Removalist Day, Mk II

Removalist Day, Mk II

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.  

A New Start – What Can We Say

A New Start – What Can We Say

The end of one day...the beginning of the next

As some of you now know, our time in Brisbane is now over and we have relocated to New Zealand.  I say “New Zealand” because the country has roughly the same population as the wider Brisbane area and more so because the town that we’ve relocated in, is virtually unheard of, except in New Zealand were it’s very popular, but only as a punch line to jokes.

For those of you that missed the bit where we left Brisbane, that account is found at Elvis Has Left the Thunderdome.

Life is all about managing expectations.  So we knew that leaving the blissful weather of SE Queensland for the land referred to as “The Long White Cloud” was going to be a change, and further, a change that needed to be managed.  Our research showed that rather than water that ranged between 21-26c and summer ambient temperatures consistently in the 30-40c range, we were going to live in a town where the Tasman Sea was 17-22c and the air threatened historic records at 30c. 

So we thought that it would be a good idea to leave Brisbane before we could enjoy too much summer and thus ruining the mood for our new home.  It was a simple and modest plan that attempted to accommodate a holiday, as well as a Christmas visit back in Calgary.  Well modest of sorts.  The itinerary included stops in Fiji, Honolulu and Calgary, before embarking to start our new adventure in New Zealand.  I guess I mean that it was modest considering that our travel included 5 countries in 4 weeks.

Calgary was a good call but full of it’s own adventures and misadventures, which is also the subject of a shorter update, found at Searching For Auntie Emm and Toto.  Basically the anticipated magnificence of a White Christmas soon gave way to the misery of cold temperatures, reinforcing the cliché that you can never go home.  Although Spencer loved eating snow as it fell from the sky, we all agreed that -10c (and below) is inhumane.  However the short sharp shock of cold did ease our transition from Brisbane to New Zealand.   

A quick right into town, mate

Did I mention that the town we’re moving to is New Plymouth?  Did I mention that New Plymouth is beautifully located on the western coast of New Zealand overlooking the Tasman Sea?  This is a region of sea that’s as fickle as a school girl; some days providing the glassy calm of a Golden Retrieve’s gaze and others the vicious temper of a Bull Massif that had been raised in fight pits.  What this means to us, and I suppose the “real locals”, is that the water is a vast source of entertainment and wonder.  There is a good surf break, one that is typically devoid of crowds, a welcome change to our Australian experiences.  Perhaps this is because we’ll need wetsuits to venture in past our ankles, but we’ll see. 

All our various thoughts ricocheting through our minds regarding the new jobs, friends we had left behind in Australia, being even further away from friends and family in North America, new daycare, new bank accounts, grocery stores etc.  What brand of milk are we going to like?  Butter?  Where will we find a decent loaf of fresh bread?  All these things competed for space during the transpacific flight pushing us into exhaustion until we finally fell asleep.  Sleep on an airplane?  Right, I can imagine what you’ll say, but did I mention that Nicole’s company sprung for Business Class tickets out of Calgary?  Did I mention that Air New Zealand’s Business Class has pods rather than seats and that said pods fold down into personal beds?  Yes.  That’s right, just try a little, the first taste is free.  Too bad that the price tag on this ticket makes what I’d consider the “only way to fly” also becomes “justification to drive”.  But maybe….but probably not.  Maybe it’s the justification to find a well paying job.

Regardless of what being pampered was attempting to justify, soon sleep fell upon me and the surrounding comforts managed to staunch my anxiety from rising like a Monarch Butterfly on a summer thermal or the peaks of the kiwi mountains penetrating the long white cloud.  Unfortunately, this reprieve seemed over quickly.  As we started our descent I started thinking about all that we needed to do, the challenges that we faced in Brisbane and were about to embark upon again. 

Did I mention that New Plymouth is nestled at the bottom of Mt Taranaki (neé Egmont) the regions dormant volcano that towers over the landscape?  Or at least Taranaki is a mostly, usually dormant volcano.  Well mostly, usually dormant, for as long as most people that have lived here for less than 10 years can remember.  So at least this is going to be a beautiful location to live and probably pretty safe too.  Right?  Because even with a mostly, usually, for sure, usually during the last 10 years dormant volcano, there are no snakes or spiders or other dangerous Australian things, at least there haven’t been since the last volcanic activity in the area.

