Unpacking. Yes, we had experienced this all before. Really everyone who’s older than 5, who
has been away on a holiday or off to school, or moved house has. But of course, this is about me, so
it’s different and complicated.
So yes, we’ve packed and unpacked
before. More than once in fact,
but how hard could it be? After
all we learned our lessons from the first removalist
day. This had to be different
this time; we had appliances that were designed for the same electrical system,
so we should really be able anticipate everything that would happen. I mean really, that’s what engineers
and lawyers are designed to do. So
I just say back and anticipated all the glorious happiness that a full house
would bring. Life should be like
that, but it’s not.
Life for me is like being a goldfish in a
bowl. I look forward to the little
(and sometimes big) events with new wonder and anticipation. Again, some with more wonder and
excitement than others. Why? Well, I’ve found that having a short
attention span and short memory is more rewarding than being introspective,
especially because it seems that I can either be one or the other but not both. A particular example is when we were
waiting for the contents of our home to be delivered in New Plymouth.
It wasn’t just about the contents of our
home arriving that set us upon a heightened level of anticipation, it was also
the prospect of moving to a quiet house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Especially since the cul-de-sac opened
onto a park over looking the Tasman Sea.
Also especially since the park was also less than 300m (1000 feet) from
the beach. The picture of an
idyllic existence.
This fantasy made even more desirable given
that while our temporary accommodation boasted a stunning view, but it was also
like being on a campout with Chris Dorner, without the blazing fire of course,
but still while he was playing “hide and seek” with LAPD. I say this because while we over look
the foreshore, we are also along a main road, so every time a heavy logging
truck, fuel truck, gravel truck, container truck or delivery van goes by,
either breaking for the light, or accelerating for the incline, it was like having
LAPD outside throwing concussion grenades through our windows. The fact is, that I was ready to burn
this place down myself. So the
prospect of a new place, quiet street, beach access and our stuff will be a welcome sight.
The introspective part of me quickly became
embarrassed for being shallow and materialistic. Being so preoccupied by material possessions, that I was
fixated upon their arrival, I felt as though I was lacking perspective. So, I decided that not only would I
retire from introspection, but that I would also discard my latent attachment
to our property that was floating somewhere in the Tasman Sea. The result was I started looking
forward to our delivery date as though it was Christmas and Santa was the
Captain of our ocean liner.
Suddenly I had a renewed sense of anticipation and happiness as I
gleefully careened around my little glass bowl.
But ships don’t come in every day, and it’s
not like you can simply look on a calendar for Christmas Eve so that you can
set out a bottle of rum and gift certificates for Sea Captain Santa. But all was not lost.
Fortunately though we now live in the
information age where you can check to see if your ship is due to come in. Seriously. Both the daily newspaper and the port authority
post anticipated ship movements, so you can literally see if your ship is due
to arrive.
Ok, then how do you know which of the bunch
of boats is yours? After all, I’m
just a Canadian from the mountains of Alberta, where “big boats” are those that
you can’t do an Eskimo Roll in.
Well, funny as it turns out, our moving company (“removalists” in
Antipodal parlance) issues this information when they provide you with the
advice on the status of your shipment.
How exciting! I am now
splashing water out of my little bowl I’m turning and racing around so.
First a word about our movers. OSS Overseas. Aaaaaarrrrrrrrggggggggg! Right, as in not the best experience we’ve had. What was so bad? Well let’s say if I was ready to burn
our accommodation down, if OSS was the only option for our next move, I’ll burn
our stuff as well. I honestly
don’t think that I’d trust them, or pay them, to post a blank post card. In short they have proven to be inept,
lacking processes and more interested in moving money from us to them, the rest
isn’t much of a bother. A poor
selection on my part is probably the most judicious thing that I could
say. Again, why I’ve retreated
from my introspective self.
But at the end of the day, they (OSS whose
name I try not to speak, along with their equally incompetent local agents)
furnish us details advising that our possessions are safely conveyed onto the
NYK GALAXY, a container vessel under a German flag. How auspicious!
