Change In Plans

Greetings from Bonita Beach, on Florida’s Gulf Coast.

We have spent a very fun weekend at my step-mother’s new home, halfway between Ft. Myers and Naples. As I hoped, all four of us quickly slipped back into the rhythms and routines (as they are) of family travel. It was easy to forget that the world-round trip is over, and that we have started the next chapter of our life as a family.

India and the kids flew down early on Thursday morning, and had pretty much two full days with Grandma Judi before I arrived late on Friday night. They went to the beach, swam in the pool, cooked semi-elaborate outdoor meals, had picnics, and just enjoyes being together.

Grandma Judi is girly (for a grandmother), and she and Tallulah are bonded at the hip whenever we visit. They gardened, took care of the kitty, admired each other’s clothes and shoes, and prepared small, pretty dishes. Tallulah literally dances around the kitchen as they talk.

Zola greatly enjoyed his time talking with Judi’s friend Larry: telling stories from our trip, and being the big man in an adult conversation. Larry indulged him with thoughtful questions, and rapt attention.

India relished the short break from her continuous, world-round responsibilities for keeping us all together and moving forward. She wrote me an e-mail on Friday afternoon, as she sat next to the pool, reading in the sunshine: “I can’t stop falling asleep. What do you think is wrong with me?” I’m not a doctor, but my guess was that she was tired. She still managed four long runs in four days, including one on Saturday where she dragged my sorry, out-of-shape self along. By Sunday morning, of course, she had reverted to form, and had gotten us all packed, cleaned, fed, and out the door in time for the plane. She had even printed our boarding passes.

Judi is a very accomplished sailor and sailing instructor. It was one of the great passions she shared with my father.

Late on Saturday morning, we rigged two Sunfish at her sailing club, and headed out into Estero Bay. We had planned to go in the afternoon, but the weather forecast indicated that the wind was going to strengthen to 20 knots; too strong for us to really sail safely.

Judi started by giving Zola a lesson in one boat, while India, Lu and I just cruised around in the other.

I am a barely competent sailor (sorry, Dad), but as we set out, the winds were mild and the water was pretty flat. India and Tallulah were good sports as we bashed around the shallow water of the bay. After about 20 minutes of sailing downwind (ie, away from shore), we spent the next 40 minutes tacking back. I think they enjoyed the first 20 minutes.

Judi had to come to my rescue with some expert advice, as I pinned my boat against the leaves and branches of a mangrove island. I ended up jumping in the water, and pulling the boat away from the island and pointing it into the (suddenly much stronger) wind. I opened a long cut on my right foot, stepping on the sharp mangrove roots.

When we finally got back to the dock (I dropped sail and paddled the last 30 meters), India and Lu decided to pursue shore-based activities.

Judi sailed off on her own, flying across the water like a sea-borne sprite. Zola and I went out together, enjoying some totally quality father-son time.

Unwisely, I let Zola take the helm as we sped downwind. After about three minutes of smooth sailing, Zola turned the boat and his body weight to starboard, the same side that the sail and I were already on. Zola and I were both hurled through the air and into the water, and the boat immediately capsized.

Realizing that the water was warm, that his life jacket was keeping him afloat, and that I was already wrapping my arms around him, Zola shouted, “That was awesome!”

To tell the truth, I wasn’t too sure it was awesome, until I realized I could stand in the chest-deep water, and I had double-checked my pocket to be sure that my BlackBerry was, in fact, still safely on shore.

Then we laughed. Judi once again sailed to our rescue with expert instruction on righting the boat and getting back in. If there is a heaven, I hope my father was watching us, and laughing so hard that he fell on the floor, or on a cloud, or whatever.

Zola and I dried in the wind and sun, only to get redrenched by sea spray as we tacked, and tacked, and tacked our way back to shore. Our promised 45 minutes had somehow become two hours, but India just laughed at us, and took pictures of our bedraggled return.

We were sad to leave Judi’s this morning. She and Larry had only heard about 5% of our travel stories. Larry graciously, but firmly, encouraged us to write a book, and to travel for as long as we can. As always, they were both terrific, fun, interesting company.

Zola and Tallulah are looking forward to weeks of similar pampering with their other two grandmothers, as part of their triumphant return-home tour.

India and I are looking forward to settling down for a couple of days in New York, before she and the kids go to Nashville.

India, with help from super-broker Linda Maloney, found us a terific NY apartment. I signed a lease and moved our bags in on Friday morning.

It feels as though the most ragged part of our re-entry is coming to an end. Now we are gearing up for the difficult and unwelcome period of not being together all of the time.

India already has the calendar and the latest Travel and Leisure magazine out again, plotting socially responsible trips to exotic destinations. The adventure continues.

