February 8, 2011

I'm back! Time to catch up on photo essays. The following is from an impromtu weekend surf trip to Castlepoint with Alex and Rowan. Castlepoint, as you may remember is a vacation/surf spot in the Wairarapa on the southern East coast of the North Island. The luxury of the van is that planning is unnecessary--a quick stop at the grocery store for beer, sausage, onions, bread and snacks and we were stocked for the weekend. We left the cold and overcast Wellington Spring for temperate sunshine and blustery West winds. The surf was small but that was besides the point. More where this came from...

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Posted

December 20, 2010

December 20, 2010

 

When my nomadic life took roots I planned on transitioning my blog into a scathing expose on the seedy underbelly of life in New Zealand. Stones would be over-turned. Muck would be raked. The whole world would know about the harsh realities of a first world country with no HDTV, expensive internet and a shockingly bland palate. Alas, it is difficult to write about life when it’s every day. Traveling made it easy because my life was naturally broken into events. Life, however, isn’t measured in discrete leaps or measurable moments. Rather it is a hike up a glacier; progress is measured by the view but if we stand too long and enjoy it the slow entropy of life will take away our advances.

 

I am still committed to the blog, but instead of the sprawling opus entries I am going to try to keep it to a few tight paragraphs. Hopefully it remains enjoyable.

 

 

Nearly five months of living in Wellington. The skies have turned from blustery, grey and frigid to clear, warm and beautiful with the occasional relapse. Overcoats disappeared and the sidewalk cafes are always full. Summer is coming. Or maybe it’s here. I can’t really tell with the seasons flipped for the Southern Hemisphere. Either way, even my particularly motivated co-workers are gone by 5:30—motivated to drink up the remaining 3 hours of daylight.

 

Six weeks ago I moved from my house up in the hills to one much closer to town. I lost my stunning view, but no longer does the bus schedule rule my life. My new place is a 5-bedroom, 2 bathroom house at the base of Mt. Victoria on the eastern edge of downtown. My commute to work is a 20 minute waterfront stroll and nearly everything I need from week to week is within a few blocks.

 

My roommates are all in their mid-20s, and quite social. On any given night it’s difficult to find more than 3 of us home. My room is large and the sun streams in through the curtains every morning making it impossible to sleep in. That is, when the neighboring college kids aren’t blasting house music and getting drunk at 6am during their summer vacation. Noisy neighbors aren’t a problem, even if their taste in music is atrocious. I like the lively feeling of Mt. Vic. One of the concentrations of Wellington bars is just down the street on Courtney Place and it’s at the crossroads of the wealthy waterfront and the gateway to the eastern suburbs. Parking mostly sucks so I leave my car in my old neighborhood and take the bus to it when I need to drive somewhere. It sounds like a much bigger hassle than it is. When the new year rolls around, I’ll make the effort to get a parking pass but with short time remaining, I can manage a few bus fares.

 

When I first started working, my social life consisted of going to the gym after work. 4 months on and I barely make it to the gym twice a week. I’m not nearly as stoked on my 3 year membership. In LA, the highlight of my social week was a coed beach flag football league. I have been trying to find the equivalent in Wellington. So far, I have joined coed touch rugby and men’s indoor soccer leagues. I’m hoping to take sailing lessons soon but it will probably have to wait until January. The boyfriend of one of my roommates plays in a Gaelic Football league. Not exactly sure how it’s played but I’ve been invited to join them. Summer also means cricket season. The guys in my office are excited about cricket season but that’s probably because they’re mostly small white and Asian guys who probably didn’t spend their high school years dominating rugby matches. We’ll see about cricket. I’m skeptical.

 

More soon. I promise.

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Posted

November 2, 2010

I tried to write this post four weeks ago but the words weren’t flowing. After three weeks of earthquake damage assessments in Christchurch it feels good to finally be back in Wellington. I was getting tired of living out of a suitcase. Dad laughed at that statement given that I lived out of a van for so long. Ironic, I suppose, but the difference is that Christchurch is a boring place and boredom is self-inflicted when mobility is at your disposal. It also wasn’t helping the cause that I’m just starting to put together a social life in Wellington. More on that another day.

 

My work in Christchurch, however, was very interesting. Some of the other structural engineers and I were sent down to Christchurch to perform damage assessments on behalf of a damage assessment firm that consults for insurance companies. That’s right, I was consulting for consultants—the hallmark of a modern economy. My assigned buildings ranged from single family homes to churches to moderately large commercial and industrial structures. I got to inspect wood, brick, concrete block, cast in-place concrete, tilt-up precast panels, steel and glu-lam portal frames and more than a 120 years of construction methodologies. Our job was to meet with an owner or tenant and walk through the scheduled structure with a critical eye. I would look for obvious and subtle signs of damage like cracked drywall, masonry or concrete; skewed doorways; slanted, spongy or bouncy floors; leaning chimneys or buttresses; cracked or buckled beams and columns; or loosened bracing members. The cumulative damage was considered and translated to a 2-page report to the client which provided a brief explanation of the repairs required to fix and strengthen the structure or if it should be written-off. That 2-page report represented tens—if not hundreds—of thousands of dollars in decision-making. The experience was invaluable and I’m really glad I got tabbed to take part.

 

Three things can be taken from the earthquake, all three related. First, as a profession, structural engineers are not entirely full of shit. Hooray! Most buildings suffered superficial cracks at the worst and of the ones badly damaged, those were either built on crappy foundations or were old and run-down. The obviously at-risk buildings were mostly ratty beach shacks or a motley patchwork of brick buildings that have seen many renovations but few structural improvements. Any lay-person could have identified them as the most likely to be damaged in an earthquake.

