On dolphins and death

Get a feel for the weather. It's drizzling. It had been raining and windy for three straight days. The temperature hovers in the mid-50s. The sea is choppy. I am thinking about how not to vomit on my camera or the old lady next to me as we near the end of The Ultimate Bay Adventure (a perk for working in the restaurant--the tour company lets local restaurant staff go free so that they can talk it up to the tourists)--3 hours looking for and following dolphins, 3 hours on Urupukapuka Island, and finally 2 hours getting to and coming back from the Hole in the Rock. The boat arrives at its penultimate destination--the Hole in the Rock--and I focus my rain-splattered lens on blue boat seats. Actually, the boat is heaving back and forth, even as I try not to. This is not a picture of the Hole in the Rock. It's a picture of the nearby coastline--the white speck on the hill is the Cape Brett Lighthouse, lighting the entrance to the Bay of Islands (http://www.doc.govt.nz/templates/PlaceProfile.aspx?id=34370). You know how ice skaters are told to focus on one spot when they spin really fast in that move called "spinning really fast?" I'm doing the same thing. I'm focusing on the lighthouse and not the fact that I almost pushed a woman off the observation deck when I fell into her as the boat rocked on the sea side of the Hole.

This is sort of what I imagine the vestibule of Hell to look like.

Besides almost committing Involuntary Manslaughter, I'm looking for the ghost of William Wallace on those hills. As I've cited before, "every man dies, not every man really lives." I feel like I kind of accomplished both on this trip.





There we go. Hey, this is an award winner. The Hole in the Rock. It's 60 feet high. That's all I remember the captain saying. I was too busy wondering if my backpack was a flotation device. The swells on the other side of the boat had me thinking about my swimming skills. "Would the boat suck me down like Leo di Caprio said it would in Titanic?" The boat usually goes through the Hole, but the sea was too rough on this day. The boat sat here--rocking--for a good 15 minutes so that everybody could get superfluous pictures, just like I got (I took a lot more pictures, which will be published in the appendix of my forthcoming book, "How To Survive For One Year on Peanut Butter and Jelly and Tuna Fish.") Unseen here is the fact that the rock itself is a few hundred feet high and looms over you as your boat occasionally reverses to avoid breaking apart on the rock itself. However, the captain (I like to call him Phlegyas) did take us on a 5 minute circumnavigation of the rock, which entailed going out on the seaward side of the rock. Swells were probably around 8 feet. Beverages in the bar area of the boat fell to the floor during our little roller coaster ride to the brink of death. I had two thoughts at this point: how long can I tread water before turning blue and sinking and would the tour company bring families out on the anniversary of the tragedy to throw flowers in the watery grave site? I think the latter would be a nice touch.

It doesn't look that big. But it is. If you look long enough through the hole, you'll starve to death.

A cave entrance astride the hole. Or is it The Hole? Maybe the Hole? Anyway, here is the conversation those two guys had on the front of the boat. In case you don't know, I have supernatural auditory skills.

"Hey, check out that cave."

"Yeah, nice."

"Let's get my bald spot in that guy's picture up there."

"Ok."

"Maybe the reflection off my chrome dome will turn the left side of his picture into something Carol Anne ran away from in Poltergeist."

"I think I see the Jesus' face in the rock. Or is it Che?"

This photograph is akin to taking a picture of a window of the Hearst Castle and then saying, "you'll have to trust me. It's a really nice house."

"Scotland's daughters and sons are yours no more!"

Just humor me. It's late.

I half expected a sign to be hung above the opening: "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

Virgil's in the bathroom throwing up.

This would have been the award winner, had I had in my possession something with which to dry the lens. Seeing as how the drizzle was coming down nearly parallel to the ocean, I did the best I could. If I'm going to capture the moment for you, I'm going to need to be better prepared. I'll need sponsorship. Do it now before Hillary gets in office, raises taxes, and gives all your money to her Illegal Alien Healthcare Program with Full Prescription Coverage and Citizenship Plus Starter Money For Your New Life In My Pseudo Socialist Utopia.

