of plenty where I reside, why should any person have to suffer with a contagious parasitic infection for months on end, putting others at risk of transmission for lack of healthcare coverage? This man couldn't sleep at night, he was so tortured by itching. He lacked the knowledge or tools to treat himself, and he was uninsured, so he did not see a doctor. Is it any wonder that many uninsured Americans die annually for lack of treatment of their less visible and palpable medical conditions, like high blood pressure or cholesterol? 

This story isn't the story of a life threatening medical condition, but to me it is no less important, because it is an egregious example of what the simple lack of medical insurance does to people in our society. It has come to mind many days since then, but no day more so than today. I am grateful to all those who preserved healthcare coverage for Americans today.

Uganda Fall 2015 - Part 1: This Is Africa?

Sept 21, 2015

My current trip to Uganda began very differently from any other I’ve ever done. A chauffeur came and picked me up at my house and personally transported me to JFK in a Lincoln Town Car, with my own mini bottle of water next to me. My chauffeur was a stereotypical Italian New Yorker, and truly dedicated to his route. He seemed to know every exit and every potential detour. He had a GPS as well as his mobile phone mounted around him, constantly scanning for delays and keeping me updated on what was happening on the Throgs Neck or in New Rochelle. “The Mets are playing tonight! We’ve got to stay ahead of the game.” He was so chatty, by the time we reached JFK he was confiding in me that his in-laws didn’t approve of his marriage, as a former Catholic converting to the Jehovah’s Witness faith for his wife. “Witnesses believe the family who prays together, stays together,” he pronounced. “It’s true! I’ve seen it time and again.” I made some noncommittal, amiable noises.

I arrived at JFK and despite the endlessly winding queue to get through international terminal security, felt a thrill of excitement. My first international travel on my own in 5 years. Returning to a place I love, doing something that excites me – and this time getting paid for it. A dream come true! A gaggle of middle schoolers on a field trip together zoomed past me in the next line, singing loudly. “This is! The part where! I break free!” I had a smile that wouldn’t go away. My flight being delayed for 2 hours didn’t even put a damper on it.

This trip is the first one where I am trying to pump en route. For some reason, I didn’t anticipate that this would be a problem in transit. After we reached cruising altitude, I asked one of the flight attendants if there was an electrical outlet, explaining why I needed it. “No. There is no electrical outlet,” she said rudely, and walked away. At this point it had been about 8 hours since I left home, and there were still 4 hours left until I reached Amsterdam. Another flight attendant came by, and I tried asking again, with more desperation this time. “Some planes have outlets at each seat,” she offered unhelpfully. “This doesn’t appear to be one of them,” I responded. “There are outlets in the back of the plane, but we can’t allow you to use them because they might break your machine.” I wasn’t sure how true that might be, but it seemed I was stuck. When I arrived at Amsterdam Schiphol, I ran off the plane and to the nearest “baby lounge”. I hooked everything up… then realized that I only had a plug converter for UK/Uganda outlets, and Dutch outlets are different. My connection was tight because of the flight delays, and I ran to the nearest travel shop and purchased a multi-adapter for $30, in desperation, and ran back to the baby lounge, where the maintenance woman outside said to me “no, this for baby only.” “It’s OK,” I said, gesturing to my pump bag. “I’m pumping” She looked at me blankly. “This is room for baby.” I just went inside and closed the door. Hooked everything up again, turned on the switch and…. Nothing. I realized that my American AC adapter likely would not work with the voltage in the Netherlands.