So how did we engineers do a good job? The current manner of designing structures is a prescriptive process where location, building type, building material, anticipated lifespan of the building, and a handful of other parameters are used to determine the baseline forces. The structure is then designed to be strong enough to handle these forces with a factor of safety left over. Of the parameters, the most theoretical is the design response spectrum. It is a series of curves based on the natural period of the structure and an envelope of probable peak ground accelerations for a really large earthquake. I would explain more but the description is really long and complicated without using pictures and my dear readers would start falling asleep. It’s a highly scientific guess at a completely unpredictable event based on historical data. Because of the diligent work of a couple of NZ seismologists, a lot of small, cheap seismographs were installed in the Canterbury region over the last 5 years. The data they gathered confirmed the design response envelope--mostly. In other words, engineers made a bold prediction about the nature of earthquakes and got the building code to fit that prediction. When a major earthquake struck, not only was the prediction proven mostly correct, but buildings then performed as planned if not better.

 

Second, the NZ government was excellent. Amazing even. When the earthquake struck, the local civil defense volunteers jumped into action to establish lines of communication and sweep neighborhoods looking for people needing assistance. The Canterbury regional governments were quick to set up provisional rules for governing post-earthquake with the intention of getting life back to normal as quickly as possible. One of the homes I assessed was in the beach town of Brooklands, an area heavily affected by soil liquefaction. Driving down the main road, the sewer manholes were all sticking above the surface of the street by a foot for as far as one could see. The sewer line had become buoyant and popped to the surface like a giant game of whack-a-mole. Because sewer lines use gravity for flow and not pressure (like water), the angle of fall down the line is critical to keeping things moving. In becoming buoyant, the angle of fall is affected either between homes and the main line or down the line itself. Basically, the whole line was ruined and needs to be replaced. Residents could no longer flush their toilets and water down the drains was coming out of a broken pipe somewhere between the houses and the sewer line. In response, the regional government had portable toilets set up on every block. Damage to utility lines was common in neighborhoods where liquefaction was widespread, but in every case I was aware of the government was active in setting up temporary facilities and implementing a plan for repairs. This would be a daunting task in normal times but when the entire region is competing for resources it takes a balanced hand to care for all without neglecting individuals. The Canterbury regional governments were doing an impressive job of acting exactly like a government should.

 

Further up the government chain is the Earthquake Commission. The EQC is a government slush fund for natural disasters maintained by a small levy on property insurance. Surprisingly, the NZ government has been sitting on this money since the fund was established in 1945. Unlike the American government (in all of its forms), the NZ government has been responsible enough to maintain the fund integrity and invest it in fixed interest securities and conservative equity funds instead of raiding it like a piggy bank and leaving worthless IOUs.

 

The EQC serves many functions. The assessment wing does a quick check on any structure (insured or not) giving them a green, yellow or red sticker to signify safety and accessibility. Secondarily, for those with insurance, the EQC provides short term financial assistance to people displaced from their homes by red stickers. The third function is as disaster insurance. The commission designates up to NZ$100,000 per structure depending on damage and pre-disaster value. This fund is the primary payout and any private insurance claims are for damage beyond the initial NZ$100,000. Because of this, insurance rates for Kiwis are kept low. Most importantly, while an insurance company may fight paying out on a claim, the EQC has an expressed interest in paying out and seeks to facilitate the rebuilding of the community. We were hearing that EQC claims were being processed quickly and not once did I hear of anyone who felt screwed by it.

 

The government was becoming a victim of its own efficiency. During the last week I was in Christchurch, there were several reports of local towns complaining that their utilities hadn’t been restored fast enough. How quickly people lose perspective on the magnitude of the events that surround them.

 

Lastly, this event marks a new era of purely financial disasters. The death toll was zero. The notable casualties numbered 1. One. Uno. A guy had his foot smashed in falling debris in his home and it had to be partially amputated. That’s the extent of the human toll. When I arrived, it was two weeks after the initial event and the prevailing sentiment was of a community uniting as neighbors and by the fourth week people were bitching and moaning about the slow pace of water line repairs. It’s not that they stopped caring for their neighbors, but that everyone realized life would go on with very few changes from before. Most people will have to deal with a few temporary traffic detours, the loss of a café near their office or need some cracked drywall repaired. Those who suffered the most lost their homes. I don’t mean to belittle these losses because it would be emotional and sad and frustrating to be one of the unlucky few but no one in Canterbury is mourning the loss of family or friends. 220,000 died in Haiti and another 300,000 were injured and a million displaced. The Pakistani Floods earlier this year killed 2,000 and injured or displaced another 20 million. The Indonesian Earthquake and Tsunami of 2004 killed some 250,000 people, injured another 149,000 and displaced nearly 1.7 million people. These are just some of the terrible natural disasters that have devastated places in the past decade. We learned long ago that most natural disasters are unavoidable and unpredictable, but nearly a century of valuable scientific and engineering research have taught us how to manage the risks to minimize loss. In the case of the modern, western economy, people's lives have become so valuable that any death is unacceptable. Somewhere Adam Smith is screaming "I told you so" but in a funny Scottish accent. I feel weird admitting that my libertarian friends are right. But even they would extoll the performance of the NZ government in this situation.