Germans are efficient, the freight is just shipping containers and the
boat seems to move relatively fast.
Even better, we live in the information age, so I can track NYK
GALAXY, look at photos of her / it / whatever we are allowed to call boats
now, and see where it’s various destinations are. Excitedly, I watched the little blue line grow, leaving
Brisbane as a small dot in it’s rearview mirror (I’m pretty sure ships that
size must have such mirrors) and steaming triumphantly to Auckland! Auckland? Wait, I was told New Plymouth. Ok, maybe Auckland was a first stop. But then, again according to the
infallible Internet, it was Christchurch.
Then back up to Napier. Then
Tauranga and Auckland again. Then
Hong Kong. Then…two realizations
that I had always knew were coming, the first one my teachers used to tell me
all the time. A) My ship wasn’t
coming in and B) My removalists were incompetent. Utterly, fu-_ing hate crime inspiringly incompetent.
I started thinking that my old
introspective self would have examined and re-examined why, why these things
tend to happen to me. Why…but then
by the time I crossed the span of my bowl I checked the website again and
thought that maybe after Hong Kong, Tokyo, Beijing and then Melbourne Christmas
would come to our shores.
So I called our friendly removalists to
inquire, playing dumb, as I’m particularly skilled at, according to the same
teachers to taught me not to expect ships, “hey, just confirming that our
container landed and we’re still good to go for delivery.” The answer was a very uncomforting “…I
will confirm when I can.”
WHAT.
THE.
MOTHER.
<removed
by spam filter>.
How could this really be the case? I mean consider that the facts are as
follows:
·
Container vessels are massive
boats;
·
Boats operate on the sea, which
is a generally flat surface without visual obstructions, like buildings, trees,
mountains, etc, although it is affected by the curvature of the earth, sure;
·
You can see from shore to the
horizon, weather and curvature of the earth permitting;
·
The horizon is a long way from
the shore, incidentally the horizon represents the point where curvature
overtakes visual abilities;
·
Even if you can’t see the
horizon, there are satellites, radar, and communication devices that assist
people in locating ships and managing logistics. Incidentally these techniques overcome curvature issues;
·
Once in the port, you can see
if the boat has docked and been unloaded or not.
·
Even if you can’t see the boat
in port, you can radio, e-mail, telephone the port authority, or ask any one of
the longshoremen in the local pub to find out the status of a particular boat.
The fact was that this wasn’t like this a
tin fishing boat with a handful of school aged Aussies (schoolies) that were
pulling up on a sandbar at low tide to polish off a couple VBs. Someone, somewhere should know if the
boat came in, if our container was with it and if it had been off-loaded,
especially since it was their job.
The whole thing reminded me of a problem in physics.
Q. If a boat is spotted on the horizon, steaming to port
at 17knots, considering that the tides and winds do not factor in the boats progress,
how long will it take to reach port?
A. Seems like it would be
a while, probably a long while, I’d call the port authority and inquire, and
then charge my client 0.4h for “phone attendance with Port Authority to confirm
anticipated delivery of personal possessions. Add note to ask client if they would like an opinion on
emissions off-sets for steam generated propulsion”.
I failed physics, getting 1/7 for answers
like this. Ironically, I received
the same 1/7 mark in law school for this same answer to the same question. Unlike my physics instructor who simply
gave up on me, my law professor added the following comments:
Any
thing worth billing for is worth billing for. Add 0.1 for “attending to e-mail advising client of response
by Port Authority”, and 0.1 for “diarize same for follow-up in 14 days.”
Billing total should be 0.5h + disbursements and taxes.
The law always made more sense to me than
physics. So much more practical
and helpful.
The joke was actually on Nicole and I. As it turned out the schoolies that
were supposed to load our container hadn’t been seen since low tide when they
loaded up a tinney with their eskies (“cooler” in Canada and “chilly bin” in
NZ).