I hadn’t been able to feed Soren for several days prior to leaving, unexpectedly for me, because I found out from the travel clinic that the live yellow fever vaccine is not recommended for moms nursing babies younger than 9 months. There have been a few cases of transmission of yellow fever encephalitis is very young infants (1-2 months). With no preparation, I had to just stop nursing, storing all the milk meticulously in the freezer in bags labeled “Not Until 9 Months!”.  So when my pump appeared to be unusable, I have to admit, I started to cry when I believed that 9 months of blood, sweat and tears were going to end so unceremoniously. 25 minutes until my flight to Uganda. I used Schiphol’s free wifi to search on international travel with a pump, and discovered that the battery pack, which I had forgotten was buried in the bag, was the only way to use the pump while abroad. I ran to the nearest electronics shop and bought their entire supply of batteries out. Back at the baby lounge, to my relief, the pump sprang to life with the battery pack loaded. About 5 minutes later, someone began pounding at the door. I unhooked the pump and answered it, finding another member of the janitorial staff standing there, accompanied by a mother and toddler. “This room only for babies!” She said accusingly. “This baby needs to come in.” “I’m pumping in here,” I explained, making what I thought would be illuminating gestures at my chest. “Milk!” “You leave here, let baby come in.” “They can come in if they want, I don’t mind. But I’m not leaving! This is for my baby!” For the second time that day, I found myself publicly shouting about breast milk.  “Where is your baby?” “HE’S AT HOME!!” At that point, the Dutch mother said something to explain what was going on, and the woman gave up and closed the door.

I made it to the gate just as the flight to Entebbe was boarding. After snoozing my way over the Sahara, I woke up with a thrill of excitement as we started our descent. I imagined walking off the plane onto the familiar tarmac again, smelling the smell of sweet grass and wood smoke as the breeze blows north over Lake Victoria. When I finally made my way from the back of the plane, I walked out to find… a jetway! Never have I walked off onto a jetway in Entebbe before. There was no breeze, and no mad dash across the tarmac trying to beat the crowd in to immigrations. In the luggage area, suitcases filed out in an orderly fashion on a conveyor belt, rather than being tossed into a mountainous pile on the floor. We walked out with our things and packed into a private hire taxi bus that would take us to Kampala, no onslaught of taxi drivers shouting “madam, you come and we go!” Despite the changes since my last visit, the night wind was crisp and smelled like wood smoke, many colored lights sparkled from the shops along the roadside, and people were gathered inside the bluish glow of the barber shops for the evening, socializing and laughing. Tusangaire mu Uganda! It felt familiar, and I was happy.

September 25^th, 2015

Not only is the Uganda to which I arrived different from the Uganda of 5 years ago, now I am different too. No longer do I even consider jumping on the back of a boda boda, letting my hair fly behind us as we zip around the traffic. I have air conditioned private cars to drive me from place to place. There will be no crazy mataatu encounters, stacked like sardines in a tin can barreling down the road with chickens at our feet.  I’m safe, and my travel is boring. At night, instead of gathering around a kerosene lantern to eat rice and beans that have been hours in the making and then curling up to read a book and tucking in my mosquito net around me, I just eat a chicken burger and browse the internet from my air-conditioned hotel room. I spent my first week in Uganda staying at the Kabira Country Club, one of the most luxurious hotels in the country. Kabira Country Club caters to the mzungu crowd. They serve an extensive breakfast buffet and have a half Olympic sized blue swimming pool. I even saw signs advertising their yoga classes for children.

So now I find myself after a week in Kampala with no stories to tell. We had some productive meetings with nutrition experts at some of the major agencies and institutions in town. I went out to some of the finest restaurants in town and dined with some very nice people. And I have very little of interest to say about it. Occasionally some of the local chaos will invade our orderly schedule, such as when we are driving slowly along a Kampala road and a man passes just outside the car window, yelling loudly “Jesus LOVES YOU PEOPLE! AMEN!” Or when I feel a tickle in my skirt and shake a cockroach out. Aside from these moments, it has thus far been a quiet trip – relaxing, but also low excitement. As a mother of two babies on an escapade from my sleepless mommy life, maybe that’s just the kind of trip I need.

September 25^th, 2015 (later)

As we finish up with our time at the Imperial Botanical Beach Hotel in Entebbe, where we spent the day for the Global Physicians and Surgeons Conference, I start to think maybe this trip is about to take a turn for the better. I’ve been enjoying my time greatly, but I’m a small town girl, and I can’t wait to get out of the city. I wander down to the beach at the hotel to try to get a taste of the wilderness. There is a large red sign posted “NO SWIMMING ALLOWED. – Management”. Hawks circle overhead, and kingfishers are lined up on the boundary wall that extends into the lake. There is a small black and white bird picking its way along the beach. This quiet moment inspires me with just a little bit of natural beauty.