 

Admittedly, this wasn't the greatest post but I was anxious to get it done. New adventures are forthcoming. Plus I need to start explaining my office, my (changing) home life and Kiwi culture. I will post more frequently. I promise.

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September 19, 2010

Busy times for a structural engineer, especially one with a focus on earthquake design. For those who care not for the Southern Hemisphere, on Saturday, September 4th, Christchurch was rocked by an earthquake. While NZ is known for its proximity to the Ring of Fire and an active seismic history, this doesn’t normally apply to the whole country. Auckland and the Northlands and the East Coast of the South Island are low-seismic regions. Christchurch is squarely on the East Coast of the South Island and was caught off guard. It was the equivalent of the Haiti earthquake happening in Tempe, Arizona. Phoenix would be pretty torn up. So what happened, what does this mean, and how does this affect me? I’m glad you asked.

 

First, what happened. At 4:35am on a Saturday morning, a 40 second long earthquake magnitude 7.1 earthquake emanated from a previously unknown fault roughly 25 miles (40km) from Christchurch. Richter Scale projections give very little useful information to the scientific community but are a simple way of describing magnitude to laypeople. It is supposed to describe the total energy released in on an exponential scale (where a 7 is 10 times greater than a 6 and 100 times greater than a 5, etc.). In reality, it doesn’t accurately estimate energy and it says nothing for the truly destructive and highly measurable parameters that are better indicators for predicting damage. What engineers, geologists and seismologists look for is ground acceleration. The Christchurch earthquake (known internationally as the Canterbury Earthquake) had peak ground accelerations measured at 1.25g or 1.25 times the speed of gravity. That’s a lot. Especially lasting for 40 seconds. If that was purely vertical motion, the ground would move away faster than you could fall. An unanchored house would be picking up downward speed while the ground was coming back up at it. Think Wile E. Coyote. Not good. Even as horizontal motion, that’s like Bill Murray yanking out the table cloth in Ghostbusters.

 

That brings us to the second major issue in this earthquake: soil stability. A foundation is only as good as the soil into which it is embedded. Hard bedrock is the best material for stability and clay is the worst, but silty sand is not much better than clay. In an earthquake, silty sand has the added detriment of liquefaction. In technical terms, the soil particles lose their shear strength. As the particles experience the pulses of energy from an earthquake, they dance and vibrate, turning an apparently dry material into a quivering jelly akin to quicksand. Imagine you’re standing at the beach down by the waterline. If you stand still there’s barely a footprint but if you wiggle your feet back and forth water draws to the surface and your feet begin to sink. Foundations in liquefied soil can sink or buckle, knocking a house off its foundation or sending cracks up the walls. This is also particularly damaging to utility lines and empty submerged tanks which become buoyant and can pop to the surface like balloons. Christchurch, unfortunately, was built on a giant alluvial fan of river washout, reclaimed salt marshes, tidal flats and coastal swampland—all silty sands and clays and highly susceptible to liquefaction.

 

The bad news for Christchurch does not stop there. Because the city is older, and was built in what was believed to be a low-seismic zone, there are tons of brick buildings and brick facades. Brick may have worked for the 3 Little Pigs but they were only worried about huffing and puffing. The weight of brick is great for resisting wind which is why they use it in tornado-prone areas like the Midwest. In an earthquake the mass of brick absorbs lots of energy but because of its brittle nature, it cannot dissipate it without failing. Brick is the single worst building material in earthquake regions. While wood houses shake, steel buildings sway and concrete tries to hold firm, brick peels like corn off the cob. Buildings in earthquake zones need to have a balance of strength and ductility, and the ability to resist tension and compression. If you have enough strength you don’t have to bend; if you have enough ductility, you can bend without breaking. The balance of tension and compression is more due to material properties. Timber and steel are good for tension but not as good with compression. This can be dealt with by the configuration of the structural members. Concrete and cinder block are good in compression but terrible in tension, which is why steel rebar is used. Brick is solid and therefore has no place to put rebar.

 

As you can tell, Christchurch is a bad place for an earthquake. Given the magnitude of the quake, the lack of casualties and relatively minimal damage is a testament to NZ building code, structural engineers and builders of the past. There were no deaths. Compare that to Haiti which had a similar earthquake but with mostly newer buildings and very little brick and they had 230,000 deaths and untold numbers injured and displaced. Cantabrians also banded together as neighbors and took care of each other and allowed the Civil Defense to maintain order. Some of the news media outlets tried to drum up stories about looting and rioting but everything went unconfirmed and was later recanted. The closest anyone could come to a shocking headline was that one man died of a heart attack close to the time of the earthquake but there’s no proof they were related. The government was measured in its response and aid providers were brought in only as they could be used. Senior engineers from my office were dispatched quickly, but only after damaged buildings could be catalogued and coordinated were mid-level engineers like myself sent in.

 

I was flown down last Wednesday to perform building investigations for an insurance assessor. It was very exciting. I have likened it to being a doctor but only getting to work on patients once a decade and then a whole bunch of patients all at once. I don’t mean to compare myself to doctors because they invented HMOs and those are the basest form of evil. My work is far, far more benevolent. Like Ghandi. But with more sex appeal. I’m headed back again this week to do more assessments and I’ll put together a big photo gallery. Here’s what I’ve got so far.


http://picasaweb.google.com/mfontanesi/ChristchurchEarthquake#

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Posted

August 21, 2010

“Everyone who builds a factory builds a temple” – Calvin Coolidge

 

I know it’s been almost a month but I’ve been busy and I had almost 2 weeks of computer trouble. After a fruitless week of chasing surf down the West coast of the North Island, I made it to Wellington. It wasn’t a wasted week, but it would have been nice to surf a little more. In Raglan I met up with Darlene and it was flat for three days. We drove to and from the beach and stood in the rain while staring at not-good surf. The last day we got in the water but it was cold and windy and barely worth the paddle around. In Taranaki, I stayed with the Dekens and got skunked again. The surf was bigger. Much bigger. But the wind was howling and onshore and the waves were unsurfable. And it rained. Oh well, it was nice revisiting that old feeling of being on the road.