Cape Egmont Lighthouse with Mt Taranaki in background 

Since this wasn’t our first time in the Taranaki region (or province, without Canadian style provincial boundaries or regional government) or in New Plymouth, we had some sense of what to expect.  We took advantage of being here for a weekend during a round of interviews that Nicole had been brought down for.  Ascetically, the area feels like Pincher Creek in Alberta, but with more moderate weather and a glistening sea on the doorstep.  Rolling foothills, pastoral landscapes that provide abundant homes for equine enthusiasts and dairy farmers alike.  Again, a beautiful locale to call our new home. 

Did I mention that New Plymouth is a great move, from a career perspective, for Nicole.  The Taranaki region is home to the base of the drilling operations for Todd Energy and they have a significant multi-well terrestrial drilling program with wells running ~5000m in depth.  Further, they have offshore licenses that they are going to kick off at some future date, which will provide additional challenges for Nicole and some amazing experience.  But I suppose that everything comes at the cost of something else. Did I mention that New Plymouth is remote, even by New Zealand standards.  We’re now a four-hour drive from either Wellington (nation’s capital) or Auckland (largest city with ~1.4MM people) or 40 min. flights to either centre.  And once you get to either Auckland or Wellington, Sydney is only three or so hours away.  Then another 17-21 to North America…  But that should be ok, provided that we can find everything that we want here.  Right?  Right?  And of course there are no dangerous animals and the volcano is mostly, always usually dormant. 

Did I mention that New Plymouth is a town of ~70,000 people, part of a larger (relatively speaking) regional population 100,000?  In fact there are fewer people living south of our location than in either SE Queensland or Alberta, even if you include the various scientific expeditions of Antarctica (at least based upon rough estimates, dubious data and my substandard math skills, and dubious data collecting from public sources for Tasmania, South Island New Zealand, Argentina and Chile).  So, being city people, Nicole and I had low expectations.  Even without box jellyfish and a dormant volcano. 

These expectations have been shattered.  No question the selection of goods and services is limited.  Items we’ve grown accustomed to in Brisbane, and Calgary before, have virtually disappeared, except for some online purchases.  (Currently I’m rounding out my legal skills by becoming conversant in the various import / export law of New Zealand to see what we can manage to order overseas and bring into New Zealand.  So far it looks like the shipping and duties are going to be ugly.) 

Unfortunately these goods that we’re talking about aren’t even luxury items, but basic necessities.  For instance, when I asked one of Nicole’s co-workers where you could buy a decent bottle of wine, they responded, “ahhh, well, we brought some over from Australia.  Maybe you could try Auckland.”  God Damn!  Something that our advance research failed to uncover!

But for every setback and frustration there is a glimmer of hope and redemption, something familiar and provincial about being in a small town.  These are the experiences that make moving around the world rich and worthwhile.  Within our first 10 days in town we’ve had the following experiences:

1)   Spencer and I were at the playground in the small regional zoo around the end of the day, when we came across another family.  Right, nothing surprising about that, is there?  Neither was the fact that the playground was emptying as people were starting to head home for dinner.  It was then that I heard a mother calling out to her kids, all of who looked to be under 5 years old, from across the field, some 15-20 m (40-55 feet) away.  She was simply asking them to take care and that she was taking one of her other children to the toilet.  I offered to keep an eye on them while she was gone.  Really, I was expecting that she’d rush back, whisk all the children up and leave.  This way it would finally be quiet and Spencer could play on whatever she wanted, without competition. 

Instead I get the thumbs up, mom takes off coming back in 15 minuets or so with “thanks mate.”  I’m still stunned, until then the only person that I had met that so sufficiently lacked judgment to leave a child alone with me was Nicole.

2)   A couple of days later, I find my way into a local bakery / café and decide to buy a loaf of fresh bread for dinner.  You know, on the quest in the new town to find decent bread.  Like wine, another essential element for happiness.  After a short chat with the manager, I get a warm sour dough loaf and then realize that I don’t have the $3 cash to pay, so I apologize and produce a credit card.  Predictably, my new credit card fails, so I’m left making the awesome impression of the new immigrant that can’t afford bread.  Perfect.

So what happens next?  I’m expecting the manager to shrug his shoulders and turn to a bona fide freight paying customer, maybe casting me a suspicious or derisive look in doing so.  But no, we’re in the town where “Good People” live.  So, instead he says “Welcome to town, catch us up next time past.” 

What?  Really?  Really, really?  Idiot.  Like I’m going to make sure that I get back to buy more bread from this clown?  What if it’s no good?  What kind of business could he possibly be running, money laundering maybe? 

As it turns out the bread was fantastic and rather than imperiling his $0.80 of profit on the loaf, the three of us returned to Petit Paris the following day and spent $80 for lunch.  (Yeah, dinning out is pricey here)  So, a lesson in small town commerce, I suppose. 