This is a self-portrait that I will call "Swallowing My Own Vomit." After 5 hours on a boat that skimmed through seas enlivened with 3 full days of wind and rain, it's time to get me back to my rightful place on the Darwinian ladder--dry ground. I love dolphins--who doesn't, beside the Japanese who probably kill them for kicks while hunting whale--and I liked Urupukapuka Island, the rest stop halfway through my maritime adventure (that I kept repeating to myself as a source of amusement), but 10 more minutes of swell and I'm going to pollute Flipper's playground with a banana-tuna fish combination that even krill wouldn't touch.

As an ancillary, this photo serves as a stunning rebuke to all those conspiracy theorists who don't believe I'm actually in New Zealand. Look, there I am. You know how the U.S. Military puts out a photo of terrorist leaders that have been killed by U.S. forces? The sheet covering everything but the bruised and sometimes sewn up face? Well, a big reason for that is because the Arab culture is one of conspiracy theory--if the picture weren't displayed as proof of death, the Iraqi population would be inclined to believe in any superhuman mythology about the leader that al-Qa'ida (or its mouthpiece al-Jazeera) wanted to propagate. Instead, they get a picture that says, "here's your big, tough leader. Dead. Now what?" Well, here's my (living) version. "Here's your big, tough buddy. Alive. Swallowing my lunch for a second time. In the Southern Hemisphere."

Speaking of conspiracy theorists, the French chef is a believer in visitors from space. One of his first questions to me was not about anything related to me or what I might bring to his business, but rather was, "zo, what do you zink of Rozwell, huh?" I served a Mormon couple from Utah a couple of weeks ago and in the course of our conversation she let it be known that they think the U.S. Government was responsible for 9/11. "Welcome to Air Disconnect, I'm Captain Smith, we'll be flying over the Cuckoo's Nest today." "Reality, meet the Mormons. Mormons, say 'hello' to Reality." So much proselytizing, so little rational thought. I guess the word "reason" had no translation from the gold plates and never made it into the Book of Mormon. I suppose UBL's confession isn't worth much these days. He can't win for trying.

I wanted to signal my incredulity at their blind distaste for the truth by rubbing their lamb rump on my rump, but I was late for my X-Files Fanclub chat on the Al Gore Internet. I was this close to telling them that Oliver Stone had it wrong--it wasn't the U.S. Military-Industrial Complex and LBJ who killed JFK, it was also Jackie Kennedy, Vince Lombardi, and Canada, too.

Anybody who has worked for or with the U.S. Government (obviously no one in Hollywood) knows how truly preposterous the notion is of multiple agencies planning, carrying out, and covering up a presidential assassination and/or 9/11 and/or a fake moon landing. You can't get three persons from different agencies to agree on a lunch order, much less the biggest conspiracy the United States has ever known. Our biggest secret keepers are the biggest leakers in government! To a lesser extent, you still hear whispers about FDR's purported foreknowledge about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. This despite the overwhelming evidence and admitted participation of the truly guilty.

So, it begs the question: why are people so inclined to think the worst about their own government? Are some people just that jaded? That desperate to be different that they'd subscribe to the ridiculous just to validate themselves as "free-thinkers" or "pseudo-intellectual revolutionaries." Are they really "cutting-edge" or just willing to proudly herd themselves over the edge of Sanity cliff for the sake of not appearing to be the victim of groupthink?

In concrete terms, I think it's simply easier to channel the overall negative emotional reaction to certain traumatic events (Iraq and Vietnam, for example) into a blanket condemnation that ascribes to its target the worst vices one can think of. Ironically, I think that is a hallmark of a kind of hybrid intellectual-emotional adolescence which stubbornly refuses to acknowledge--in the case of 9/11, Vietnam, or JFK, for example--evil because it would mean that the person or administration or organization that responds soberly to evil is, at the very least, right in doing so. This despite a distaste for the protagonist that is so ingrained and well developed that nothing he/she/they do can alter that perception that everything he/she/they touch(es) inevitably turns to lead. Once you add in the sometimes subtle, sometimes not-so-subtle complexities of creating, executing, and analyzing foreign policy, there arises an even greater chasm between any of the different sides to an issue. Lastly, it's nearly impossible to falsify a conspiracy theory. Can I prove that Area 51 doesn't hold the remains of aliens from other worlds? Would anyone trust the government, even if given full access to the base? Of course not.