Like all things do eventually, Christmas
did come, magically, just like you would expect from Seafaring Santa. After all, New Plymouth boasts very
legal and very public bordellos, so it’s really just a matter of time before
ships make port here, but on the day vaguely promised by our removalist, and
their agent, a seacan arrived at our new place and started the end game of
goldfish Christmas.
But then the real trouble began with the
phone call from the local removalist agent. “Yeah, hey mate, we’ve got an order to drop by for you. We’ll probably be by say mid
afternoon. Does that work for
you?”
Although my heart leapt, I coolly checked
myself, “absolutely, does mid afternoon give you enough time to finish up, or
are you coming back the following day?”
“Ah, no worries, this is just a 20 footer,
we can have it dropped off in about an hour.”
“Fair enough,” I said with more than a
little skepticism, “but I paid for an unload, unpack, set up and removal of all
packing materials. So that’s
what’s on, right?”
There was a clattering in the background of
shoes and pennies dropping, “ah, well, er, I hadn’t been given that information
and we’re booked pretty solid.”
Right, I haven’t seen this one before. You know when the mover has all your
stuff on the truck, but the estimate “his office” gave you was a little light
and is “just a few hundred more”.
“No problem. This is really easy,” I said, “I’ll get OSS to confirm this
and if you don’t have capacity to do this work, I’ll hire a local crew and bill
it back to them. Good.”
As it turns out we got a crew that had the
time to drop our stuff by. Drop
perhaps the key word. The main guy
leading the crew had a local Maori name, a language that I confess I struggle
with. So I had to come up with a
name that I could pronounce and remember.
So I called him Enola. As in Enola Gay, the bomber that
had the dubious honour of deploying the first atomic weapon but forcing the
Japanese surrender in WWII. Enola
Gay seemed like a good name because every box this clown dropped ended up being
nuked.
The whole thing reminded me of high school,
I stood there in front of people who thought something was funny that was
making me insane. Something would
fall, “it’s ok mate, it’s just a little shaky shake. It’ll be right.
What’s the difference?”
My commentary or efforts to implore a
better result were all futile. So
I turned my energies back to the internal conflict between being shallow and
introspective. Strangely in the
firestorm of inside jokes and damaged furniture a solution was born. I decided to split my personalities and
compartmentalize my worlds. I was
going to focus on setting up our home, getting settled and enjoying our little
world in the corner of New Zealand.
That was compartment one.
In the next box was compartment two, in which I was going to spend the
time required to claim against our insurance for the ruined book shelves, sofa,
glassware, washing machine full of mould, etc. and then rain fire and acid upon
our removalist using all the consumer protection legislation that Queensland is
replete with. I was going to enjoy
both sides of this coin. In fact I
know this because in a symbol at being the bigger person, I bought the crew a
round of cokes.
When the first coke exploded in a shower of
sticky syrup and a chorus of profanity, covering a couple of the unexpected
removalists, I said, “it’s ok mate, it’s just a little shaky shake. It’ll be right. Was there a difference?” I still covet the smile I held
back.
At the end of all of this we got our
possessions back, unpacked and organized into our new home. The wine all made it across and that
dulled the pain of the rest. Life
isn’t as idyllic as we’d like, but you didn’t have to read to the bottom of
this update to know that. Life
never is.
After taking inventory, both personally and
actually, I realized that I’m wealthy in experience and am fortunate enough to
be enriched by my wife and daughter, our friends and family, the travel that
we’ve undertaken for work and recreation.
I’ve got so many good things, easy access to a beach, mind-blowing views
of the sea and the local mountain, a quiet home and friends that are happy to
read the first three or four paragraphs of these updates.
But that’s not all. I’ve also got an active insurance claim,
pending consumer protection complaints on the basis of insurance provided,
disclosure of same, and misleading representations in soliciting a contract for
service and over charging: in short a vendetta with removalists involving at
least three government agencies.
I think life in New Plymouth will suit a
series of compartments. Probably
everywhere would.
We hope you’re well.
