Pitching In

James: about to strike

Watching sport has never been my strength.  My father successfully taught me the rules of tennis and squash, but tried in vain to interest me in the rules of cricket.  Nobody bothered to teach me the laws of football or rugby, and I never bothered to find out.  My sport in life was to be travel, learning at 18 the rules of the Bavarian railway timetable and the pizza-sellers of Verona.

Alex: going for a strike.
There's a difference.

So it was with some trepidation last week that I sat down to learn the rules of Canadian baseball.  I was watching my eleven-year-old nephew bat, and my eight-year-old nephew pitch.  They are both fine players, and (along with their mother) did their best to explain it.  But it's complicated.  Here's my understanding of it: the pitcher pitches a ball to an allotted space in front of the hitter's body, which the hitter either strikes (a strike, surely?) or misses (becoming, if in the strike zone, an unstruck strike).  If he strikes, he can run to first base, but in certain circumstances that never became entirely clear he can walk.  A well struck strike may become a home run.  But three strikes, and he's out.  Unless the strike was a foul.  Overs may be unlimited, or limited.  My pleasure at sharing a slice of the life of my nephews was the former, my understanding of the game, the latter.

Baseball Dad Don, Baseball Mom Claire, Hitter James, Pitcher Alex,  Uncle John
Note which one of us looks confused. 

Later that evening, over pizza, we quietly swapped teams.  It was the boys' turn to learn my sport, as Henry and I shared the best photos from our adventures on the road.  Eyes popped at the sight of the blood on the Namibian lion's mane, James expressed reservations about Vietnamese hats, and Alex sized up the surf in Zanzibar.  They were pitching into our world of travel -- a sport I hope they may one day enjoy as much as the baseball that had so nearly defeated their uncle.

Words:  Uncle John
Pictures:  Uncle Henry

Final Frontier

Going solo

It was the seventeenth and last border crossing of our trip, and finally we decided to give it a go.  Henry and I filled in one customs declaration form to enter Canada, rather than two.

The guard on the train reached our seats.  I explained that we lived at the same address, and wanted to check it was okay for us to use just one form.  He glanced up at us.  "You two married?  Sure."  And he moved on.

That was it.  No certificate required.  No eyelid batted.  No awkward pause.  Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised; we were in the Land of the Free, after all.  But I did wish at that moment I'd had the courage to try it sixteen frontiers earlier.

John

What's in an -s?

You'll be surprised what you find when you stay in a hostel

Here are three differences between the accommodation provided by the Hostelling International Chain (where we've spent several recent nights), and the Hilton International Chain (where I have spent many nights through work.)

1.
Hostel:  you're greeted at reception by a friendly member of staff who appears to be interested in you and your travels.   He or she sounds as if they are local, and you suspect they're happy in their job.
Hotel:  you're greeted at reception by a member of staff who says something that's clearly learnt by rote.  You suspect from their accent that they are not at all local, and employed because they command the lowest possible wage from the hotel chain.

2.
Hostel:
Breakfast's a muffin you toast yourself, with coffee you pour yourself, served yourself on plates you wash up yourself, standing at the sink next to someone to whom you might want to introduce yourself.
Hotel:
Breakfast's an overpriced mass of badly cooked items slowly sweating in a film of grease, eaten whilst avoiding at all costs eye-contact with the  bored executive at the table next door, who's been avoiding eye-contact with you.

3.
Hostel:
You make your bed yourself, and gladly leave a tip for the person who'll clean the room when you check out.  You can afford it, because the hostel was so fairly priced.
Hotel:
Your bed is made for you by a maid you suspect so unfairly paid that your tip becomes your only weapon against this pastel-painted corporate machine.

John

Martha's Biscuits

One of the things that makes travel in the USA easier than travel in, say, Laos, is that you don't have to worry about what you're going to get when you order a meal.  We all speak the same language, don't we?