Greetings from Gramercy Park, New York!

It has been an intense few days since we returned.  After being at work for three days, the shock to the system has receded a bit.  It has been fun to feel the frontal lobe of my brain coming back to life.  I can practically hear the machinery creaking as I try to multiply 7 x 5, or remember the details of some pharmaceutical product.

The kids have had a great time, hooking up with friends, playing in the playgrounds, shopping.  Both of them became feral during our time away.  Maybe these are the consequences of too little peer interaction.  

Tallulah is frequently taking off her shoes, and walking barefoot on the sidewalks of New York.  India says that passing mothers see our shoeless child, and give a look of horror, followed by a look of “I am calling social services.”  

Zola has gone to the other extreme, maybe compensating for his Antipodean wildness.  He got a haircut, and has been acting very polite and mature.  ”Can I get the door for you?”  ”That dress looks very nice on you, ma’am.”  ”I love you Mom.  You too, Dad.”  Very sweet, but not clear what he is up to yet.

India found me a suitable apartment today, way downtown.  Apparently it is big enough that all four of us can stay there in comfort when they are in New York.  It is strange to contemplate not having my family in my life every day for a while.  I am going from 24/7 family time to something considerably less than that.

Each night, India and I have talked for a few hours after the kids have fallen asleep.  We wonder what the next period will be like, and how we will get through it.  My guess is that the time will fly by.  Before we know it, we will be together again.  

The reentry has definitely been ragged.  By starting work immediately, I have inconvenienced my wife greatly (again).  

Tomorrow morning India and the kids are flying to Florida to see my step-mother.  We spent the evening packing our bags, which somehow exploded in our hotel room.

I will follow them to Florida on Friday evening.  If we squint, I think the weekend will feel like the world-round trip again.  On Sunday we come back, and on Tuesday morning they all go to Nashville for a few weeks.  The adventure continues.

Greetings from New York, New York, the city so great they had to name it twice.

We left Russell, New Zealand about 30 hours ago. On our last morning, we had a family walk on Long Beach, then Zola and I went for a swim in the Pacific. We drove back to the house, packed up, and 30 minutes later we were on the road to Auckland.

Everyone slept on the Auckland to LA flight. It was a little bumpy, but India was admirably brave (pretty much). In LA, we said another goodbye to our friend Ginny -who had flown from Auckland with us. She was off to Dallas and then Raleigh/Durham. We barely had enough time in the layover to buy a newspaper and snacks for the kids, and we were off to New York.

Both LAX and JFK are better than they used to be, but still pretty ratty relative to almost every major airport we have seen (except for Kathmandu). Not sure how the richest country in the world has fallen so far behind.

Bad planning and time constraints when we departed in October meant that we left my car in long-term parking at JFK (instead of selling it, garaging it, etc.). At least we weren’t so jammed that we left it in short-term.

Over the last few weeks, India and I have channeled some of our anxieties into “what if” concerns about the car. What if it has been towed? Or stolen? Or crashed into? What if we simply can’t find it?

What if the car doesn’t start? Stupidly, I did not disconnect the battery. What if the police have to jump start it, and the registration or inspection is expired, and I get arrested? What if the parking fee is more than the daily limit our credit cards will approve, and we have to come back three days in a row? Plenty of worst-case scenarios.

In the end, we found the car easily, and it did not start. Parking-lot security called for assistance, a guy with very long jumper cables showed up a few minutes later, and a few minutes after that, we were on our way. A lot of wasted anxiety.

The parking fee was steep -the two ladies in the booth laughed and high-fived each other- but in line with expectations. We gritted our teeth, thought about the frequent flyer miles, and were relieved when the transaction was approved.

On the drive in from the airport, Zola kept looking around and saying, “This isn’t the New York I remember.” We kept explaining that we were in Queens. When we came through the Mid-Town Tunnel, he said, “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

Lower Manhattan on a Friday night seems little changed in the last year. Crowds of people in the streets, a very festive atmosphere. I wasn’t expecting a scene out of “The Grapes of Wrath,” but on the surface it is hard to tell that the economy is in the tank, and that the financial world lies in ruins. Maybe we will see it tomorrow.

I hope everyone can sleep. It is good to be home.

Greetings from Auckland! We are sitting at the airport, waiting to board the long flight home.

New Zealand is an amazing country. While we have been here, our posts have focused mostly on the natural beauty, adventure sports, and cute things that the kids have said and done.

As we have reflected on our time in New Zealand, it seems that the truly most amazing things about New Zealand are its socioeconomy, its highly functional political system, and its civil society.

When social scientists dream utopian dreams at night, they must dream of New Zealand.