 

I got to Wellington a week before work started. Aurecon put me up in the Ibis Hotel, a block from the office. This conveniently gave me a week to wander the prime business and shopping district in the city and to find a place to live. It didn’t take long. Even though I checked out almost 10 houses the very first one was exactly what I was looking for. More on the chosen one in a second.

 

The rejects were pretty spectacular. Each had some combination of bizarre roommates or unacceptable living conditions. I’ve mentioned before that many Kiwi homes are dilapidated and seem almost temporary. This is a product of the semi-transient national attitude. In Wellington, the homes are marginally more sturdy to keep out the Southern winds but really vary by neighborhood. I was looking in the beachy suburbs, like Lyall Bay, but was confronted by numerous dilapidated hovels. Most of them were two stories and small, with faded, peeling paint, squeezed into irregular lots with broken concrete sidewalks and driveways. One of the houses I checked out was a 5 bedroom, 1 bathroom pit that looked like the heroin den from Trainspotting. All I could hear was Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day” playing quietly in my head. Another house looked pretty good from the front but it was occupied by 4 hippie girls and the room that was available was all glass (zero insulation) and the two girls who showed me around explained that they were “gluten-sensative” and a fire dancer, respectively. Not for me. I did find nicer homes a few kilometers away in Island Bay. Unfortunately, the houses that were nice were occupied by people that I didn’t necessarily want as roommates. Whether the college kids with zero furniture, the dorky drummer with the personality of wet cardboard or the Goth makeup artist with drawn on eyebrows that started somewhere in the middle of her forehead and circumnavigated her eyes to almost her cheek. I’m not saying they were bad people but personality conflicts were immediately apparent.

 

My new home is a fixed up, 1 story, 4 bed, 1 bath home high on the ridge between Island and Houghton bays. The street is quiet, narrow and winding. To the East is a view of the points of Lyall and Houghton Bays and a few well placed indicators of the surf quality. To the West sits the scattered suburb of Island Bay. It’s only a 15 minute bus ride to the heart of the most metropolitan town in the country, but Island Bay feels like a tiny beach town North of San Francisco. There’s an overpriced chain grocery store, a 2-screen movie theater, 2 fish and chip shops, a liquor store and 3 or 4 small restaurants and that’s about it. There’s one main road that forks at the waterfront where a half dozen fishing boats are moored idly. On cold, rainy, misty mornings (of which there have been a few already) it looks like the crew of Deadliest Catch has come ashore to re-supply. On clear days the snowy peaks of the Kaikoura Mountain Range can be seen on the South Island. But that’s on a clear day and clear days are not part of Wellington’s reputation. Because the icy southerly winds have no buffer they blast off of the ocean and funnel up the canyons and over the hills. Every night the fireplace whistles as the wind sucks at the chimney. This is why I needed to live in a decent house—I know weather is unavoidable but there’s no reason to suffer in one’s own bed. The L-shaped house has a small kitchen, a moderate bathroom with a terrible shower but my room is large without being cavernous and has built in closets and cabinets. Currently, I live with 3 roommates. Jason, 38, and Felicity, 20, have been dating for a few years—yes, you read that correctly—and moved here from Christchurch so she could attend a graphic arts program at one of the local Universities. Jason works at a music shop and teaches private guitar lessons. He’s quite fatherly and spends a lot of time cleaning while Felicity does homework on the couch. The third roommate is Sam, 31, who is an arborist and painter from England. He’s friendly and likeable, solitary but content. None of them would be make the starting 11 of my drinking buddies but they’re social, clean and respectful. It seems like a very stable and easy living environment. Beyond the snap judgments, I’ll write about them soon.

 

Wellington does offer a very good bus system. My house is less than a 100 meters from a bus stop. The ride into the city takes about 20 minutes and drops me off within a block of my office. This is essential as parking in the city is hard to find and quite expensive. 4 years of soul crushing Los Angeles traffic left me with no stomach for it. Plus, I have the flexibility of not needing to rely on Orange Whip.

 

Last, and perhaps most importantly, I’ve finished my first week of work. Aurecon is major global engineering consultancy. It’s also my first experience with a true corporate environment. Day 1 was a ton of HR paperwork, introductions, and computer learning modules to acclimate me to their intranet. The Wellington branch of Aurecon has about 75 employees, but the company has more than 500 in NZ. The main corporate office is in Melbourne, Australia, but there are a couple dozen offices scattered throughout Africa, Southeast Asia and the Pacific Islands. My department has about 15 guys, a third in their 20s, a third in their late 30s/early 40s and the rest are wise old men, and—surprisingly—there isn’t a female or non-white engineer in the lot. By Day 2 I was starting to get an idea of the projects that my department—and ultimately myself—are working on: hospitals, high rises, commercial and industrial facilities, and government buildings both domestic and abroad. On Wednesday I went to a site meeting on a local hospital that is going to become one of my primary projects. The hospital has already been designed but periodic inspections are needed to monitor construction and to help troubleshoot constructability issues. The hospital is particularly cool because it is base isolated. On my next site visit, I’ll take some photos and give a better explanation of why I find it so impressive. The rest of the week was quite busy. I was thrown in on a couple of small projects to get my feet wet but the real challenge was acclimating to the metric system. I’ll get into that in a later post. The important thing is that I found out that my bosses and coworkers are really nice, supportive and cooperative guys. The week ended with a 10 minute department meeting stretched into an hour while we all sat around and drank beer in the conference room. Hard to think of a better way to feel like part of the gang.