I'm not sure that Martha always speaks mine.  She's worked at the Palm Cafe in Orick, northern California for 52 years, and now runs the place with her husband Red.  A grand lady originally from Pennsylvania, she once served  President Lyndon Johnson and his wife, Ladybird.

I'm Martha, and I'll be your slice of Americana today

I wonder if the First Couple, like me, ordered biscuits, gravy, sausage and hash browns for their brunch?  And I wonder if they, too, were presented with two plump scones, smothered in a savoury white sauce, with a burger on the side, all served on a bed of rosti?  Because in American, a "biscuit" is a scone, "gravy" may well be made with milk, a "sausage" is often flat and round, and "hash browns" (that ultimate all-American gut buster) appear to be Swiss.

I had a hunch this might happen.  Multiple visits to Vancouver as a child have prepared me well for the continent where, after your brunch, you order the check (bill) before paying with a bill (banknote.)  Canada, in fact, is up next, with its added French twist.  Vive la difference, I say, and bon appetit.

Surprise, surprise!
(with our friend Donna, a teacher from Michigan we worked with in Laos)

"The pancake stack is HOW large?"

John

Trouble in Paradise

You get what you pay for

Below is the gist of a conversation I had at about 7pm yesterday with the manager of the Paradise Motel in Santa Cruz.  (On a wet day -- and this day was wet -- Santa Cruz is California's answer to Margate.)  The words are not verbatim, of course, and there were some language difficulties, but I promise that I have not made a single detail up.

Scene:  I stand with manager in the bathroom of our $55 room.

John:  "So you see, there is no plug for the bath.  And we want to have baths this evening, to relax after our long drive.  We specifically asked you for a room with a bath for that reason.  Can you not find us a plug?"
Manager:  "But your room does have bath!"
Pause
J:  "Yes, it does have a bath, but we cannot relax in the bath because there is no plug to keep the water in."
M:  "You could lie in bath and let water from shower spray over you."
(J rendered speechless)
M:  "You should have checked for plug first.  I gave you key to room to inspect it before you checked in; you should have made sure there was plug."
Pause
J:  "I'm sorry?  That's like saying we should have checked the tv worked, or the wi-fi you promised us ...
M:  What?  You say tv not work either? ..."

By now I had realised that further debate on the point was futile.  Henry joined in, insisting the manager found us a room with both a bath and a plug.  The manager then led me to the neighbouring room, but it, alas, had no plug.  We went next door again.  None of his baths, it seems, had plugs.  The tension level had now been reached, we concluded, where relaxation in a bath would be impossible.   I marched back to our room, and he marched back to his office.

Two minutes later, Henry smilingly handed me a pair of socks, bundled into a sort of bung.  It blocked the plughole perfectly.  And as I soaked in the steaming water, it struck me that sometimes, just sometimes, it's worth thinking your way out of a problem before picking a fight over it.

John

Down Under, Down Under 1: Under Pressure Over Pressure

Artist's Impression of how I felt

Of the handful of "O" levels I notched up back in 1982, the one I was proudest of was my "C" (bare pass) in Physics.  During two years in the classroom laboratory, volumes, weights, density and velocity had never clicked, and I put my eventual pass down to sheer rote learning of laws with which my arts loving brain had simply refused to engage.

So it was with some alarm that I recently found myself struggling to answer my Fijian dive-master as he coaxed me towards an understanding of the volume of water that might be exerted upon a scuba diver when at a certain depth.  We'd watched the video and read the text book that morning.  Henry had sailed through his multiple guess test that by law had to precede a scuba dive, but I sat numbed by this weighty issue.  And the more the gentle instructor tried to explain these laws of pressure, the greater pressure I felt.

It was all fine in the end: I feigned a sudden understanding, relief all round followed, and we headed for the pool where much fun was had learning how to use masks and cannisters of compressed air.  I had, after all, answered most of the questions correctly, so there'd be no risk of lung collapse on our first (accompanied) dive the following day.  But that fake understanding smile of mine about water pressure jolted me back to the understanding smiles of one or two Laotian monks back in February, suddenly grasping (or so it had seemed) my explanation of the pluperfect passive.