As we prepare for departure to Jinja, it occurs to me to check the price for the drive with my local friends. I’ve become completely disoriented to Ugandan prices due to rampant inflation that has Ugandan shillings at nearly half what used to be their value in relation to the dollar. My friends quote me a price that is far below the one our driver is charging, and give us information for alternative drivers who won’t try to rip us off. After we’ve arranged one of these alternative drivers as our ride, my travel companion, Christine, contacts our original driver, who immediately cuts his price almost in half. She irritably questions why he was charging us a mzungu price in the first place. “This is Africa,” he says, as if that explains his behavior. We immediately decide never to utilize the original driver again. The Africa we know is not a place where you charge an exorbitant price just because you think you can get away with it. That isn’t Africa. That’s just greed.

Our new driver to Jinja, Joseph, drives a fancy SUV. It even has seat belts that work. Initially, we make decent time as we head towards Kampala on our way east, but soon we are stopped with a line of taillights ahead of us as far as we can see. The jam seems neverending, as we press forward 10 or 20 feet at a time, stopping and going while boda bodas whizz past on the edges of the pavement and salesmen hawk everything from newspapers to bags of groundnuts to the captive audience in the cars. The exhaust fumes are pervasive. Joseph likes hip hop and R&B from the 1990s, which is fine by me and I’m even enjoying it at first, but over time, the beat gets louder and louder until it feels like it’s throbbing inside my head. I try asking Joseph to turn it down, and he acquiesces, but somehow the volume seems to creep back up after that until it reaches the same or an even higher decibel level. I set up a pillow and put my hands over my ears, giving up. The bass thumps through the seat into our backs. Christine tries asking Joseph to turn down the bass, doing some beatboxing to get the message across since Joseph’s English is a little spotty. He pulls off the road and turns down the bass he is carrying in the trunk, actually turns the bass completely off, so that when he starts driving again, the music’s still playing at a deafening volume, except now it has lost all its depth and is tinny and piercing. We endure through Shaggy, Chris Brown, and Blackstreet. 

The lights of the city recede away from us, and we finally reach Jinja town. We pull up to our hotel, which the locals just call “Smile”. Its mascot is depicted in a photo on the gate, an elderly man with an appropriately infectious grin who the concierge explains to us is believed to be in his early 90s. “I’m not sure if he is still alive,” says the concierge. “This photo was taken deep deep, in the village, when he was drunk, and the children were playing around and there was music from the drums.” I hope he is still alive, getting drunk to drum music and spreading his smile around out there in the bush. It sounds like a great way to live. The concierge shows us to our rooms, which are dreamy looking with wispy mosquito net curtains, and walls studded with the bases of wine bottles. I suspect my trip is about to get a lot more interesting.

Baby's First New Zealand Adventure: part 4

We decided to spend the next day visiting the Wairarapa, one of the wine growing regions in New Zealand. The Wairarapa is full of rolling hills and vineyard after vineyard. We made our way through another series of hairpin turns in the Rimutaka mountains to reach one of the small villages of the Wairarapa, called Martinborough. Martinborough is a village centered around a small grassy square, and in all directions, there are vineyards. You can visit any of these vineyards’ “cellar doors”, but the tastings are quite expensive. I am not a wine enthusiast, but it confuses me that the vineyards charge so much for visitors to taste their wine, when tasting a wine and enjoying it seems a sure way to sell bottles of it. We therefore avoided the cellar doors, and visited the Martinborough Wine Center in the village, where we were able to taste several of the rose and white wines that were being featured this month. 