I also think that people want to believe in the boogeyman. People need to explain the unexplainable. It's human. I'm dying to know what Bill Murray said to Scarlett Johannsen at the end of "Lost in Translation." It's mysterious and imaginative. What kind of compromising pictures does Keanu Reeves have on Hollywood elite that allows him to make enormous sums of money acting? It's perplexing and curious. Why did the international basketball association steal the 1972 Olympic Gold Medal from the United States and give it to the Evil Empire (or is it The Evil Empire?) It's a miscarriage of justice.

These are all truly bad examples.

In conspiracy cases, however, wide-scale propagation is also dangerous, because the slippery slope continues getting greased up, all but ensuring that one day conspiracy theory will indeed substitute for history rather than serve as its curious understudy.

None of this, however, can substitute for the fact that neither my screwed up equilibrium issue nor my screwed up stomach are designed for rough seas. My new hero is James Cook.

I wonder, though, if he really was the most well-travelled man of the 18th Century. Maybe his charts are all a lie. Maybe the Pacific wasn't charted before Google came along. Maybe a reptilian alien species met the Nazis on their moon base and charted the planet instead.

Flipper! Okay, so the weather was pretty miserable--raining and cool. But not 5 minutes out of Russell we came across a pod of dolphins. These were about 30 or so of the 300-400 who make this part of the Bay of Islands home. We followed them for about an hour as they leisurely swam around the boat, occasionally showing off by jumping in the air. I feel like a 12 year old. But, seriously. Dolphins. Are. Cool.

A few days later a woman came into the restaurant and I inquired about her dolphin adventure. She frowned and said that they never did find any during their trip. But then her face lit up and she said, "but we did see orca!"

Cool.

So it's that time of year when whales can be seen in the local bays. I'm hopeful that somehow I'll be able to manage a sighting, but unless they come further into the bay--which they sometimes do, surprisingly enough--so that I can see them from the restaurant, it might just remain on my wish list until a later date (perhaps down on the South Island).

Anyway, no wonder that lady didn't see any dolphins. They skedaddle out of the bay before having a chance to be on the menu.

Sailors may think it's a mermaid, but I know better. It's my next tuna sandwich.

This one was Photography magazine's 2007 Silver Medal winner for Best Picture of Something Aquatic Right Beneath The Surface That I Can See But You Can't--South Pacific category.

You should see the Gold Medal Winner. A Tongan. Brilliant work involving Mussels in 8 feet of cloudy water.

From this angle, I was half-tempted to stick a fire extinguisher in their mouths and shoot it.

But then one of them looked at me and smiled.

Dolphins. Are. Cool.

Now you can certainly see dolphins in the U.S.--Florida, for example, has plenty of them. But I don't get out on boats often, and I don't get to see them in the wild as they swim with the boat often. And I don't get to New Zealand often.

So. There.

More crappy pics

Amen, brother.

So, think curling on grass while inebriated. That's generally what lawn bowling is all about. This is the lone piece of artwork in my flat. The State Department called and promised to renounce my citizenship if I ever wore that much white. Basically, with my sunless complexion, I'd be transparent and thus a security risk.

On an unrelated note, it's "Movember" here in New Zealand. Men grow moustaches this month and get upper-lip hair sponsorship, with proceeds going to support men's health issues. As my flatmate says, "ball cancer." He really means prostate cancer, but he's usually drunk, so we won't quibble. And he's English. Anyway, my flatmate, who has a clean-shaven head, has a full-on 70's Ron Jeremy porn 'stache going on, mid-Movember. Pretty impressive. I should get a picture. I gleefully asked his parents during a recent phone call what it's like to have a son who puts on his resume, "pizza boy." I heard only an awkward silence and what I imagine a stroke sounds like. Evidently, they're pretty old. I was shaving the other day and left my 'stache intact for a brief mo-ment. Needless to say, I looked like a mo-ron. Mo likely, a mo-clown. A pedophiliac clown. "Awful" is not a strong enough adjective to describe my face with lip hair. I would have had elementary school minimum-distance restraining orders put out against me as soon as I left the house. Hitler looked better than I did. I called it the "Chernobyl" before consigning it to the drain.