 

More specifics soon, but I wanted to get something down and get my blog momentum back.                                                                                                                               

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Posted

July 27, 2010

Proof

“There are plenty of smart engineers. Very few of them know what they are doing. Get into construction management and learn how things are built. Then go be an engineer.” – Sara Loughead

 

That sage advice was given to me by a family friend, Sara—a working Civil Engineer—somewhere back in early June 2003. In every interview I have ever participated in, I quoted it. At first it was a platitude to make me sound wise beyond my experience. When I left construction management and got back into design engineering, the significance of the decision was not yet apparent. As years have passed, however, the comment has become axiomatic. I prided myself in understanding construction techniques and integrating them into my designs. Contractors were receptive and appreciative, and I felt justified. But it wasn’t that comment alone. Hours before my first day of work post-college, my grandfather called me with another great aphorism: “The difference between you and your bosses is their mistakes”.  The unspoken latter half to that advice is to learn from their mistakes instead of repeating them for myself. Seven years later, I sat in an interview with two highly successful senior Aurecon managing engineers and was able to share Sara’s advice. It was no longer the regurgitation of a clever saying but my design philosophy. They were suitably impressed, and perhaps it was because they had roughly 70 years of mistakes between them.

 

 

Thank you for all of the congratulatory emails and Facebook comments. To clarify my new job, I have been hired on as an Intermediate Structural Engineer at Aurecon, a large multi-national engineering consultancy. The Wellington office specializes in Seismic and Structural Engineering, which is the crux of my education and experience. Their courtship was quick and generous. Less than a week after I sent them my resume I had an hour-long telephone interview and a round trip plane ticket to Wellington in my hand for a follow up. The interviews were professional and courteous and most of the time was spent selling me on their work instead of me tap dancing with my credentials. I felt like the prettiest girl at the ball! Particularly enticing was the repeat mentions of Seismic Base Isolation, a very progressive engineering concept where whole buildings sit on top of an array of rubber and steel pads. Conceptually, in an earthquake the foundation shakes but the base isolated structure moves a lot less so. I took a really interesting class in it while at UCLA and built up a healthy infatuation. In addition to base isolated structures, a couple of overseas projects were mentioned and some high rise buildings in New Zealand. My experience so far has been from the ground down (infrastructure at Playa Vista) and up to 3 stories (my last job working for Gordon Polon). The prospect of working on large commercial and industrial projects is really exciting. Have I mentioned that I’m a dork?

 

 

Wellington is about to be my new home, and, as I summarized in the blog a few months back, it reminds me of a smaller version of San Francisco. Geographically, the city is spackled onto the steep hills that wrap around the G-shaped bay. Because the North and South Islands are slightly skewed to each other, frigid southern winds can take the direct route from Antarctica. The city huddles for warmth in the crook of the bay, fostering a supposedly tight-knit and intermingling community that differs greatly from the independent, homogenous ethnic and cultural enclaves that make up Auckland. Spiraling out from the Central Business District (CBD) are a string of suburbs to give the area a respectable population base, not unlike the Bay Area supporting the meager 700,000 residents of San Francisco proper. The city has bustling music, art, culture, food and sports scenes. Although the surf isn’t particularly reputable, it does exist and I plan on making myself a fixture in the line up regardless of the temperature (I say that while sitting next to a space heater while wearing sweatpants and a hoodie). I already have a few friends in the area and they are active surfers, soccer players and sailors so the seeds of my new life are in the ground and ready to be watered. All I need now is an apartment, a bed (I can’t wait!), furniture and some work clothes. The prospect of a stable, adult life is surprisingly exciting.

 

 

Work starts on the 16th of August and temporary housing has been set up for the week of the 8th. In the mean time I have been sorting through Aurecon’s HR paperwork, immigration paperwork, NZ tax paperwork and checking the Wellington rental market online. On the 3rd of August, Darlene Conolly—one of Chris’s surf buddies from high school—is coming through NZ to surf Raglan for a few days. I plan on joining her. Also roughly on my way from Auckland to Wellington is Taranaki and my friends Ton and Mary Deken. Might as well surf Taranaki too! That leaves the next week in Auckland to get my remainders sorted. If I can get it done quickly, and the surf and weather reports look favorable, I might jump north to the Northlands—the only remaining part of NZ I haven’t explored. However much I get around, my camera will follow and pictures will be posted. When I get to Wellington and my life starts to come together, I will reveal whatever nuances to my life that seem particularly or curiously interesting.

 

Thanks again, Sara. And thanks Grandpa. It was wonderful advice that shaped my life for the better.