3)   But while loaves of bread don’t’ fall from the sky, they (sort of) spring from the earth and represent small commodity economies.  What if you want to buy a car when you’re new in town?  Of course you want to, you’re renting some trashed out Ford Mondeo that looks like it was repossessed off the Brocket First Nation Reservation.  So what do you do?  Well you start by looking at what dealerships are around and trying to determine what they have for inventory.  Obvious answer. 

But what do you do when the local dealer doesn’t have inventory (as you’d expect to be the case in a town of ~70,000)?  Especially of course when you ask, for something specific. 

“Not to worry”, the dealer reassures us, “I just sold one a couple weeks back to a guy in town.  I’ll call him and see if you can take his for a test drive.”  Ah huh.  Right.  This is code for “you can buy what I’ve got, or pay me to bring it in.  If you don’t like it you can go back to Canada and cry”

But sure enough in a couple of days the call comes back from the dealership and the enthusiastic salesman advises, “yeah, so my client is on days off right now, so he can work around your schedule.  Does tomorrow or Saturday morning work for you?  He’s willing to accommodate you but also wants to book some golf in.” 

Predictably, I couldn’t answer the question as I was so stunned with it all and stuck trying to understand which part of the conversation was the unreasonable part: lending the car, working around our schedule, or waiting to see what we wanted to do before planning his days off. 

Of course all of our experiences can’t be like that, life isn’t so kind and really these updates would lack the zest that you’ve become accustomed to.  One such experience was the eventual purchase of our car.  Despite being offered all the convenience of driving the new car of one of the denizen’s of New Plymouth, we elected to venture up to Auckland to enjoy a weekend in the “big smoke” as it were, a proper city, one that boasts a broader selection of vehicles.  This, of course, meant that one of us had to return later to actually take delivery of said vehicle.  Ultimately it was decided that I would fly up Saturday morning and return (triumphantly) with a new car and that Nicole would take the rare opportunity for a day with just her and Spencer. 

With visions of the conquering hero played through my ample imagination, reality rose to meet me.  Everything was set in place, confirmed in advance, and re-confirmed, because in actual fact I was merely acting as agent in picking up a vehicle registered to Nicole.  Unexpectedly, at least for me, things seemed to be moving along well.  No delays in flights.  The taxi driver, who took me from the airport to the dealership, pointing out the landmarks along the way, was fair and engaging.

Unbeknownst to me, Misfortune arrived at the dealership at the same time I did.  In fact, I think it beat me through the door.  As it turned out the salesman who we had been dealing with was on holiday leave and someone who wasn’t collecting a commission was covering off the delivery of the vehicle.  Unsurprisingly this guy was as useful as playing Angry Birds on an Etch’a’Sketch.  I never did get a good look at it, but I think that his business card announced him as Max Distracted. 

Presenting contracts for me to sign, he asks, well actually almost grunts, “you’ve brought pen, right.”  No big deal, I happen to travel with pens, so I’m ok.  Then he adds, “You’re not really going to take the time to actually read that thing are you?” 

“That thing.  Could he really mean a contract, the foundation of all commercial discourse.  The imperfect, yet demonstrable, expression of ad item?  This was a legal document.  A contract. A thing of beauty.  It’s not a monstrosity like the meticulously restored ’68 Camero that’s always roaring around our apartment.  How could someone, especially a salesman not appreciate this?” Ah, yeah, as both the agent taking possession of a car and a lawyer, I think I probably should. 

But no, Max presses me, “Just initial there, and we’re done.”  You mean where it says that I’m waiving all consumer protection rights because I’ve bought this on auction, even though we’ve purchased this retail?  “Huh?”  This, I say, pointing to the provision.  “I’ve never seen that…”  and so it goes.  Eventually I’ve decided I’ve wasted enough of the salesman’s otherwise commission potential rich Saturday, sign the documents and proceed to be given the orientation of the new car.

For those of you who don’t know me too well, the details of car don’t hold a great deal of interest to me.  Nicole?  Well of course, as the engineer, she can tell you the Make, Model, Year, mileage, torque, transmission type and rating, GVM, towing capacity, fuel efficiency, displacement weight and towing capacity for every vehicle she’s owned and even most of the one’s that I’ve owned, even if I had owned them prior to meeting her.  Me?  I can tell you the colour, most of the time.  Well, sometimes I get the colour right.