Whoops, the one day I didn't make my bed. Shucks. Notice, if you will, the post-Modernist touch that I've created in my abode. It says to the discerning eye, "I'm busy, I've got places to go and people to see. I'm somebody." To others, "I'm lazy." Also notice the portable radiator that I've borrowed from the common room. New Zealand housing is notoriuosly cold and damp as few houses older than 5 or 6 years have any insulation in them. Welcome to the First World! It's colder inside the house than it is outside. Combine this with the four television channels that Kiwis receive, and it's no wonder they're all outside bonding with nature. It's either that or chronic bronchitis.

Christ Church in Russell is the burial ground for the seven British seamen from the H.M.S. Hazard who were killed in Russell in 1845 fighting a local Maori chief during the early colonization/"we're just here to help you get settled" days. The maori leader had cut down the British flagstaff atop a nearby hill on three separate occasions in defiance of the European presence here in the Bay of Islands. On the fourth occasion, and after a sneak attack from the chief's followers on the small British garrison here, a battle ensued, and six men from the Hazard were killed. The captain of the boat drowned and he too is buried on church grounds. The British retreated to the boat anchored in the bay, and then proceeded to shell the small town from offshore as the victorious Maoris looted the stores.

I like the poem that is etched into the young sailors' tombstone.

"The warlike of the Isles,

The men of field and wave!

Are not the rocks their funeral piles,

The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! Track the deep,

Free, free, the white sails spread!

Wave may not foam nor wild wind sweep,

Where rest not England's dead."

In another unrelated note, a 19 year old German drowned in the bay a few days ago after he tried to swim from a local beach to one of the small islands a few hundred meters offshore. Police divers found him the next day in about 8 feet of water. The bay looks pretty. It is pretty. Turqouise is pretty. But it's also a recipe for disaster, especially as the water temperature hovers around 60 and the strong tides push further out to sea. The moral of the story? As with women, the prettier it is on the outside, the more dangerous they are beneath the surface. The bay, like a pretty girl, is fickle. It is only because they can get away with it: there will always be other men and other swimmers. I have an entire philosophy on this, but not enough room to type it.

Long story short: always, always ask the locals.

The backyard "Garden" bar at zee Gables. It had rained for three days straight and the sail which acts as a source of shade when the sun is out instead acted as a reminder of pressure and gravity as the weight of the water caused its collapse. The lesson here: when you have a sail in your backyard, think angles. Zee Gables will overcome.

Atop Flagstaff Hill in Russell. Awesome views around the entire peninsula. These pictures won't do it justice. Maybe it's the photographer. Next time you're in Russell, climb the hill. There's a one-in-three chance you'll be run over by a local on the way up, but the reward will be that much more poignant. If you survive the climb up, you'll actually get a preview of what your soul will see as it ascends skyward after getting hit on the way back down.

The vegetation is luscious.

Incorporate that word into everyday speech and be the Belle of the Ball.

Why spend $4,000 or $5,000 a night for the view at the Eagle's Nest when you can hold this picture in your bosom as you sleep on my couch? Or depending on how you look, in my bed.

What's the funny part of the Flagstaff Hill story? Well, after 3 weeks, I finally made it to the top. Mind you, I live at the bottom of the hill. And look what greets me at the top. "Area closed: Flagpole upgrade." That'll be the name of my band. Either that or "Nuns in Public," or "Penguin Waddle," or something happy like that. I've got a bunch of possibilities, actually. When I finally access my right brain and acquire some artistic talent, I'll be ready to go.