Posted

July 22, 2010

“’I don't see any connection with Vietnam, Walter’ ‘Well, there isn’t a literal connection.’” – The Dude and Walter, The Big Lebowski

 

Time for a flashback to travel. Way back on the first days of June I was in the doldrums of early winter on the West Coast of the South Island. Incessant rain coupled with loneliness was dragging me down. Tyler tossed me a lifeline with an invite to surf and camp in the cold and rain in Kaikoura. After that excellent weekend I was back in Nelson, the artsy city at the north end of the island. Despite its moniker as the Sunshine Capital of NZ, I saw nothing but rain in the few days I was there. This put me at a crossroads. To the west lay Abel Tasman, the crown jewel of NZ National Parks. To the east lay Picton and the ferry back to Wellington and the North Island. The prospect of hiking Abel Tasman in a near-freezing rain was not appealing but the idea of bailing on the South Island without a single multi-day hike was really disappointing. Weather forecasts were sketchy and contradictory but I decided to gamble and book a trip through the park. When I got to the departure town of Marahau, my fortunes hadn’t turned. It was gloomy and grey, the town was empty and ominous thunderheads were blooming overhead--hardly the welcome I was hoping for.  In the 3 minutes it took me to fill out paperwork, rain began to fall steadily. It was a fitful night with visions of hiking in soaked clothes and shivering myself to sleep. Instead, I woke to clearing skies and the placid, silent waters of the Tasman Bay at low tide--perfect weather for an expedition.

 

Abel Tasman National Park was the mooring place for the Dutch Explorer of the same name. He arrived in 1642 some 125 years before Captain Cook. Local Maori greeted his arrival by attacking them from a canoe, killing a couple of men. Tasman pulled up anchor and cruised off but not before naming the land Staten Landt. Later, some Dutch cartographers named it Nova Zeelandia after the Dutch province of Zeeland. That was anglicized when the British began colonizing the islands. What remains is the bigger question of why Tasman bailed after a couple of tattooed locals in grass skirts waving stone clubs paddled up to them in a wood canoe. Sure it was intimidating but the Maori were still living in the Stone Age and Tasman would have had such radically advanced tools as clothing, metal and gunpowder at his disposal. Plus, he was in paradise. Tasman and Golden Bays are calm, fertile waters sheltered from the harsh southern winds from Antarctica, populated by numerous fish, seals birds and frequented by migrating whales and dolphins. The rocky cliffs are broken up by numerous protected coves of coarse, white sand.

 

This natural beauty has not gone unnoticed by New Zealanders as it is the most popular National Park in the country. I was told that 90% of the park’s traffic is during January—the heart of summer for the Southern Hemisphere. The Lonely Planet Guide recommends attempting to book hut and campsite reservations at least 6 months in advance for the summer season and even then to be prepared for disappointment. In regard to overcrowding, I felt pretty safe venturing a day-of booking in the rainy gloom of June. And I was right. My plan was for a full-day guided kayak tour of the first third of the park, camping in the Anchorage Bay Hut overnight and then a full day hike to Onetahuti where a water taxi would bring me back to the start at Marahau. The guided kayak part of the tour was a lot of fun. Our group was about 16 people, inclusive of the guide. We were partnered up in tandem kayaks and I was gifted a completely useless Chinese girl who could not have confirmed more stereotypes. She spent a lot of time not paddling and taking pictures of herself and her friend. Luckily her English was terrible and the whole sight became a running joke between myself and the rest of the group. When we broke for lunch, the Chinese girl, her friend and a couple more pairs jumped on the water taxi and called it a day. I was left with our guide, Mark, 3 Scottish travelers and an Israeli. We spent the afternoon exploring and becoming fast friends. About an hour before sun down, Mark dropped us off at the Anchorage Bay Hut with a few handy tips and wished us luck.

 

Ryan and Julie and Brian are from Falkirk, Scotland somewhere between Glasgow and Edinburgh. Upon meeting them, I tipped my hand as a dork and asked about the Wheel of Falkirk—an engineering marvel. They laughed and admitted they had never seen it but were nice enough to keep talking to me anyway. Ryan and Julie are a young couple who were tired of quiet life in Scotland and were looking for a change. They came to NZ a few month before I did and settled into jobs and started saving for travel. Brian, their friend from home, was hitting those early 30s blues and decided to uproot for some change himself. Having spent some time in Australia working and fishing, he came across the Tasman Sea to visit his friends and never quite managed to leave. Having forgotten my camera, Julie generously offered to share her photos when the trip was through. Omri, the fifth in our group was in his early 20s and recently discharged from the Israeli Army. He was traveling the world alone, armed with endless energy and a chutzpa that was endearing and likeable. At the hut, we ran into 3 more Israeli travelers and the 8 of us sat around the cabin playing cards, chatting, rotating wet clothes in front of the heater and sharing dinner as dusk was replaced by candle light.

 

Around 8pm we set off down the beach under a clear and moonless night. Every footstep was punctuated by the dancing sparkles of bioluminescence in the sand. At the north end of Anchorage Bay was Elephant Rock and behind it were a couple of caves. Mark suggested we check them out after dark. We crawled around in the shadowy crevasse until the walls opened up around us. Dotting the ceiling and walls were glow worms. These strange larvae hang a thread of glowing snot out of their body to entice insects. Walking into a dark cave faint pinpricks of light hovered overhead. Brian decided to turn the flashlight on them and we were greeted with a cave full of giant crawling wetas, a cricket-like insect about the size of your hand. When surprised by them, they look to be the size of a pterodactyl…a harmless, non-stinging, non-poisonous pterodactyl. Eventually, we wandered back to the hut and resumed story sharing late into the night.