Nevertheless, when Max Distracted starts his orientation in a derisive tone about the complexity of opening the fuel tank, he loses what tenuous grasp he ever claimed on my attention.  I suddenly realize that he’s not talking about opening the tank for repairs or something, but merely refueling.  I admit at this point I drifted off a bit.  In fact, I recall my future starting to flash before me.  Long gone were the visions of the returning hero, but rather I could see myself crouched over a savagely beaten body.  It appeared that it was the body of Max, even while the clown that was yammering somewhere in the distance in the recess of my mind, but I was elsewhere.  I was trying feverishly to resuscitate Max, presumably to re-visit further savage beatings upon him.  There were other visions, like being asked at my arraignment hearing “Mr Milne, what excuse do you offer for the alleged Grievous Bodily Harm that were attended upon Max Distracted?”  “Ah….I suppose that I’m not really sure, probably that the police arrived before I was finished killing him?” 

I regained my tether to Max’s orientation, to understand that the GPS wasn’t working, extra keys had been lost, the crack on the windscreen was something that I had probably done looking at the car and that basically it wasn’t his sale so he was more interested in catching up on the cricket scores and telling me how great it was that his parents live in Calgary, but nothing about the car.  At the end of the day, I picked up the car, some wine and found my way back to the highway and while I didn’t return to a parade, Nicole was certainly happy to see the new car and the wine. 

So this is our first few weeks in our new home.  We’ve managed to fly across the world, twice.  We’ve avoided hurricanes, earthquakes and blizzards, and we’ve discovered to find bread, wine and a car.  Although we've had our last Little Creatures for a while, I think we’re good.

Darren Hanlon, who was the inspiration, or at least a catch phrase for my last round of blogs, could possibly understand how we feel having left Queensland for colder climates.  (Oregon for him, New Zealand for us).  His rhetoric is this:

What can we say?

It was supposed to end this way,

Now we disappear.

What will we miss the most?

The feel of sun?

The taste of beer?

What Can We Say – from the album “I Could Love You At All”

Yeah, the taste of beer, the feel of sun, but also the laughter of friends.  So far, so go.  I think that life in New Plymouth will be a good adventure. 

Black sand beaches and small volcanic domes  

We hope you’re all well, know that wherever you may be, be it Canada, America, Europe, the Middle East or Australia, we miss you all.  

What would he say?

What would Darren Hanlon say?  This isn't exactly as cool as a grade school class performing All These Things but maybe because it involves a fellow Aussie, Gotye it's alright.  Entertaining all the same?  Well, see for yourself:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=nNtoq6SJ3_A

Socialism 101

It's been a while since I'm managed to provide an update as to our lives down here, for a range of reasons.  We have been well, we have been busy and we have been enjoying ourselves.  Sure, we could complain about how our winters are the same as the summer weather that you're enduring, how great the beaches are and how good cheap wine is but all of this has been said before.  Another reason is that as we become more and more entrenched in our lives here, it seems much more like a routine and while life is certainly different down here for us, for better or for worse it is still just daily life.  

Consequently the social observations seem to dull and what was once novel or foreign has become more commonplace.  Fortunately there are still a lot of strange things to report back in various dispatches, so as your pickled minds lurch back to reality from the abuses that you visited upon them during Stampede, allow me to share with you our observations on the social state in Australia.

This is an excerpt from an e-mail that made it's way to me that provides at least an anecdotal antipodal comparison of the cost of living between two blue collar regions, one that is in the grip of a socialist regime and the other that is perhaps heading that direction thanks to some of the more recent Provincial leaders, but isn't there yet.

The email claims (although not verified by myself) as follows: 

So when I was back home I took some photos in the grocery store to match some I took here before I left:

Price for New Zealand Kiwi fruit here in Brisbane:

 In Edmonton, Alberta, Canada (16,000 km away from here) ($3.86/kg)

 Rack of Lamb here in Brisbane: ($44.99/kg)

 Back over in Edmonton: ($29.99/kg)

 Bundy Rum here ($38.95 for 700 mL)

Edmonton: ($32.75 – but then was discounted down to $28.75 at the till)

Fair enough that this isn't exactly the most robust of evidence, and in fact may have nothing to do with socialism or anything other than the fact that most people are willing to pay double for things just so they don't have to live in Edmonton.  However, I think that it does suggest a certain socialist leaning of the Australian markets.

Note:  Bundaberg “Bundy” rum is distilled just north of Brisbane in a town ubiquitously called Bundaberg and as you go further north in Queensland people drink rum to escape the heat in quantities that make them insane.  Really insane.  Other Aussies call it “going Tropo” (pronounced with an elongated “oooooo”, in reference to the Tropic of Capricorn). 