Taking a bus tour of the wineries would have cost us several hundred dollars, and in the end I decided that I would have trouble looking myself in the eye after spending so much just to allow me to get tipsy on wine. I can buy a few $10 or $20 bottles of wine and drink them at home if I want to get tipsy (or just one, to be honest, I’m a cheap date). After our glass of wine’s worth of tastings, we wandered around the square, visiting stores with very pricey offerings, and had a leisurely lunch before heading back to Wellington.

The drive was beautifully pastoral, and we considered our Martinborough excursion an afternoon well spent. The following morning we resolved to rise early, have breakfast with a colleague on sabbatical from my workplace, and visit the Karori bird sanctuary prior to our return to Auckland.  The Karori bird sanctuary, also known as Zealandia, is one of two main inland bird sanctuaries in New Zealand.  The other bird sanctuaries are small islands just offshore. 

Maintaining an inland bird sanctuary is difficult, because the rest of New Zealand has been completely inhabited by introduced pests that must be eliminated from the sanctuary to the extent possible. There are fences erected around the borders that must be quite high to prevent the most athletic predators (such as cats) from jumping over,, and must extend underground to prevent subterranean predators from digging under.. Since the area is open to the public, it cannot be completely sealed, and sanctuaries must vigilantly trap vermin and monitor visitors’ bags and clothing. To enter Karori, you must go through two sets of doors and a park volunteer will check your bags before allowing you through. It seems hard to believe that people have unwittingly brought rodents into sanctuaries in their bags, but unfortunately, it has happened. Bizarrely enough, people have even knowingly brought carnivorous mammals into bird sanctuaries in New Zealand, which is something I shall try not to think about any further as I might risk losing the faith I have in humanity. 

We spent an idyllic sunny afternoon tiptoeing through the woods in Karori, a quiet valley tucked into the hills in the northern suburbs of Wellington. Once you are in the valley, you are surrounded by forest, and birds flit overhead in the open air. You wouldn’t guess that you are only a hillside away from New Zealand’s capital city. Being on our own and quiet, we were able to spot many of the sanctuary dwellers, including the rowdy tui, squawking kaka, a gliding stormy teal, and a glimpse of a North Island robin and of kakariki disappearing into the bush. The kaka even divebombed us as we walked up the trails, which apparently is something they do to entertain themselves.

I have never been much of a birdwatcher, growing up I was always more into the cuddly and furry mammals. But there is something to be said for the thrill of hearing a warble of birdsong or a flutter of wings break the silence, and tracing it to its source on a branch above you. As we ascended a trail into the rear part of the sanctuary, we spotted a stitchbird, also called “hihi”, alighting next to the path. The male stitchbird is about the size of a fat robin, and has a blaze of bright yellow on his side. We were excited to find such a rare bird in the wild, so to speak, and we saw several more popping in and out of a feeder box further up the trail. It was interesting to note that near the entrance of the park, few of the native birds seemed to venture, except the damningly complacent takahe (so complacent they were likely easy to drive to near-extinction, as their preferred pastime is to calmly pick their way through meadows and underbrush, without much regard to threats surrounding them). We found Zealandia so delightful that I felt compelled to spend quite a bit in their gift shop, in the name of supporting endangered species, well, one must do one’s part.

We flew north after that to Auckland again, to reunite with our dear daughter, who indeed we had missed, despite her knack for disruption and inconvenience.

After returning to Auckland, our family members had kindly organized a party in honor of Lillian’s 1^st birthday. On that sunny Sunday, the Haywards sallied forth to Cornwall Park, the historic park surrounding One Tree Hill. We staked out a small field near the park entrance and set up beach chairs, tables, and cloths. There were homemade dishes such as chicken, salad, croissants, and pikelets. Pikelets are Kiwi mini-pancakes, slightly sweeter than regular pancakes. As far as I have observed, they seem to be served with butter and jam or marmalade on top. There was also some kind of traditional cake served called a Louise cake, which is a flat pastry sort of thing with several layers, also including jam. Geoffrey and I took Lillian up the hill to see a rock n’ roll cover band playing ZZ Top at the bandstand (there were a surprising number of families and elderly people watching this performance), and the older generation played a lengthy game of bocce around the picnic area. Bruce put on Glenys’ hat with a ribbon bow and we took turns attempting to bowl for cricket practice (me: terrible bowling, better hitting). Gary took Lillian for a meandering walk around the park, and Grandma watched it all from her lawn chair, which unfortunately she was proscribed from leaving.

