The Sanctuary of Silence

On the fourth floor of the library at my university there is a large collection of French texts on Proust and Voltaire.

In a small corner of this floor is the room holding the university's Antarctica collection.

In a small corner of that room is a table where I can sit in silence and look over the maps, photos and research data compiled by scientists from all over the world who have had the privilege of traveling to the South Pole.

Antarctica is my real life Narnia but getting to it will take a lot more than stepping through a wardrobe.

Tourists can't just hop on the C-17 here in Christchurch and bum a ride down.

To go the cruise route you need at least $6,000.00 and that's for a crappy compartment in a bilge tank.

Every now and then the UK government hires people to go down and man their post office at Port Lockroy but Nick wasn't keen to lose me for four months so I didn't apply. It's a shame too because part of the job involves keeping a count on the local penguin population.

The law school does offer studies on legal issues arising out of Antarctica but I can't see myself getting a plane ticket out of it.

I got my hopes up recently when it was announced that Air New Zealand will be trialing a flight down to Antarctica in one of their jumbo jets in order to practice ice landings and possibly carry scientists down south in commercial jets in the future.

Maybe I can get a press pass and get on one of those flights.

Until then, I will still have the golden silence of the Antarctica room.

My First New Zealand Vote

If you've been watching John Oliver make fun of New Zealand recently you may have heard that we are having a referendum for a new flag.

Prime Minister John Key decided to spend millions to develop a new flag when most of us were okay with the current one.

We did have a pretty cool submission depicting a kiwi shooting lasers out of its eyes but of course, that one didn't make the final cut.

Unlike many countries, New Zealand allows non citizens to vote and so I was able to participate in this referendum.

It feels nice to have a say.

Just in case your wondering, I voted for the flag that doesn't make it look like we're part of the Republic of Cartoonistan.

How To Break Your Finger In The Most Kiwi Way Possible

The sheep have been moved into the orchard by the house again. The NPR noticed that one of them had a blue plastic string caught around her back leg and that she was dragging a long bit around.

I went out to try and cut her free but she ran off.

Yesterday when I was coming home I saw that she had become tangled in the string and was stuck to a branch.

To get to her I had to wander into a narrow fenced section that runs between the driveway and a large field. There are trees planted through this section and large branches had fallen everywhere so it was easy to trip.

When I got to the sheep she freaked out and started thrashing around. I tried to calm her but to no avail. She finally snapped the branch and ran off. As I attempted to follow, I tripped over a branch fell against the barbed wire fence and then proceed to land on my finger and break it.

The wire had ripped a hole in my favorite sweater.

Still, I pursued the sheep until she got caught on another branch. I got down on all fours behind a tree where she couldn't see me and reached out to snip her free. I managed to cut off the excess string but the part binding her back leg was still in place. She limped off to join the rest of the mob and I decided I had had enough.

I squeezed through some of the lower, non barbed wired and dusted off my jeans as I walked down the driveway.

My pinkie finger was killing me and it later puffed up like a little sausage.

I sent an email to the landlord so he and his working dogs can handle the string issue.

I sewed up the rip in my sweater with good results and I've decided to tape my injured finger to its neighbor as a sort of splint.

And that concludes this episode of How to Injure Yourself in the Most Kiwi Way Possible.

Percy's Sense of Plate Tectonics

Our farmhouse is frequented by all manner of birds but some of the more memorable are the California quail families and a pheasant named Percy.

I didn't name the pheasant, the landlord did, but I'm glad he's a Percy because it means he is seen as a neighbor and not a shooting target.

About two weeks ago we had a strong earthquake which shook the house for an extended period of time and made me literally sit up and take notice.

I have a rather casual "wait and see" attitude toward most earthquakes born out of experiencing a series of minor, non threatening ones whilst living in California.

This one was different however. I caught a bad case of fight or flight that lasted even when the house had grown still. I felt on edge and anxious like I need to go somewhere and take action.

If I had been a horse in a paddock I would have been flaring my nostrils and tearing around in a maddened state.