Northern Queensland is supposed to be a magnificent place to travel, but only before it gets “too hot” or “too humid”.  In Australian terms anything over 45C is “too hot” and anything over 97% Relative Humidity is “too humid”.  For me the corresponding values are 30C and 75%, particularly for Northern Queensland, but 45c and 97% rel hum sounds like the unpleasant parts of Hell, so suffice it to say I’ve avoided that area. 

Why?  Well, because once the weather gets “hot” the blue bottle jellyfish “stingers” or “jellies” populate the coastal waters, and while their stings are not lethal, the paralysis that they cause frequently leads to drowning which is fatal.  So, if the coastal waters are out of the question, then refuge may be sought in any number of the regions rivers, provided that you can out swim or our wrassle the crocs.  So, copious amounts of rum it is then while you look for a place with A/C or get Tropo enough that it doesn’t matter.  So conceivably, the additional local charges on Bundy Rum is to offset the local demands on social programs, but hold that for now. 

I was raised, as most good Alberta kids were, to believe that “S____ism” is a dirty word.  A “red menace”.  A way of life or system of government for weaklings or vegetarians, but certainly not for enterprising freedom loving souls of hearty disposition that roam the Albertan landscape, those who aspired to stand on their own feet.  Fair enough.  Our parents had grown up during the Cold War and McCarthyism.  They had witnessed the British government impose a capital gains type tax that destroyed The Beatles (before John claimed to be a socialist), programs of government growth, a crippling National Energy Policy, etc. so why wouldn’t they be guarded and suspicious.  

Even the symbols chosen for socialism (and worse communism) were ominous, the hammer and a sickle.  These weren’t the stars and strips symbolic of freedom and patriotism.  This wasn’t the maple leaf famous for tasty breakfasts and big trees that only live in one small region of our vast country, no hammers crush and sickles maim.  I guess, unless they’re used for other things….

For our parents, socialism was bad.  It was wrong.  I’m not talking about the kind of socialism that pays for your university education, or justifies you drinking all the beer in your friend’s fridge, but the sort of socialism that raises taxes, misappropriates wealth and builds government machines with insatiable appetites, machines that strip wealth from private individuals like locus in a wheat field. 

Before leaving Alberta I had never lived under a socialist government, perhaps the closest that I got was a socially active conservative Provincial government or a Liberal Federal government, but that was more like living in the forest with Robin Hood, with Ontario and Quebec being the benefactors, not really socialism.  Besides, Robin Hood was a good guy right, his cohorts were Merry Men, they didn’t deploy missiles into Cuba.  Hood’s redistribution of wealth was heroism not socialism.  Right? 

But Australia, as we so often see, is different and even though the factions within the same political party fight, it is still a Labor government that rules the land and these guys are socialists.  “Labor government” is a term that always makes me think of Jimmy Hoffa, but again, this is different here.  It would be like Jimmy Hoffa as a laid back surfer who only really wanted to work flex time, and only wanted to do the rhetoric and not the intimidation.  Probably the kind of Jimmy Hoffa I wouldn’t mind standing up to.  But at the same time, the average guy on the work crew is empowered to such a degree that it wouldn’t surprise me to see a surgeon walking around in a blue wife beater, just to get some R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

But still, I didn’t really know what to expect from politics when I got here and over two years later, not much has changed.  Although until recently I would have admitted that I was still suspicious of socialists.  That’s all gone now.

During the course of the last two years and some odd months we have gotten used to the laws of the land, the statutes and practices.  To describe the plethora of laws here would be like imagining what it would be like if the Vatican merged all of its rules with those of physics and verb conjugation.  So basically, three groups of rules and laws about things that I have no understanding of, in fact I think I can describe how valences in Bromine function easier than what it takes to get a dog license in Brisbane.  Having said that I am currently undefeated in my defense of parking tickets, resulting in a savings of over $500. 

Between the Commonwealth, State and Municipal governments that is a form, a policy, a help line, a statute or practice, all with fines backing them up for virtually every aspect of your life.  Minimum wage is set around $14/h and the Commonwealth government has implemented both an increased royalty regime / mining tax as well as a carbon tax.  A red menace indeed.[1] 

During our time here, we have discovered one particularly important set of municipal regulation.  This regulation focuses on the timing and duration that your garbage and recycling bins may be placed on the curb for collection.  Failure to comply with said regulation results in immediate fines, because you can’t miss an opportunity to bolster the state coffers. 

So it was with great consternation that I discovered one morning that a ‘tradie’ (short for tradesman, but applied to all working class blokes that shoulder the honest labor burden for the Great Commonwealth of Australia while the nere’do’well lawyers, engineers, doctors, dentists etc all fritter away ……) had left my bins emptied, but turned over and with broken axels.  As I tried spiritedly to wheel the dysfunctional bins back from the curb, the broken axel gouged the turf leaving a tear in the sod. 