At a high level, this is a country where basically everything works, everyone gets along, and there are no huge problems or policy challenges confronting society. Compare this with Turkey, India, South Africa or even the U.S.

New Zealand is only moderately rich (roughly #35 in per capita GDP rankings), but the population lives very well (#20 in Human Development Index). More important, New Zealand ranked #1 on a global “Life Satisfaction Index.”

Income and wealth are relatively equally distributed: no one is very poor, and if anyone is very rich, they keep it well hidden.

Macroeconomists start talking about equations with the simplifying statement: “Assume a small, open economy.” They are describing New Zealand, which liberated its economy radically in the early 1990s. The government abolished all of the trade barriers and subsidies, privatized the state-owned companies, and deregulated everything they could. The economy has done reasonably well: stable, diversified, and growing over the long term.

download Leprechaun 3 movie

Race relations here seem less fraught than in any other country we visiited. The British and the Maori signed the Treaty of Waitangi in 1840, more or less ending hostilities between indigenous and invader. There were challenges to the peace, particularly in the first 20 years. Now Maoris are slightly poorer and slightly more likely to be in trouble with the law, but only slightly. Maoris control fishing quotas, which is valuable and sustainable. Maori culture seems central to New Zealand culture, and there is pride in the shared heritage.

The New Zealand legal system is eminently sensible. There is no tort law, but there is an Accident Compensation Fund and a good set of regulatory safeguards against malpractice, negligence, etc. The state has long recognized same-sex partnerships. In criminal law, the emphasis is on restorative justice, and community involvement. India tells me that the juvenile justice and prison systems are considered world leaders. The crime rate is extremely low.

Political and economic debate is remarkably civil. When the mayors of two cities stopped speaking to each other, it was literally front-page news. The practical, no-drama style of the people seems well represented in the political process.

A couple of small, but telling examples of the deep-rooted practicality:
* The currency notes are made of plastic rather than paper. Lasts a long time, very difficult to counterfeit
* By convention, all retail transactions paid in cash are rounded to the nearest five cents. Pennies and two-penny pieces are rarely used.
* The post offices are great: extremely efficient, staffed with friendly and competent people, open long hours. The boxes we shipped surface mail from Wanaka got to Nashville in two weeks.
* Postage stamps are available in all kinds of retail shops, and many places print their own souvenir stamps. I really liked our Shotover JetBoat postage stamps.

New Zealanders seem to sublimate their more base human instincts into acts of incredible bravery, strength, and endurance. The calm Kiwi jumping out of an airplane, or rowing around Antarctica, or climbing mountains without oxygen seems to be the norm rather than the exception. The women, in particular, exude a steely special-forces resolve and calm.

This blog post reads very “gee whiz” and naive. I’m sure there must be some societal problems, and that horrible things have happened in New Zealand’s history. The economy has actually been pretty lousy for the last year.

New Zealand’s natural endowments of no animal predators (and no snakes), geographic isolation, fertile land and waters, near-perfect weather, and a small, homogenous, English-speaking population are all very helpful. Also, not having a lot of cultural legacy systems (eg, a more-than-nominal monarchy, a feudal system, deeply entrenched religious institutions, powerful military without civilian leadership) have helped New Zealand avoid the traps of many other countries. In all, these characteristics have made it easier for New Zealand and its policy makers to be virtuous.

Easy or not, they have been virtuous. This is an amazing place. It’s insanely beautiful too.

HAPPY KID IN A JET BOAT

Greetings from Russell, New Zealand!

This is one of the most beautiful parts of an overall incredibly beautiful country.  We have had a very relaxing few days here.

On Tuesday morning we chartered a boat, called the Sea Eagle, and went sailing from Whangaroa.  The Maori place names here, like Whangaroa, are frequently fun to say.  “When you get to Kawakawa, take the State Highway north toward Pakaraka.  If you see signs for Urupukapuka, you have gone the wrong way.”

ABOARD THE SEA EAGLE

The Sea Eagle is a 15-meter steel-hulled sailboat.  It has been well loved, but seemed extremely seaworthy.  The skipper, Paul, once lived on it for five years.  He has sailed the Sea Eagle to Fiji several times, and to Tonga twice.  These places are impossibly far away from New Zealand.

Paul was an interesting character.  He is in his late 50s, and has been a professional bass guitarist (loves the Red Hot Chili Peppers), a restaurant chef, an aerobatics pilot, a competitive sky diver, and a marine-winch salesman.  He and his partner moved up to Whangaroa because Russell (population 500) got too crazy for them.  Mostly now he gardens, takes groups on his sail boat, and chills out.