The next day brought a new adventure as we packed our beach things, picked up Andrew and Nikki, and headed south to Mount Maunganui. We made what is apparently a longstanding traditional stop in a sleepy town along the motorway called Ngatea. There is a “tea house” there that looks straight out of the 19-somethings (1950s perhaps?), where we had tea, lattes, and toasted sandwiches. We wended through the Karangahake gorge, stopping at a scenic picnic spot where we were beset with sandflies along the way. The Mount eventually rose out of the sea in the distance, a green volcanic hill with turquoise bays on either side. Although at times it can be cool and windy there, the Mount often feels like a mini-tropical isle (with sheep). Days on the Mount are not complete without a Mount circumnavigation, and we made sure to complete this before the sun set.

Baby's First New Zealand Adventure: Part 3

The day after our Abel Tasman trek, we returned to Nelson and flew up to Wellington. It was my birthday, so we ate another big hearty country style breakfast before hitting the airport. In Wellington, we were staying at a B&B located up on a hill in Oriental Bay, which is right next to the city center/port area. The hill was so steep, it was extremely difficult to maneuver the car up the very narrow road to the B&B, which was lined with parked cars and zigzagged up to the B&B perched at the top. I requested that we go to the New Zealand national museum, Te Papa, as a birthday favor because Geoffrey had been there before and did not particularly want to go back. 

I thought it was an impressive and well-run museum, but I think I should have reconsidered my plan to go for my birthday. The history of New Zealand is a history of natural resources squandered, of wondrous creatures obliterated through ignorance and carelessness. As such, Te Papa is a somber place to spend an afternoon.

I have never been able to get past the first several pages of the definitive history of New Zealand, a lengthy book that begins with an account of how humans brought about the demise of many beautiful and unique bird species.

It begins with the description by an early naturalist of the New Zealand forests as they were before widespread European settlement – harmoniously filled with birdsong, with the rumble of wingbeats overhead.  

This morn I was awakd by the singing of the birds ashore from whence we are distant not a quarter of a mile, the numbers of them were certainly very great who seemd to strain their throats with emulation perhaps; their voices were certainly the most melodious wild musick I have ever heard, almost imitating small bells but with the most tuneable silver sound imaginable to which maybe the distance was no small addition.  

-- Joseph Banks, naturalist aboard Captain Cook's ship the Endeavour, Jan 17, 1770

Then humans come along and systematically destroy the forests and the birds themselves, a veritable bird holocaust. Several representative stories are featured:

-       - The tale of the lighthouse keeper’s cat, who was brought as company to a tiny offshore island and within days, succeeded in exterminating the entire population of a bird species (a flightless wren) that was only found in that location. Since discovered to be an apocryphal tale but still quite a sad one regardless.

-       - The story of the huia, a native bird prized for its beauty and slaughtered to make decorative robes and to  adorn stylish hats of wealthy Europeans of the time. The huia was an eccentric bird that only flew short distances, had very little fear of humans, and thus could be caught essentially with one's bare hands. It reportedly could be kept as a pet and even taught to say a few words.

In the summer of 1867, accompanied by a friend and two natives, I made an expedition into the Ruahine Ranges in search of novelties. After a tramp on foot of nearly twenty miles, through a densely wooded country, we were rewarded by finding the Huia. We were climbing the side of a steep acclivity, and had halted to dig specimens of the curious vegetating caterpillar (Sphœria Robertsii), which was abundant there. While thus engaged, we heard the soft flute note of the Huia in the wooded gully far beneath us. One of our native companions at once imitated the call, and in a few seconds a pair of beautiful Huias, male and female, appeared in the branches near us. They remained gazing at us only a few instants, and then started off up the side of the hill, moving by a succession of hops, often along the ground, the male generally leading. Waiting till he could get both birds in a line, my friend at length pulled trigger…" 