Exasperated I thought, “What environmental statute have I breeched now?  Is there a defense?  Due diligence?  Misadventure?  Necessity?” But then also was also the thoughts of how I going to get the bins replaced?  This was the sort of thing that needed immediate attention.  Fines for lack of compliance, garbage that needs to get to the curb by the following week, pests getting in to the bins, etc.  I thought of the logistics of taking two dirty bins in a small car to wherever I needed to take them, and then wait for repairs and transport them back.  And then what of the costs?  What if I get all the way there with these bins that don’t even fit in our car only to find out that I’m not entitled to request a repair, because I’m a tenant and not the property owner?  As my despair was becoming complete, I sought refuge in the only place that I can really count on, the Internet. 

I looked up “Wheelie bin repair” on the Google powered search found on the Brisbane City Council page and was directed to an on-line form that I had to complete as you would expect.  “Address of bins” “contact phone number” “Type of bin damaged”  “Type of damage / repair required” and so forth.  Within 5-6 minutes I was completed the form and hit “send” (ok, after three attempts at the captcha phrase). 

Ok, what next?  Moments later, I received an e-mail advising me to make sure that the bin(s) were on the curb (fines wouldn’t apply) and that the repairs would be conducted on site within two working days.           

TWO WORKING DAYS!!!!! 

REPAIRED ON SITE!!!!! 

I LOVE SOCIALISM!!!!

That was mid-morning Wednesday that I was launched like Spunik into an orbit of socialist love.  Sure, you pay some taxes, but you get good roads, good hospitals, good schools and bins repaired at your curbside.  Repairs were needed without delay.  How bad could socialism really be? 

After a whole other series of misadventures: nocturnal creatures that turned our garden into Fight Club; someone driving into our neighbors fence; and our daughter waking up with a nightmare; at 5 am Friday morning, the M_#$(*  F_(#*ing Socialists turned up with their rubber mallets (not even the real hammers of the USSR) to carry out the curbside repairs on the bins.  WTF?  Could these repairs wait?  5 am?  What was the rush?

Our parents were right to be wary of the Socialist.  I now know why you can’t have firearms here, because people would take them up against the early morning red menace. 

Too bad the beaches are so good here, we’ll probably have to stay

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[1] Incidentally the Red Kangaroo is one of the largest of the species.  Unconvinced?  The Aussie coat of arms has both a kanga and an emu, pretty damning evidence of a socialist connection.

Happiness (The Pursuit of, or the Discovery of)

What is happiness?  Where is it found?  Is it internal or external and how does this relate to living in Queensland?  Well, I'm glad you asked.

Eric Weiner authored “The Geography of Happiness” in which he levered off of Dr. Fordyce’s World Database of Happiness.  It should be no surprise that Dr. Fordyce is a faculty member of Erasmus University, Holland.  There must be a strong correlation between an abundance of grad students and the significantly liberal environment in Holland.  Can you imagine how that conversation goes?

“So, Dad, I’ve decided to pursue graduate studies,” announces a resolute and pround child.

“Great, what are you taking?”  You can almost hear the relief washing over the father, with visions of his skateboarding, heavy metal listening, gig going, no good friend and harpy of a girlfriend cavorting son ‘straightening up’ and getting ready to ‘fly right’ and setting on a course to be a doctor, lawyer or other leader of men.

“Happiness Studies at Erasmus in Holland”

Long pause.  Continued long pause…. “So you’ll tell your mother then, right?”

At any rate, the World Database of Happiness lists the scores of various states and provides a rather nebulous “happiness index”.  Perhaps predictably, Latvia scores the lowest, with alarmingly high incidences of suicide and alcoholism.  By contrast, Iceland, at least during the time that the book was written, boasted the highest “happiness rating”, further making this odd is the reportedly high level of alcohol consumption and long dark nights.  I suppose it’s a fine line between use and misuse of alcohol.  But I also must admit, some of my happier times have included short periods of sunlight filled with alcohol and reason enough to stay indoors….but I digress. 

Unfortunately, Australia was not covered in Weiner’s book.  While I’ve no idea how this Commonwealth of States would have faired, Brisbane should be expected to score high.  Of course this conclusion is based merely on anecdotal observations and how much Nicole and I have enjoyed being here.  Things are still strange and we often come across things that we don’t completely understand. 