Paul was an excellent sailor and good company, although India and I sensed we should steer clear of politics.  In passing, he mentioned that “we” should nuke Fiji and Somalia, and that New Zealand had to be prepared to fend off hordes of poor Indian immigrants when “the days of anarchy come.”  OK.

The sailing was almost perfect: sunny skies, gentle and steady breeze, flat waters.  We sailed out of Whangaroa Bay, around Stephenson Island, and back into port.  Zola and I got to steer most of the time.  The four-hour duration was perfect for India.

 On Wednesday, we indulged in an activity which was extremely rare in our year of travel: we hung out at the house and did basically nothing.  Zola completed a double dose of on-line math.  India and I each went for a run.  We sat by the pool and shivered (New Zealand is unambiguously colder thn we expected).  The kids watched cartoons.  We talked.  We admired the view of the bay and the islands.

Overall, it was like having a very relaxing day on vacation in a beautiful place.  Hmmmm.

Since I got back from Switzerland, and we have been in the last two weeks of the trip, our family dynamic has subtly shifted from “open-ended travelers” to “vacationers.”  I have not been as obsessive about keeping in touch, and not so worried about dwindling into irrelevance.  We have started making social plans back in New York.  Our peripatetic “new normal” of the last several months is coming to an end.

Today, our last day, we shifted back into high activity gear.  We toured the Russell Museum, and went for a short (but unbelievably scenic) hike to Tapeka Point.  We are going on a long jet-boat ride later, and Zola and I have reserved mountain bikes for the late afternoon.  This evening, Eagles Nest is sending a chef to our villa to cook us a final dinner.

Ultimately, we are still in denial about the trip coming to an end.  Maybe that is because we are not yet sure what the future holds for us.  We will continue to talk and plan on the 300-hundred hour trip back to New York.

Note: the events in this post are described in the present tense, although they occurred several days ago

Greetings from the Raffles Hotel Bar in Singapore!

After the long, overnight flight from Istanbul (I slept like a rock), I found myself with a 6-hour layover in Singapore. In the spirit of adventure travel, I parked my hand luggage, sweater and jacket at a “left baggage” area, and took a taxi in to look around. I’ve never been to Singapore before.

I am very glad that I am not carrying the ridiculous sweater and jacket. In line with popular conceptions, Singapore is very hot and humid. Walking around for two hours, I have sweated through my shirt, and have big sweat stains on my khaki trousers. A group of school kids was laughing and pointing at me, sweat man.

On the way in from the airport, I asked the taxi driver to drop me in the oldest part of Singapore. “You looking for lady? Nice lady?” he asked. “No thanks,” I replied, “just an interesting part of the city to look at.”

“You looking for shopping? Nice shopping?”

“No, just an interesting part of the city.”

“You sure you are not looking for lady? Very special Singapore lady?”

“No. For heaven’s sake, please let me out here.”

I found myself on Mosque Street, near the center of Chinatown. I walked through a series of outdoor clothing stalls and herbal-remedy markets, past countless massage parlors, and wandered down to the south end of Bridge Road. I bought Tallulah a red silk Chinese outfit, which I hope she will like. It may not be shiny enough for her glam tastes.

After seeing most of Chinatown, I walked north again, passing the hospital and the police cantonment, and crossing the Singapore River. There are many major construction sites, staffed primarily by Indians.

As I walked, I read the ‘historical site’ plaques, and looked for any signs of litter or disorder. Again, in line with popular conception, Singapore is spotlessly clean.

I was slightly surprised, however, to see many Singaporeans jaywalking impatiently at long traffic lights. There are many large signs forbidding this explicitly. Jaywalking aside, there is a pervasive sense of calm and order here. It is sort of like a tropical Switzerland.

After a couple of hours of seeing what I could see, I found myself in the large inner courtyard of the Raffles Hotel.

The Raffles Hotel bar is a place which has long been romanticized in my mind. I half expected to find monocled old British officers drinking sloe gin and talking about the Siege of Khartoum.

Instead, I am llistening to Muzak and drinking beer. The Raffles bar is full of tourists, but it still feels like another crossroads of the world. The colonial architecture, the tables of businessmen making deals, the orderly bustle of the city outside. There are no South African mercenaries for me to talk to, though.

It is going to start to rain any moment, and I will abandon my drink and head for the airport. I am sorry to be delayed 6 hours in getting back to my family, but it has been fun to get a fleeting, sweaty glimpse of Singapore.

Onward to New Zealand and family!

ZOLA DOING THE HAKA

Greetings from Russell, New Zealand!  Russell is at the edge of the Bay of Islands, near the north end of the North Island (in the district of Northlands).  It was New Zealand’s first capital as a British colony.