Not to be outdone, the sundial atop Flagstaff Hill waits joyously as visitors ascend the hill and visit this site thinking it's the flagstaff part of Flagstaff Hill. Yet, it's just a random sundial, whose feelings are probably hurt because everybody usually goes to the flagstaff and ignores the precious sunset information on his iron frame. I'm not saying I thought this was the flagstaff part of the hill, but I did stand there for 15 minutes wondering how that resembled a flagstaff, only to be clued in when I was going back down the hill and passed the "Flagpole Upgrade" sign. This is a reminder that I have a postgraduate education. Seriously. I have the loans to prove it. Anyway, the next time you're in Russell, the flagstaff should be upgraded (to what, I don't know) and you probably won't suffer a precipitous loss of self-esteem when you confuse a sundial with a flagpole.

Kiwi History du Jour

So, what's the big deal about a Russell street sign, you ask? This dead-end leads you to
the Eagle's Nest. No, not Hitler's getaway. The world-famous 5-star "Heaven on Earth" luxury retreat that will set the discerning traveller back about $4000 a night. At the Eagle's Nest, they'll leave the light on for you. Then charge you for it.
www.luxuryretreats.com/villa-page/ind/108740.asp

































You know you want one of these signs in your neighborhhod.







Above: The inside of Christ Church. What's so special about Christ Church? Patience, young Skywalker.



It's a cold winter's night. You're by yourself, drinking a bottle of wine by candlelight, wrapped in a blanket because you can't afford Iranian oil. You're doing the only thing that will keep you sane: you're memorizing Trivial Pursuit cards. Question: Name the town where you can explore the only remaining building of the first Catholic mission in Western Oceania. You quickly disqualify the answer you had for Eastern and Central Oceania and blurt out..."Russell, New Zealand!" You win nothing but the respect of the ghost of Pompallier.


Quick history note for the disinterested: it's the late 1830's and Marist priests from Lyon, France arrive in the Bay of Islands to spread the good word, beat the Protestants in rugby, and hit it off with young Maori boys. Okay, the last two aren't true, but the Marists did show up across the bay in Paihia, where they found the heathens...I mean, our Protestant brethren already busy trying to convert the indigenous tribes in the area. So, Father Pompallier moved across to Russell to open up a printery that would eventually print 40,000 books over the next few years containing the prayers of the Catholic Church. The fair-minded Protestants labeled Russell "Hell Site," and named their little slice of paradise 4kms away "Heaven Site." Who knew heaven and hell were so close? From this beginning Russell evolves to become affilliated with the 19th-century nickname "hellhole of the Pacific." The self-confessed "Chauvinistic Yankee," John Brown Williams, would later say about Russell, "of all the holes I've ever visited, this is certainly the vilest." The lawlessness of the Maori and foreign sailors created a "sink of infamy and disgrace." Russell...meet Philadelphia.


More importantly, after Pompallier's arrival in Russell, the Protestants write the heretofore disinterested Queen of England telling her that the French Catholics were here. Not much time later, British warships sail into the bay and the Treaty of Waitangi is signed, which still today serves as the basis for relations between the government and the Maori people.


In hindsight, Pompallier gets an "A" for effort and was probably a shoo-in through the Pearly Gates. He fought the good fight. He beat the Jehovah's Witnesses here. In a related bit, a recent study came out that names New Zealand women as the World Champion in number of lovers for a lifetime. The world average was 7. New Zealand women on average have 20. I thought I would share this.


Thankfully, Pompallier can rest easy--his target audience weighed on average 300 pounds.


Anyway, there's a nice little tour of how Pompallier and a few fellow priests individually handmade the prayer books for the Maori as well as the labor-intensive process by which they made leather in the tannery portion of the house. The next time you're in Russell, check it out.






And there's the reason New Zealand became a part of the British Commonwealth. The Pompallier House. I think I have some mustard named after this guy.

Right: The balcony inside tiny Christ Church. If

you look closely, you can see the ghosts of its long-dead parishioners praying to a Catholic God.

Alex Trebek: "This is the oldest church in New Zealand."

You: "Christ Church, Russell, New Zealand."

Alex Trebek: "You're a beast."