For instance the public service announcements displayed on taxis “Do you know where to send your mate, when he says life sucks?” Due to the combination of soft edges and blurry graphics on the poster and illegibly small print, it was weeks before we knew if this was a sign for suicide prevention or a brothel. 

This is especially given that suicide doesn’t seem to be much of an issue in Brissie.  Unlike any other major city that I’ve been to with a network of large bridges, Brisbane lacks any barriers on the bridges (except for one bridge, oddly) to prevent people from jumping into the river.  This is not withstanding that there are bridges with a 35m (~100 feet or 10 stories)[1] freefall from deck to a river that is deep, dirty, busy with boat and ferry traffic and is home to roughly 500 bull sharks.[2] 

In fact the landmark Story Bridge has a rail that is low enough that at it’s mesmerizing height it appears to me that if I was as cool (and as fit) as Daniel Craig, or really any other Bond, I would be able to jump from the sidewalk on the bridge to the buildings or at least the cranes that are immediately adjacent.  My fitness goals don’t include becoming fit enough.  But it least suggests that the problem of suicide isn’t that big of a deal here. 

Again, I’m jumping to conclusions regarding suicide, but consider the following.  Despite being a very active and seemingly athletic population, but there is also 24% of the population are self declared “smokers”.  Personally, I think that this is a throw back to when Australia monetarized their currency, in order to make international trade possible.  When the Australian dollar (AUD) was introduced to a population that was largely based upon a penal colony, the unofficial currency of cigarettes and Rita Haywood pin-ups faced enormous pressure.  The led to the “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em” policy of the Commonwealth government of the day[3].  There was a short conversion window, but then the original currency would simply become another consumable product.

To this day, smoking seems to be enjoyed without apology (whereas Rita Haywood posters are a more discrete indulgence).  Unlike North America, where smoking in public has been vilified, smokers don’t seem to be bothered that children are around.  Even the most callous of smokers in Calgary would make efforts to keep the effects away from children when you’d walk past them.  This is certainly not the case here.  But it’s not just second hand smoke that imperils the populace in Australia.

Australia is loaded with dangers and things that are capable if either causing significant discomfort or death.  While we haven’t seen any crocs, alligators, deadly spiders, venomous snakes, sharks (not even any of the 500 that are supposed to be resident in the Brisbane River), dingos or other disease carrying creatures, we have been faced with a particular local danger on a daily basis.  A source of peril particularly frightening to Spencer and Nicole is food poisoning.  Given my role in the meal preparation, my girls have every right to be concerned. 

According to national statistics, ¼ of all Australians are annually affected by food poisoning.  Food Poisoning, in a developed country!  In fact new daily cases are pegged at 11,500 and 120 annual related deaths are attributed.  Seems counter-intuitive, but then I discovered that food storage in a tropical environment is the leading cause for people ingesting contaminated food.[4]  I would have guessed excessive consumption of liquid food products causing flu like symptoms, but I’ve been called both a sissy and jaded for such views.  But it is in fact ingesting food that is the culprit.  (Again a lesson in Australian culture:  don’t blame the alcohol.)

As far as my level of responsibility goes, I’ve applied some basic tort principles, were if everyone is ok after 2 days, then I figure enough time has passed, to introduce a sufficient amount of intervening events to assuage my liability.  Unfortunately, this is defeated when I make meals on multiple days.  Upon my return to work, Nicole has been all to happy to rush back into the kitchen and save our family from danger. 

Unlike the Brisbane experience, The Gap, a suburb of Sydney has a more interesting history.  Due to the location that includes sheer cliffs, rocks and a deep harbour, known both for it’s population of sharks and mercurial tide, The Gap seems to be a popular locale for making terminal decisions.  One local resident, Donald Ritchie, who lives in close proximity to this fateful place, has become a local hero for dissuading people from their fatal acts.[5]  I would encourage you to read the referenced article as it is very compelling, although the article lacks the words of the siren song that Ritchie had sang.

Given the overwhelming presence of other mortal dangers here, and Australian’s particular form of humor, you could imagine the conversation initiated by Mr Ritchie. 

“Hey mate, feeling like a lizzie’s belly (translation - as low as a lizard’s belly)?” 

“Whimper, whimper, curse, life sucks and isn’t worth living.”

“Oh com’on mate, the cricket isn’t that bad.” 

“It’s not just the cricket….[explanation of other less than perfectly desirable things leading to terminal decision].

“Yeah, well mate that is bad and I can’t say I blame you.  Hell, I’d probably jump to.” 

“Ya think so?”

“Sure thing mate, you’re right the cricket isn’t that bad, but did you see the Wallabies get shocked by the All Blacks again?  Hey how much life insurance do you have?”  