On the afternoon of Easter Sunday, we went for a longish walk along Lake Taupo.  Taupo is beautiful, but the family consensus is that Queenstown and Wanaka are more scenic.  We will break the news to the Taupo authorities gently.

On Sunday evening, we took Ginny to a traditional Maori dinner (hanki) and cultural evening.  Superficially, it was similar to the Maori evening we had at the zoo in Christchurch.  That seems like months ago.  We have been in New Zealand for a long time.  

The major differences were the size of the group (about 100 people in Taupo vs. 20 in Christchurch), and the church-dinner authenticity of the Taupo food.  Also, the long walk through the Maori village in Taupo was in a very active geothermal area.  There was sulfurous steam blowing everywhere, and bubbling mud just off the path.  Very dramatic.

The best part of the evening was when Zola and I got to get up and learn the haka, the traditional Maori war dance.  We’ve seen it a thousand times (mostly by the New Zealand rugby team, before matches), and we had a chance to try it down in Christchurch.  In Taupo, Zola came into his own as a Maori warrior.  Given a chance, I think he would have stayed with the Maori, gotten the tattoos, the whole thing.

On Monday morning, India and I went for our first run together since I got back from Switzerland.  She crushed me like a corpulent bug, and left me, literally, gasping for air on a steep hillside.  Maybe the Haute Route didn’t transform me into a superhero after all.

On our way to dropping her at the airport, we enticed Ginny into one more ridiculous Kiwi quasi-adventure: the cross-country Segway ride.  I had never been on a Segway before: it is harder than it looks.  I felt like the machine was sort of fighting me the entire time, leaning or turning away from the direction I wanted to go.

LOOK OUT!

Zola and I had a head-on collision, which could have been bad, but we were both OK.  It was entirely my fault.  In the U.S., the Segway owners would have had a fit, but the nice Kiwi lady helped us back on, reset the machines, and sent us on our way.

We dropped Ginny at the airport in Taupo.  She is going to Sydney for a few days (probably happy to be on her own), and then flying back from Auckland to Los Angeles with us on Friday.  She has been great company.

For reasons that seemed sensible at the time, we decided to drive the 550 kilometers from Taupo to Russell, rather than taking two flights.  To be honest, India and I like being in the car together, and imposed the decision on the kids.  It also gave us an opportunity to see more of the country.

We had been told that the last ferry from Opua to Russell (which avoids a two-hour detour) left at 7:30 pm, so we felt a lot of time pressure as we drove.  The 250 kilometers from Taupo to Auckland was brutally slow: lots of city people returning from the long weekend.  We listened to national traffic reports on the radio news, and realized that we were sitting in a succession of newsworthy jams.  There was some weird consolation in that, but we were still very concerned about making the ferry.

North of Auckland, the traffic cleared, and we were able to cover the last 300 kilometers in two and a half hours.  The kids were great in the car, although we had to listen to the Taylor Swift album six or seven times in a row. Also, Zola lost yet another tooth while we drove.  He is on the verge of bankrupting the tooth fairy.

As we boarded the ferry in Opua, we saw a big sign reading “Last Ferry Departs 10 pm,” so our rush was for nothing.  Maybe we would have stopped for dinner, if we had known.

On the Russell side, we quickly found our rented house, called “Eagles Spirit.” It is part of a small vacation rental community called “Eagles Nest.”

New Zealand’s culture seems resolutely anti-glamour, anti-pretension, anti-slick.  In a welcome change from most of our other New Zealand accommodation, Eagles Nest defies these cultural norms spectacularly.

We were greeted by Eagles Nest’s manager, Callum, with two glasses of Laurent-Perrier champagne.  He said, “How else should honored guests be greeted after a long journey?”

With obvious pleasure, Callum demonstrated all of the high-tech features of the house: louvered terrace roof, automatic pool cover, Bose sound system, plasma TV.  He talked about the personal trainer, dine-in chef options, and other amenities.  After weeks of low-information, do-it-yourself, New Zealand, this was all quite amazing.  The view from all of the rooms out over the Bay of Islands is also just spectacular.

HAPPY EASTER!

We have four days here to take it easy, appreciate the scenic beauty, and gear up for the long trip back to New York.  We know where we will be for the next few weeks, but haven’t come to any decisions on our longer-term plans.  

We also haven’t really started to try and summarize our experiences in New Zealand and Australia, much less to really think about the overall experience of traveling together for a year.

At this point, I think we are a little bit in denial that the end is coming.  Zola is counting the days, practically the hours, because he really wants to be back in the U.S.   Strangely, though, he is leading the chorus for “let’s move to Cape Town after the summer.”  India and I are just assuming that the adventure will continue, perhaps in different forms for a while.