Perhaps I hadn't been such a splendid teacher after all.  Deep, deep down, perhaps they just felt a touch sorry for me, drowning in their incomprehension.  But they were by then able to speak passable English, and the following morning I did indeed find myself communing with the coral.

John

Down Under, Down Under 2: Over the Moon Underwater

Doors to manual

My boyhood dream has been to fly.  Quite literally.  Even as a man, I sometimes awake with memories of a thrilling landing, wings almost touching the mountains, skyscrapers inches from their tips.

This morning my dream came true, with a cannister of compressed air on my back to fuel my underwater flight.  Beneath me, peaks and hills, mountains and valleys of coral, harlequin forests.  Craggy cliffs reared to the right, ledges to the left.  The craters assumed the shadows of the moon on a sunny day.  I soared and dipped amongst the curious fish, my arms outstretched like a sacrifice to Neptune.  Above me, the coppery lid of the sea's surface, a comforting sky to this new world of scuba diving that Henry and I had invaded with a splash.

After thirty minutes our instructor tapped his depth-metre to signal it was time to ascend to our world above.   How I longed to stay!  But Henry and I are agreed: we will return.  And  next time I dream my dream, perhaps I'll have a smiling Nemo at my side.

John

Fantasy Island?

Salote, teller of tales from the South Pacific

This is the story our young Fijian waitress told us when we engaged her in conversation as she cleared our plates last night.

She had mentioned that she liked it when there were this number of guests at the tiny island resort (about 12), so I asked her what she didn't like.  And so her story began.

She didn't like being away from planes.  At 19, she'd been fast-tracked to join flying school.  But the day she was due to go solo, her instructor was killed in a plane crash.  She stuck at it, but during a later flight, her father, a Village Chief, called her on her phone to announce the news that he'd signed her into an arranged marriage.  The couple were married a week after they met, he left her a month later, and promptly denied the child she was already carrying was his.  There was a scandal, she protested her fidelity to her family, fainted before them, and miscarried.  The unhappy couple were divorced.  She became ill, but the doctor at the hospital took such a shine to her that he accidentally injected her with a triple dose of morphine.  She was given three months to live.  She suddenly recovered, and was offered  a job at this small island resort.  She now waits on tables for surfers and backpackers.

Fantasy or reality?  You decide; I can't.  Henry and I travel to meet real people and hear about their lives.  Tonight, in a tourist enclave, rather to our surprise, did we do both?  Or did we merely hear a tale of the South Pacific, as mysterious and fantastic as the blue waters themselves?

John

Greetings from Afar

Swimming with dolphins

The title says it all really...

On one fine day, we took the chance to go swimming with wild dolphins off Kaikoura, a town on the north-east coast of New Zealand's South Island. It's an unusual area because an ocean trench comes right up to the coast, which means whales, dolphins and all manner of deep-water animals are regularly seen just off-shore.

So under a beautiful blue, white and silver sky we set off on our boat into the bay - trussed up in wet suits, goggles, flippers and snorkels - ready for our hoped-for encounter with the local Dusky dolphins.

And it wasn't long before we found ourselves sitting on the back of the boat, feet trailing in the water and mouths hanging open as we spotted a 200-strong pod of dolphins moving together at fair speed but also breaching and leaping out of the water. Our boat manoeuvered ahead of the pod, and off we leapt.

Now to be honest, the first group took little notice of us. In fact they cut through our 12-strong group like a knife through butter, and in just a few moments they were all gone. We all felt a little disappointed, and a little like dolphin roadkill.

But after a brief few minutes back on board, we caught up with the same group and we tried again. And when I say tried, there is actually an art to this strange adventure.  The thing is, the quite correct ethic of the trip is that if you want the dolphins to stop and take an interest in you, you must remember that you're there to entertain the dolphin, not the other way around.