“[answer], why.” 

“Well you know, it probably doesn’t payout on a suicide.  Have you checked?”

“Ah, well…no.  Shit, just get’s worse.  What can a bloke do?” 

“Well make, let’s have a look-see.  You know if you die by accident or criminal wrong doing these policies pay double.  That will sort things out hey lad?” 

“Sure would.”

“Why don’t you come back to my place and we can have a smoke.  I think my missus has some potato salad that’s been out since morning….maybe we can go for a swim later, when you’re ‘feeling better’.”  Of course after a smoke, some tea, a beer and what not, everyone is feeling better, after all that’s what mates are for.[6]

Cudos to Mr Ritchie indeed.  Anyone that chooses to become involved in the affairs of others rather than turning back to the telly is a hero in my book.  The truth is that the world is better for people like Ritchie and his acts should inspire us all to be better.  To help others.  To help ourselves.  To tell our families that we love them and to try and leave our world a better place than we found it. 

Of course it’s hard, but then Ritchie does represent the everyman Australian view of their neighbors.  Aussies are quick to stop and offer a hand and don’t like seeing people who are down.  Without doubt, we need more Ritchies in our world. 

But this doesn’t mean that rain doesn’t fall in Brisbane, or even on The Gap, notwithstanding Ritchie’s watchful presence.  Brisbane’s Story Bridge has been the site of at least two suicides since we’ve moved here, one in which a young boy was thrown first and then the father followed him the 70m (210 feet) to hard ground below. 

Unfortunately suicide causes a variety of reactions from people seemingly across the spectrum of emotion.  Some sympathetic and full of regret and others of contempt and derision, but all strong and valid.  I don’t know what the answer is.  Clearly it’s not manning Donald Ritchies at every door, although that might be nice. 

The reality is that everyone has their own thing going on and you can never really tell where someone's at.  Can you intervene?  Is there a chance?  Some hope?  Sure, of course.  But always?  I don't know.  In fact I don't really know much about suicide.

What I do know about suicide is that in the evening of 26 February my father took his own life and I was never there to talk him down.  I know that his siblings feel remorse and sadness and that my mother, his wife who was nearby, will never be the same. But this isn’t enough is it? 

I’m not sure if it’s fair that I discuss this here in this Blog, but I guess with the dozen or so readers it’s not like I’ve got the same audience as Oprah and I probably am entitled to express myself in some way over it.

Those of you who know me well, can imagine, or maybe not, the stream of inappropriate humor that I subjected my wife to, but the fact remains that this is an act of my father that prematurely ended a number of things and extinguished all future possibilities.  Chances of redemption, of reconciliation or even just fulfilling his wedding vows to my mother are all swept away, echoing like a gunshot across a backwater along Tampa Bay. 

I’ll save you the tasteless jokes, but tell you that as I’m here now, in Tampa, dealing with the mess that has been left to my mother, my siblings, and extended family, that feelings of contempt seem to be about right. 

Could Donald Ritchie have coaxed the gun out of my father’s hand?  The track record would put good odds on it (although for the penchant for gaming by the Aussies, hasn’t seemed to reach this far yet) or at least better than any odds that I might have sported.  But would it have been enough?  Maybe today, but what about tomorrow? 

It seemed to me that something that wasn’t explored by Weiner’s book, or even really the happiness studies, is what the expectation is that people hold.  Regardless of where you’re living, it’s you that lives there.  If you’re not happy in Calgary, New York, Tampa, Paris, London, Canmore, Sydney or Brisbane moving isn’t going to change that. 

I hope that if you’re reading this, you’re happy or willing to do something about it.

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[1] http://www.storybridgeadventureclimb.com.au/the_climb_the_bridge.html

[2] Bull sharks are smaller but more aggressive than great white sharks: http://australianmuseum.net.au/Bull-Shark-Carcharhinus-leucas-Valenciennes-1839

[3] Ironically, 14 February 1966 marked the introduction of Australian’s official currency.  Valentine’s Day has always been expensive, but can you imagine having to convert from cigarettes to cash before the obligatory round of gifts and dinner?

[4] Foodborne illness in Australia Annual incidence circa 2000  Australian Government Department of Health and Ageing  Document: foodborne_report.pdf 

[5] http://www.smh.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/tragedy-amid-the-beauty-at-the-gap-20100323-qtxa.html

[6] The suicide rates in Australia account for fewer deaths than heart disease in Canada.  http://fathersforlife.org/health/who_suicide_rates.htm; http://fathersforlife.org/health/cansuic.htm