 

In the morning we set off on our hike. The Abel Tasman Track has 2 shortcuts, both of which are only available within hours of low tide and can cut several kilometers off the trek. Why anyone would want to shorten a walk through paradise is beyond me, but the time restrictions have consequences. Walking tidal flats is not normally a big deal but when the tide swings 4 vertical meters (12.5 ft), the ocean comes back in a hurry. We opted for the safer, longer route and managed the 20 or so kilometers in a couple of hours.

 

Unlike January park-goers, we were greeted with solitude. Maybe twice hikers passed us going the other way offering a smile and quick wave before disappearing into the undulating trail cocooned in tangled vines and lush overgrowth. The day was perfect. The sun beat down on our shoulders, casting cones of light through the sporadic gaps in foliage and illuminating the orange and black fungi, the turquoise waters of the bay and the brilliant greens of life all around us. When the trail would curve outward to a vantage point we would stand as a group, panting in silence, admiring the infinite views of pristine water and unscathed land. Onetahuti beach opened up before us not 10 minutes before our water taxi was due to arrive. We had put in 7 solid hours of hiking and I celebrated by walking barefoot in the frigid water. The day was perfect.

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July 19, 2010

“’You are one pathetic loser—no offense.’ ‘None taken.’” – Lloyd and Harry, Dumb and Dumber.

 

What luck. The job search and my bank account could not be going in opposite directions faster. Job leads and interviews have been lining up nicely. My van, however has decided to get very, very expensive. On Monday evening I was attempting to drive half way from Auckland to Hawke’s Bay to shorten my drive before an interview. It was just after dark and I was passing through the town of Tokoroa when my battery and water warning lights popped up on the dashboard. I put a call in to a mechanic buddy and he confirmed my fears that my alternator was most likely the problem. Driving through the mountains in winter in NZ is not the time or place to risk breaking down and getting stranded. Traffic is sparse and the temperature is below freezing for at least 12 hours every night. I wouldn’t starve and the elements wouldn’t get me before help arrived, but neither of these prospects was getting me to my interview. I went back through Tokoroa and pulled into the first motel I saw. The proprietors of the Carlton Motor Lodge, Neil and Andrea, were sympathetic to my predicament and offered me a discount on the room for the night and called a mechanic for the morning.

 

I got to the shop early and the mechanic promised my van would be back on the road in 24 hours but because my interview was in 6 hours this wasn’t exactly great news. A couple of phone calls later I secured a rental car and set off for Hawke’s Bay. That doesn’t sound difficult, but Tokoroa is a pass-through town with no tourist attractions and isn’t even mentioned in the Lonely Planet Guide. The fact that there was even a rental car agency is stunning. The owner/sole employee, Shon, explained that he made no money from the company as I stood in a packed lot of shiny, new Toyota Corollas. He said they pretty much wait for people to break down in the any of the surrounding towns and come to the rescue. 5 minutes after getting to Shon’s lot, I was on the road in a zippy red Corolla and less than 3 hours later I was in Hawke’s Bay.

 

The interview was fine, but not spectacular. Afterward I turned around and drove back to Tokoroa and checked back into the motel for the evening. In the morning, my van was up and running for a mere $450. The mechanic showed me the old, worn out alternator and explained that I had made the safe decision. I returned to Auckland but not before a detour to Mt. Maunganui for a much needed surf session. All told, it was an $800 interview. That’s only $780 more than my Monday interview cost me and I felt a lot better about that job.

 

On Thursday I was running errands, the most pressing of which was to renew the Warrant of Fitness (WOF) on the van. This is an annual safety check that all vehicles require and mine was set to expire at the end of the week. I’m sure you can guess where this is headed. English teachers call it foreshadowing. 2 hours after dropping off my van at a WOF station I was told that it needed about $1450 of repairs (windshield replacement, suspension repairs, 2 new tires and 1 new wheel bearing). The windshield was anticipated but the rest caught me off guard. I know there are a bevy of issues with the van but how bad they are can be a matter of interpretation. As Duncan Wu expressed so eloquently in broken English “Left eye no problem. Right eye no good”. I was hoping for some generous Left Eye treatment instead of a finger in my eye. The real stickler is that I can’t just unload the van. It’s illegal to sell a vehicle with an expired WOF. That and I still need it for at least a couple more weeks. So now I’m out more than $2000 on the week. So frustrating. Instead of taking the bus back from the mechanic, I walked back to Epsom stewing in my misfortune.

 

In my last post I mentioned The Grapes of Wrath. Part of the reason I enjoyed it so much was because of the resonance with my life. For those not up on their 9th grade English lit, The Grapes of Wrath is the story of the poor share-cropping Joad family fleeing the dust bowl of Oklahoma in the Depression Era 1930s. They are pushed off their land after the bank evicts them. With only farming experience to fall back on, they follow some help wanted fliers to California in search of fruit picking work. With visions of white farm houses and fertile fruit trees as far as the eye can see, they ignore the growing signs that their dreams are little more than fairy tales. Their denial of the obvious was born from the desperation of poverty, starvation and a lack of options. To many readers, this story is the condemnation of Capitalism, a defense of Communism and a parable for the death of America as an agrarian society.

 

Two points stuck me in particular. The first is the fear of consequence that haunts the Joads. Their dire straights turn molehills into mountains. Despite their initiative and willingness to work hard, they lack the resources to see them calmly through the valleys of life. John Steinbeck paints a beautiful picture of Al, the horny, wayward teenage son, hugging the steering wheel of their Rambler 66 as they beat down miles on the perilous desert highways. His sensitivity heightened with fear, he feels for any sign that the truck is breaking down and will leave them stranded. I too spent many days trying to decode the automotive Morse Code being tapped through the steering wheel of Orange Whip. While I was never at risk of starving, I was often at risk of being stranded. That fear was ever present but really escalated the further from civilization I got. It sat like a bad meal, turning my stomach and clouding my thoughts. I can’t wait to sell this van and the emotional baggage riding shotgun.