Note: the events in this post are written about in the present tense, but occurred several days ago, and many thousands of kilometers from here

Greetings from Cabane des Vignettes, high in the Swiss Alps. This was the most spectacular day we have had on the Haute Route.

We started relatively late this morning, avoiding the very-early morning scramble of activity at Cabane des Dix.  We still got all of the sights and smells, but were able to stay out of the way (i.e., in bed) as all of the other teams got on their gear and tramped out into the darkness.

Having a little extra rest this morning was very welcome.  I think our bodies are starting to break down from the altitude and the exercise.  I have developed a nasty, bloody blister on my left heel.  We all have sunburnt, swollen faces and split lips.  Drew even has a sunburnt tongue, which is a new one on me.  Apparently he sticks the tip of his tongue out while we are going uphill. 

Not having any fruit or vegetables is creating mild gastric distress, and all of us would like to shower.  Mike, whose years in the Marines accustomed him to deprivation, told us that he had a dream last night about building a shower in his apartment in New York.  He went from hardware store to hardware store, but could not find the right pipes, or taps, or anything.  He woke up feeling frustrated (and dirty).

Rinaldo told us a funny story at breakfast, about being in the Cabane des Dix one morning when the hutkeeper overslept.  Apparently there were 120 hungry skiers stomping their feet, clapping and chanting for their breakfasts.  The hutkeeper did not emerge.  The skiers clustered around the hutkeeper’s bedroom door, and started battering it.  The hutkeeper must have been frightened by all of this (no way he could have slept through it), because he refused to come out.  Eventually, everyone skied away with no breakfast.  The hutkeeper got fired.

We started by skiing down about 150 meters into a big bowl.  From there, we climbed continuously for about four and a half hours.  My “climbing strategy” has gotten brutally simple: stick right behind Rinaldo and try to keep up.  Trudge, trudge, trudge.  He is a machine.

We went up about 900 meters, to a 3,800 meter peak called Pigne d’ Arolla.  I think this is the highest elevation we will reach on our version of the Haute Route.

  From the top, we had amazing views of the Matterhorn to the West and Mont Blanc to the East (the directions are approximate - I was completely disoriented).  It is difficult to describe, but the view from Pigne d’Arolla  felt different in kind from anything we had seen lower down.  The altitude, the morning sun and blue skies, and the truly high mountain peaks made this the most spectacular view we have had.  We have been incredibly lucky with the weather.

For some reason, I felt particularly gratified when a few loads of heliskiers were ferried up the mountain, and their helicopters landed below the point we had climbed up to. Woo hoo!

The summit was very exposed and cold, so we stripped the climbing skins off of our skis quickly, switched the settings on our bindings and boots, and started an amazing 800-meter descent.  Rinaldo kept us far to the left of where the other skiers had gone, so we had fresh, deep powder for most of the way down.  We also had to be more careful about crevasses: we skied past a few that were big enough to swallow an entire school bus.  The deep blue of the glacial ice is ethereal.

Cabane des Vignettes is positioned at the top of a rock needle, with 200-300 meter cliffs on three sides.  It is very dramatic, like the Alpine hideout of bad guys in countless adventure movies.   As we approached it (from above, thankfully), it was not apparent at all how we would get inside.

The secret entrance was around the back side of another rock needle, along a narrow track (don’t look down), and then up a little traverse.  To actually get into the hut, we had to take off our skis and climb an aluminum ladder.  Five days into the trip, none of this seemed terribly remarkable.

Until its recent renovation, Cabane des Vignettes was mostly famous for having an outhouse which was 20 meters away from the hut, across a narrow and icy track.  Ski boots and ice crampons were needed for risky late-night visits.  Although the new toilets are indoors (still no running water), there are still signs on the track out to the outhouse reading, “Be Careful!” and “Do not Pee Here - Go to the WC!”

Tomorrow is the last, and possibly the longest, day.  We will get up early, and do three long climbs, and then ski downhill for twelve kilometers into the village of Zermatt.  This has been an amazing adventure, and I will be sorry when it is over.

Greetings and Happy Easter from Taupo! The sun is shining brightly, our view over Lake Taupo and the snow-covered volcanic mountains on the far shore is spectacular, the Easter bunny managed to find our kids and give them a few gifts and chocolates.

All is well, here in New Zealand.

India, in her role as the Easter bunny’s helper, has been hauling chocolate eggs and small gifts around the world since October. This level of planning, and her commitment to our kids’ childhoods just blows me away.  She also recruited Ginny to bring some things.

We drove from Waimarama up to Taupo on Good Friday afternoon. That morning, Ginny and India had gone for another long run (Ginny clutching her sore shoulder protectively while she ran), and then Zola and I went surfing. Zola was shredding the foamies, which was wonderful for me to see. I was using a long board belonging to Pete’s 45-kilogram (maybe) wife, so it was a little harder than expected to get my nearly 95-kilogram self out of the water. As with all good surfing days, there were a few moments of exhilaration and a few moments of sheer terror. The waves in the back were big.