One of the first things I saw out of my window as the shaking started was that Percy had flown up to the highest branches of a large tree and was proceeding to make a huge racket in what I can only describe as "a scolding tone."

He was not pleased with the irregular movements of the earth and by gum, everyone was going to hear about it.

On Sunday night we had another earthquake at around 3 am and Nick decided he needed to talk to me about it. I however, still being somewhere between sleep and the waking world, made the call that the shaking was really just a gentle rocking motion and that full wakefulness was not necessary. As I drifted back off I heard Percy let off a series of protestation cries in the night.

About an hour ago we had a brief rattling aftershock and Percy piped up just as briefly.

I think if he had the ability to fuss before the quake he might be a valuable early warning system.

As it stands he's just like a grumpy old man shaking his cane at people on the lawn or in this case, at the lawn shaking the people.

Back to School

I am now a full time law student at the University of Canterbury.

Before classes began I visited campus to get some admin work sorted. Everywhere I went there were young people in bright red university t-shirts engaged in team building exercises.

Examples of this were one student sitting on another student's shoulders or large groups of students holding hands in a giant knot and trying to undo the not without letting go of each other's hands.

You know, the classics.

Those with personal space issues were surely pushed to their limits of their comfort zones.

Nothing makes you confront a social phobia quite like having a total stranger squeeze your head between their knees.

I skipped out on all that stuff along with the first week tradition of getting boozed up.

I am overjoyed to be back in a classroom situation although my mandatory law classes are quite populous and the ability to have lengthy discussions is limited.

I can feel my brain sizzling with excitement when new cases are discussed and people are called upon to explain the rationale for whatever position they take on an issue.

I am concurrently enrolled in the basic first year courses along with two major second year courses (criminal and contract law).

As my schedule stands I end up having the advanced courses where they assume you have the basics before the actual courses where they teach you the basics but I'm managing.

It's also interesting to compare US and NZ law systems.

I've met some great people and would describe the university's atmosphere as very welcoming and supportive.

I have joined the student law society, the Maori student law society Te Putairiki, the Spanish club and, by accident, the Investors Club, the latter being mistaken by me for the law society because they were right next to the law society's tent and I wasn't paying attention. I thought it was a bit strange that the law society would host a competition featuring the NZ Stock Market but I was feeling open minded and optimistic so I went with it.

I skipped the law society's first boozer because I needed to study for a legal research course, didn't want to be reminded of my age in the midst of hip young people skulling drinks and because I'm increasingly comforted by the thought of an early bedtime.

On my first visit I discovered a restaurant on campus called the Shilling Club. Aside from a cool name it was founded in 1978 (as was I) so I felt an immediate affinity for the place.

The name seems to suggest a place where a poor intellectual might get a cheap meal but this is not the case. The food is amazing but the prices will ensure that I only eat there on occasion and even then, I might just have the salad.

Tomorrow I will be going to observe a demonstration at the school's mooting court. I'm thinking of signing up for the campus competition.

I always associated the word "moot" with meaning that a topic wasn't worth discussing because it was pointless or irrelevant but here the term means a subject is open for debate.

I have a feeling that I might be a born mooter but I need to see how it's done first. If I feel confident then I will proceed to enter the competition and moot the hell out of whatever topic they throw at me. 

Don’t Lose the Light

I have read mini biographies of men and women who disappeared and were never found. Among these were Antoine de Saint- Exupery and Ambrose Bierce. Before they went off to the unknown place of legends they had become cynical and hardened toward their fellow man.

They both seemed to feel betrayed by aging and suffer bouts of moodiness. I believe John Steinbeck suffered similar symptoms.

I would hate to go out this way- becoming misanthropic and full of despair, believing that my best days were behind me and the ones left to me were meaningless.

I often wonder what I will do with my life.

In two weeks I will begin law school but my boss and mentor has already given me a dispiriting talk about becoming a legal professional.

New Zealand is not a place that one goes to become world famous. You can be from New Zealand and be world famous but you need to go somewhere else for this to happen.

The country is filled with remarkable individuals who wander into their garages for a spell and wander out again with fully functioning speed bikes or replica aircraft.