 

My job search has tipped the other salient point in the book. What the Joads lacked was the resourcefulness to change. They were (barely) skilled labor with farming as a specialty. Pushed from their home and their lives, they struck out on the road for an identical life in a new part of the world. They sought a modest and honest living, but they failed to understand the forces behind their ousting. The advent and propagation of tractors made their hand work and horses unnecessary and slow, and their farming capacity far too small to produce at market rates. Their solution was to give up their local knowledge and hope that their skills were needed elsewhere. What the Joads and the other “Okies” failed to grasp was that the nature of their specialty had changed and they were reduced to unskilled labor. The decision to move west condemned them to their sorrowful fate. Had moved east, it would have signaled an admission of their inadequacy as farmers and they could have sought work in the factories and adapted to city life—work no more skilled but in growing demand.

 

So what does this have to do with me? I am feeling the beneficial effects of having a unique and progressive skill set. Within hours of posting my resume I had multiple recruiters calling, and within days I had a handful of interviews scheduled. 5 years ago I was trying to transition from construction management to design engineering and it wasn’t nearly as promising. I wasn’t getting my phone calls or emails returned, much less any interviews. Finally, a friend set one up with her firm. Afterward, I heard nothing. A week later it took several phone calls just to hear that I was rejected. What I really needed was to know why and what I could do about it. The interviewer said that her firm wouldn’t consider any candidate with an out of state education or anyone without a Masters Degree. It was honest advice, I took it to heart and less than 2 years later I had a Masters Degree from UCLA. Damn am I glad I have it. Not only are the interviews lining up, but I have noticed that they spend a lot more time trying to convince me that I should work for them instead of the other way around. I guess what I’m trying to say is: don’t be a Joad.

Since most of my past two weeks have been spent in the Epsom library sending out emails or in front of the tv watching crap, I don’t have any interesting pictures. Attached are maps of NZ with my path highlighted sequentially from red to violet. Each of the arrows is hyperlinked to the relevant blog posting. Hopefully it works.

 

Updated: I guess the hyperlinked metapages didn't work. I simplified it and attached pictures. The arrows are no longer linked to the appropriate posts but if you can follow along pretty easily if you open these pics in a different browser window. Thanks for the feedback.

 

 

Nz_trip_1
Nz_trip_2
Nz_trip_3
Nz_trip_4
Nz_trip_5
Nz_trip_6
Nz_trip_7

 

 

 

 

 

 

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July 7, 2010 Continued

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July 7, 2010

“I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain. I’ve sunny days that I never thought would never end. I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend, But I always thought that I’d see you again” – James Taylor, Fire and Rain

 

Happy belated 4th of July. 5 months ago I quit my job to move to New Zealand and be a traveling hobo. Well, not exactly, but that is how it worked out. Last Friday I returned to Auckland having covered most of this beautiful country. I know there is some perfect aphorism to describe my adventure, some sage advice and scholarly wisdom from a man who has accumulated so many hours and miles and footsteps on the road, but it eludes me. All I know is that the 6 months before I left were difficult. I wasn’t happy. But today I am happy and I don’t regret even the tiniest fraction of my decision.

 

Instead of trying to be insightful and prolific, I’m going free-form:

 

$3300 for a 1989 Toyota TownAce with 221,000 km

 

12,000+ km traveled

$2300 on fuel

 

1 new engine ($2500)

2 new heater hoses ($178)

1 flat tire ($10)

 

115 nights on the road

39 nights spent sleeping in the van ($314 in camp fees)

43 nights spent in the homes of friends ($0)

33 nights spent in hostels ($759)

 

$60 for a heavy blanket, my second best purchase

$35 for imitation Ugg boots, my best purchase

 

16 books started

12 books finished

$1 for a paperback copy of The Grapes of Wrath, the book I most enjoyed

 

30 lbs of body weight lost

3 razorblade cartridges used

 

March was the month of fish and chips

April was the month of avocados and sausage

May was the month of meat pies

June was the month of mandarin oranges and trail mix

 

Castlepoint was my best surf session

Victory Bay was my scariest…and coldest

 

Marmite is not good. Neither is vegemite.

Kiwi wines are excellent. Kiwi beer is decent.

Rugby is cool, but not even close to football (or soccer). Cricket is a lame version of baseball.

 

I’ve been to 98 of the 104 pages on my NZ road map. The Northland is all that remains. It will be explored, but now it’s time to get a job and return to the world of responsible adulthood. I’m excited about my prospects in rebuilding a stable life: to living in a bed without wheels, to showering daily, wearing clean clothes, to after-work sports leagues, friends, dating and becoming a local at a surf spot.

 

I guess this is the inflection point for the blog. It isn’t much of a travel memoir if I’m not on the road. There will be stories but they will be fewer and further between. I will try to keep everyone updated on the major news, amusing anecdotes and quirks of being a Kiwi-transplant. If you just check the website to see if it has updated, this would be the time to subscribe. When I post, you’ll be notified. Until then, enjoy this youtube clip. It’s an Aussie’s take on Kiwi accents.

 

I'm Beached As, Bro!

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