On the 2-hour drive north to Taupo, we passed scores of vintage Volkswagen buses and Beetles, headed in the other direction. There must be a rally or show to the south. It was cool to see them all on the road.

As we drove, we listened to the highlights of the pop CD that Ginny bought over and over. My abiding memory of being in the car will be Tallulah’s joyous expression as she sings along with Taylor Swift “Marry me, Juliet, you’ll never have to be alone. I love you, and that’s all that I really know!”

Zola continually requests Britney Spears’ “Circus.”

Before we even got to our rented house, we went for a ride on the Huka Falls jet boat. It was not as scenic as Shotover Canyon, down in Queenstown, but the river is deeper and wider, so the jet-boat driver could get a lot crazier. We got completely drenched, and both kids laughed hysterically during the whole ride. We got our first smell of the sulfurous waters that this part of New Zealand is famous for. I attributed the smell, incorrectly, to the huge industrial facility that the jet boats roar through. None of us felt entirely comfortable swallowing the water that got sprayed into our mouths.

I fell asleep almost immediately after we checked into the house, still feeling the effects of the 12-hour time difference with Switzerland. Aside from a frost-bitten middle finger (the nail is black, as if I had voted in an Iraqi election), I seem to have otherwise recovered from the Haute Route trip. The rest of the family roused me long enough for us to have dinner, but then I was completely out again.

On Saturday morning, the kids and I picked up India and Ginny in the center of Taupo, about 12 kilometers from the house. After an unbelievably greasy breakfast, we drove out of town to an attraction called “Craters of the Moon.” There is a lot of geothermal activity in this part of New Zealand, and “Craters” is a self-guided walking path through a sulfurous, steaming landscape. We took a lot of pictures of ourselves holding our noses and walking through heavy steam. The best spot along the path is called “Mud Crater,” which looks like a huge, stew-filled cauldron, bubbling and sputtering away. For once, both kids paid a lot of attention to the signs reading “stay on the path.”

CRATERS OF THE MOON

For the main event of the day, we drove an hour north to the town of Rotorua, which we found out is the most popular tourist destination on the North Island.

As we drove through Rotorua itself, we found many steaming, bubbling little craters in the parks and alongside the road. The entire town smells like rotten eggs, though somehow not unpleasantly. This attribute was not noted in any of the tourism brochures. Maybe “Rotorua” is Maori for rotten egg.

We had come to Rotorua to try out yet another uniquely New Zealand adrenaline sport, called Zorbing. A Zorb is a big (3-meter high) transparent rubber ball, with a smaller capsule ball suspended inside it by hundreds of elastic, connective wires. The rider sits in the capsule, and is rolled down a giant hill at high speeds. Awesome!

As we found out, there are two varieties of Zorbing, wet and dry. Zola did the wet version, where they partially fill the capsule ball with warm water, and the rider sloshes around while the ball rolls along beneath him/her. Zola thought this was pretty cool.

I'M INSIDE THE INNER BALL

I did the dry Zorb (the Zorbit), where I was strapped into the capsule, and went upside down with each revolution of the ball. It was pretty ridiculous, and I laughed the whole way down the hill. The weight limit of the Zorb was 100 kilograms, which didn’t make sense until I was actually flying down the hill. My nearly 100-kilogram weight was stretching the connective wires to their limit, and I was actually hitting the ground with my body on the big bumps. No permanent damage, but a rougher ride than expected. Ginny’s sore shoulder and India’s sore lower back kept them on the sidelines, cheering for us. In retrospect, that was probably a good decision.

After we got back from Rotorua, we tried to watch “Sound of Music,” on DVD, but the audiovisual technology defeated me. Instead, we watched Cameron Diaz and Jude Law fall in love in “Holiday.” Zola asked me at least 20 times whether I thought Cameron Diaz was pretty.

This is our last day in Taupo, so we are going for a hike on the volcanoes, and enjoying the sunshine. New Zealand is very beautiful, but we have been cold and damp for most of our time here.

Tomorrow we are driving five hours north, to Bay of Islands. My father said this might be his favorite place in the world. We are looking forward to seeing it.

INJURED SURFER

Greetings from Waimarama, New Zealand!

Despite the dramatic title of the blog post, everyone is fine.  Our young friend, Ginny, dislocated her shoulder while we were surfing, and we made a trip to the emergency room in Hastings.  The whole experience made India and me think a lot (and unfavorably) about the U.S. healthcare system. 