They have a plethora of humble athletes and talented singers.

I have no desire to join their ranks but I do want to make the world a better place somehow and I am frustrated by my lack of progress in that respect.

This weekend we went to a lake surrounded by the Southern Alps and some very dry looking valleys.

The place we stayed was a camp were countless young people have come to fish, swim and build character.

When I was younger my mother would send me to a Christian camp for a week during the summer. In addition to archery, horse riding and canoeing we were treated to a heavy helping of Jesus praising whether we felt particularly inspired to it or not.

If your prayers weren’t up to snuff or you were having personal doubts you would often be ratted out by the commie bastard other campers and be forced to confess and repent.

The lack of pressure to exalt a higher power twice daily at this place almost made me want to praise Jesus for the freedom of not having to praise Jesus but that would have been an odd conversation so I was merely internally grateful.

I found that I slept a lot in the cabin where we stayed and was constantly wrangling Alex into some sort of holding area due to a fear that he would wander off to the lake and come to harm.

Nick accused me of being anti-social and to prove him wrong I marched down to the lakeside, said hello to everyone assembled there and then kayaked around the perimeter of the lake. By myself.

The last time we went out on the water with Nick’s mate James, I tried to water ski behind his jet ski and had the rope jerked out of my hands time and time again.

Nothing makes you feel the distance of your youth quite like having something that was once easy rendered impossible by an organized revolt between your hands, arms and fingers.

We took my fishing rod and even bought some lures in a great show of intent but no fishing took place.

The lake was stocked with brown trout just begging to be snagged but we ignored the call.

I returned home this afternoon to find my garden patch full of sheep. They are doing a bit of grounds maintenance for me and will hopefully render the area easier to work with.

I’ve spent the evening reading about vanished heroes and worrying that all my dreams will come to nothing.

I’m going to switch over to some lighter texts now like “Four Years From Forty: You Can Still Be Someone” or “Dick and Jane Go to the Seaside and Avoid an Existential Crisis.”

Farm Life: The Best Bits

From time to time Nick will send me links for rental houses. For a long time now he has dreamed of having a place with land.

One day he sent me a link for a 100-year-old homestead nestled in the middle of 26 hectares of farmland.

I scanned the photos featuring a wraparound porch with climbing wisteria and huge established trees and texted back a brief note of approval.

We had just renewed the lease on our current house for another year so I didn’t see us moving anytime soon.

Nick suggested I call the owners to see if we could have a look (this was his way of making me talk on the phone because he hates to).

The house was everything I had wanted and dreamed of.

It had a dedicated garden patch and potting shed. There was an orchard on one side of the house and a large grassy lawn on the other.

The rooms were huge with high ceilings and ornate crowns where chandeliers once hung. Almost every room has a fireplace although no chimneys remained.

For almost 15 years the house had served as an office for a seed research company which had a sister farm in Oregon.  There were shelves and outlets a plenty.

Some of the fields are still used by local scientists who, according to the farm’s current owners, will stand in the potato fields for hours studying the plants and discussing them in hushed tones with one another. They don’t grow the plants for food so when it’s time for the harvest the farmer ends up with a lot of spuds.

If there was ever a need for me to show a poker face when deciding on something important I would probably fail miserably. I was enchanted by the house and there was no hiding it. A casual observer might have described me as “dewy eyed and hopeful.”

Nick and I thanked the owners for showing us around, hopped in his truck and headed down the long driveway.

“Why aren’t we telling them right now that we want the place?” I asked.

Nick wanted to live there too but he didn’t want to be discomfited by a phone conversation so he made me do the talking.

The family liked us, we liked them and we got the house.

In addition to the people we rent from, our neighbours include a pair of pheasants, a flock of sheep, one donkey, one horse, three ducks, two working dogs, one cat and a handful of California quail. 

There is also an abundance of wild bird life.

We have all the joys of living on a farm without actually having to do any of the farming.

There is no getting up before first light to hook up teats to a milking machine or rounding up sheep for shearing, drenching or tail docking.

I highly recommend this kind of farm life. It's pretty sweet if you can swing it.