-- Sir Walter Buller, New Zealand's first ornithologist

85 million years of evolution to create these wonders - just a few short seasons to extinction. These stories make my heart heavy, and fill my mind with thoughts of “if only…” And thus I found the exhibits at Te Papa, highlighting the follies of New Zealand’s past, deeply sad. How incredible it would have been to come face to face with a moa bird, the tallest bird ever to walk the Earth. They look like awe-inspiring creatures. They were driven to extinction shortly after the arrival of Pacific islanders who originally settled Aotearoa, “the long white cloud”, as New Zealand is known in the Maori language. I feel (slightly) less angry about the Maori killing of the moas and other birds, given that they had no other sources of protein available in many places and even had to resort to cannibalism because of it. The fact that the ‘enlightened’ and ‘educated’ pakeha settlers came and brought all sorts of invasive species is less easy to accept. It is one thing to eradicate a species so that another can survive, or as an accidental outcome of some natural accident, but to do so from simple lack of care is reprehensible, in my view. Initially, colonists brought new invasive species because they wanted to make their new land more like Britain or Australia, or wanted to encourage agriculture and hunting/trade, and later did things that are just infuriating in their short-sightedness, like bringing stoats to control the rabbit population.  These introduced stoats are now ravaging the populations of kiwis and takahe, which are some of the most interesting and enchanting birds I have ever seen. If we cannot stop the stoat and other predators from their carnage, these lovely birds will soon be gone.

Will humans some day be able to bring moas and huias back through the marvels of science and genetics? I wonder every time I visit here. Is there any way we can atone for our sins?

Baby's first New Zealand adventure: part 2

Our first day on our own was a big one, because we had resolved to drive to the very northwest corner of the south island, the Farewell Spit. Although not terribly far distance-wise, this was a trip over a mountain range with huge cliffs and hairpin turns that made me feel woozy and nauseated. Being in a land of ferns and flowers was novel enough that I stayed in a great mood.

The Farewell Spit is an extremely long peninsula of sand and dune grass that extends out into the sea above the South Island. We contemplated the end of this spit, but unfortunately/fortunately the majority of it is closed to the public, leaving only a few walking trails around the base of the peninsula accessible. We crossed the peninsula, to the western coast of the island, and hiked to a place called Wharariki Beach. The beach is a pristine set of white sand dunes and rocky cliffs that you reach by passing through a hilly pasture of scattered sheep. Classic New Zealand! We spotted several seals on a large rock in the water, and I waded out to photograph them and also a few interesting looking maroon scallop-shaped creatures attached to the rock. Although the beach looked like a wonderful place to sit and relax and watch the sun set, we had to get on the road to ensure we got back over the mountains before dark, which would have been extremely treacherous.

We stayed in a small and very pleasant beach town called Motueka, in a cottage near the water, a B&B that rented out only one room. The room was fantastic, decorated rather whimsically to bring to mind a forest, with natural wood everywhere, a billowing sheet decoratively hung from the ceiling, a shower with rocky walls and plants.

The next day, we got up early and enjoyed a hearty breakfast at a farm-to-table style café in Motueka. Has New Zealand learned to do American breakfast? (our future business plan for a chain of family American breakfast restaurants in Kiwi-land could be in danger)

It was incredibly delicious! Heaps of eggs with rashers of the most tasty bacon I’ve had in years (all right, that may not be saying much, but let me tell you, this was great bacon). 

On our way back to the B&B, we crossed over a very narrow bridge of the sort common in that part of the South Island – it had two lanes, but just barely, and rails on either side held up by sharp metal struts. Husband accidentally got too close to the curb, which is easy to do when you are driving on a side of the car you are unaccustomed to, and hopped his tire up onto the struts, which busted it.

We pulled off the road just after the bridge to survey the damage. As we were contemplating the large hole ripped into the tire, an older gentleman rode up to us on a tractor. “Don’t feel bad, happens all the time,” he said jovially. “You’re not the first. But you’re the first today!” After spotting that we had a tire jack, he brightly rolled on his way. Perhaps he only offered to help if you were the first of the week, or the first of the month. Luckily, my husband is quite handy with a tire change, and we were soon on our way again.