Some background would probably be useful.  

Ginny is a 27-year-old friend of ours, who lives in Durham, North Carolina.  She is a social worker at Duke’s hospital, in the pediatric neuro-oncology department.  She takes care of children with brain tumors, and counsels their families.  She has a grim job (70% mortality), but is a lovely and upbeat person.  She used to be a counselor at Zola’s camp in the Catskills, and is a first cousin to our dear friend, Kate.  In the last few summers, Ginny and India have been partners in 20-mile Saturday morning runs, and they ran the Boston Marathon together.

Yesterday morning, India and Ginny went for a 30 kilometer run through the mountains and along the beach.  Later in the morning, India had booked us for surfing lessons with Pete, an aspiring surf instructor here in Waimarama.  Pete and India have spoken on the phone at least six times, confirming the booking and getting the details on participants, wetsuit sizes, etc.

We showed up at Pete’s house, as planned, at 11 am.  Pete was nowhere to be found, but his wife told us he was off scrounging up boards and wetsuits.  Could we come back at 12?  Surfers are not generally known for their organization.

Fortunately, Waimarama is a tiny village.  We drove the two minutes back to our beach house, and huddled around the fireplace for an hour.  It is very cold and rainy here at the moment.

At 12, we went back to Pete’s house, met the man, and got into our wet suits.  We drove another two minutes down to the beach.  Pete gave an on-sand demonstration of how to lie on a surfboard, paddle, and stand up.  Ginny had never surfed before, so the “lesson” was really for her benefit.  

Zola’s only question after the demonstration was, “Excuse me, Pete, but how did your pinky finger get cut off?”

SHREDDING!

The waves were big and beautiful, and the water was much warmer than the air.  Pete’s son, Mike, and I walked our boards in chest-deep water out to a sand bar in the back.  Zola and Ginny stayed inside with Pete.  I was thrilled to see Zola immediately get up and have a few terrific rides all the way back to the beach.  I struggled a little with the short board, but was getting the hang of it, and had a couple of good rides.

As I came up from a fall, I saw Ginny walking out of the surf, slumped over and clutching her right shoulder.  India started gesturing wildly for us to come and help.  

Apparently, Ginny’s rotator cuff was destroyed in a long-ago gymnastics injury, and her shoulder dislocates easily.  When she pushed up from the surf board to stand, her shoulder popped out.  The wet suit was compressing the shoulder in an out-of-joint position.  Ginny is a very tough person, but she was clearly in a lot of pain.

Standing on the beach, I embraced Ginny and tried, ineffectually, to pop the shoulder back in.  After a few minutes, we agreed that we should go to the emergency room in Hastings, about 30 kilometers away.  There is no medical care (or much of anything else, really) here in Waimarama.

With Ginny still in her wetsuit, grimacing every time I hit a bump in the road, we made the longish trip back to civilization.  We found the Hastings Medical Centre, and went to the urgent care desk.  India filled out a simple form, and literally three minutes later, Ginny was being attended to by a doctor and two nurses.  

They gently removed the wetsuit, and slid the shoulder joint back into place.  After checking for more significant damage, and giving Ginny some ibuprofen, the doctor sent us on our way.  He suggested that she see an orthopedist when she got home.  The total cost of the visit was $NZ 2o, or $US 10.  The receptionist insisted that we take a claim form from the Accident Compensation fund, because our $NZ 20 should be fully refundable.  

There is no tort system in New Zealand law: accident victims are compensated out of this general fund, and “blame” for malpractice or negligence is dealt with administratively.   This seems very sensible.

We were glad that Ginny was OK, and in much less pain than before.  We found a nice place in Hastings for lunch, and had a relaxed, rainy afternoon by the fire back in Waimarama.

ALL BETTER!

Our experience with New Zealand’s medical system (and similarly positive ones with Australia’s and South Africa’s) highlighted how relatively bad the U.S. system is for most medical situations.

A U.S. emergency-room visit would have involved much more paperwork, and a lot of questions about insurance coverage and ability to pay.  We likely would have waited for a couple of hours at least before anyone saw us.  Ginny would have been sent for an x-ray and/or an MRI, and a group of specialists would have been involved.  It all would have taken 6-8 hours, and would have cost at least $2,000, for basically the same outcome.

I was sorry to see Senator Daschle not get confirmed as U.S. Secretary of Health and Human Services.  I wish Governor Sebellius (and Nancy-Ann De Parle) all the best in their efforts to reform U.S. healthcare.  In the meantime, except for very complicated and/or life-threatening health issues, I would rather be treated in New Zealand.

Zola and I are going back over to Pete’s this morning, hoping to surf for another hour or so.  Ginny has decided to watch from the beach today.