Our mission of the day was to walk the Abel Tasman Coastal track, one of New Zealand’s Great Walks. This mission had been rather hindered by the flat tire and also by getting lost, because there is only one point at which you can enter the Abel Tasman Coastal track and we had initially aimed for the wrong point. When we reached the tiny town at the start of the track, we decided to take a water taxi out to Anchorage Bay and walk back to our car, an approximately 4 hour hike, according to the taxi operator “if you walk at a snail’s pace.” We sped across the water to Anchorage, and after a few minutes walking the white sandy beach, began making our way up into the hills and forests of the coastal track, stopping briefly at each lookout to admire the spectacular views of the sea. We realized by the end of the day that we apparently walk at a snail’s pace, although we were practically jogging along the last bit of the track because we were feeling competitive and wanted to beat out a few of the others who had started at Anchorage with us. The evening was spent at Motueka’s best and only Indian restaurant. Aahhhh…. the child-free life. 

Baby's first New Zealand adventure - part 1

All right. Let me tell you a story, a story of kiwi mateship….

Our flight to Auckland from the east coast was something I had been dreading for months. I did extensive internet research hoping to find secret answers to the question of how to deal with and entertain an almost 1 year old for over 24 hours of travel time. I stayed up nearly all night the night before we left, downloading iPad apps that I thought might catch her fancy and packing fruit snacks into tiny containers. As it turned out, time was on my side. On the drive to Newark, she took her morning nap most of the way. She found making her way through the airport quite entertaining. Sadly, when we got on the plane we found that we were not in Economy plus seating (which we had sprung for out of fear). A discussion about this with United was unfruitful, to put it mildly. Speaking of which, United Airlines is the worst, and I recommend that you never, ever choose to fly the unfriendly and bitter skies with them. The lack of extra space meant that for most of the flight, our daughter was struggling, fussing, and kicking the back of the seat in front of her – although we probably got about 1 hour or so of her in a glazed, swaddle-burrito state. The iPad apps which I paid several hard-earned dollars for were met with an initial stare of wonder and then shortly thereafter, pounding on the screen with an open palm.

Once we arrived in LAX and fought our way through the crowds and the chaos, we got aboard our real long haul flight to Auckland. There was some early struggling as we climbed towards cruising altitude, but once we got there, a kindly flight attendant (who was very solicitous towards baby and toured her around the plane to give us a break, what a saint) put up the bassinet on the bulkhead wall, and we were able to settle her down for a “night’s rest”. It nearly blew my mind when she slept for over 9 hours. I was able to watch 2 movies (“The Butler” and “The Beach”) and even sleep myself for several hours, and get some true enjoyment out of my luxurious “spaceseat”, which was a futuristic shell-like seat with a little foot pillow and a curved back allowing for easy head-resting.

Upon arrival into Auckland, after a brief encounter with a fruit-sniffing beagle (due to my having just disposed of an orange prior to crossing through customs), we were on our way, into the blue skies and sun! We adhered to family tradition and the first stop was One Tree Hill to survey the beautiful city, which felt windy and timeless, like we had just been there only a short while before, when in fact it had been 3 years.

After freshening up, we became presentable enough to visit Grandma. We found her in the nursing home, sitting at a table in the common area. She seemed pleased to see us, more so husband and baby since she seemed unsure as to who I was. “What a heavy girl!” She exclaimed (in a kindly way, I suppose), and I did catch this on video in case baby ever wants to know what her great grandma’s first impression of the meeting was, although I fear what impression this may make upon her possibly sensitive psyche. We showed off all baby’s latest moves, from toddling across the floor unassisted to yodeling. Having exhausted all possible means of impressing Grandma, we then departed to ensure baby's new reputation remained unsullied by crabbiness and fussing. We would soon spend our first baby-free week in almost a year, and we were awed by the prospect...