I'd never thought about how to amuse a dolphin before, but thankfully you do get a good briefing beforehand. The simple version includes duck-diving down into the water, as possible as that is in a buoyant wetsuit, frantically trying to mirror the curious mammals when they circle you at close quarters and, best of all, humming, singing or making interesting noises.

So despite the fact that 12 grown adults were dressed head to toe in rubber, bobbing around like corks in open sea and all the while yelping and squawking...  everybody enjoyed one of the most special experiences of their lives.

Although the time passed in a flash, we had more than 45 minutes during which many of the pod decided we merited further inspection, swimming right up and around us, circling and weaving in and out usually at high speed. But they also put on a show, leaping right out of the water with forward rolls, back flips, and all manner of acrobatics that were an absolute joy to behold. I was so engrossed in all of this that I almost forgot to pick up the camera - but this is certainly one experience when the memories will be more vivid than any photograph. 

Henry

Hitch-hiker Horror

They weren't laughing for long

"Never pick up hitch-hikers" is the rule I've followed all my life, so last week Henry and I picked up four, all in one go.   I suspect they may have wished we hadn't.

We came across the two Belgian girls first, as we drove north-west through South Island.  Their handwritten sign had a "2" turned into a "3", indicating the number of hours they'd been waiting.  Rain threatened to the east.  Henry and I looked at each other --  but we'd already driven past them, and as there was nowhere to pull in, we decided against.

Around the next corner, two Swiss lads were waiting, equally glum amidst their camping gear.  We exchanged glances again.  Our campervan had room for four.  Besides, I mused to myself, one pair of hitchhikers is less likely to whip out a shotgun if there's an extra pair of murders to be committed.

They were overjoyed, of course, and were soon chatting happily to each other in French before a natural silence fell and the rain began to tap on the window.  The mountain views demanded music, I thought, remembering  a new CD I'd just bought by an up and coming Kiwi soulsinger.  Alas, my purchase had been misguided: she turned out to be New Zealand's answer to Susan Boyle, warbling her way through a range of opera arias at a pitch to shatter granite.   It wasn't entirely our taste, and certainly wouldn't have been theirs, so I turned the volume low.

It wasn't until three days later that I understood why they'd looked oddly relieved when we'd dropped them off.  I was sitting at the back of the van where they had sat, and Henry had turned the radio on.   In my seat, beneath the rear speakers, a blast of music pounded out.  "Turn that DOWN, Fella!" I pleaded.  Henry looked puzzled.  In the cockpit, where Henry sat, the volume was already low.  We'd had no idea.  The dials on the radio were set for the back of the van, not the front.  We may have saved four hippy hitch-hikers from the rain, but for two hours we had drenched them in opera.

I did glance at the road from time to time

John

Milford Deep, Mountain High

The entrance to Milford Sound

The Milford Deep Observatory

We were on a boat trip around Milford Sound, a huge fjord in southwest New Zealand. It's one of those places where the scenery is so daunting that it's hard to take in, and after a while you get neck-ache from all the open-mouthed gawping. It had already been our lucky day since the sun was shining on us, pretty fortunate given the fjord gets seven metres, yes seven metres, of rain every year.
We'd also decided to visit one of its more unusual attractions, Milford Deep, a floating underwater observatory built for scientists but which also allows visitors the chance to observe undersea life through huge perspex windows.
But then our ship's captain called us to the bridge and informed us that we'd be the only two people dropped off at the centre - and although normally it's a 45-minute stop, a new schedule meant that we'd have at least two hours there before the next boat came along to take us back to port.
So we stepped off onto the pontoon, packed lunches in hand, and were treated to our own exclusive and extended tour of the centre and observatory.
It'll try not to bore you with the science, but basically there's so much freshwater rain running off the mountains that it forms a tanin-stained layer on top of the sea, sometimes several metres deep. This layer blocks a lot of light and darkens the sea so much that many creatures are tricked into living in shallower waters believing it to be much deeper than it actually is. Hence the scientists, and lucky visitors from around the world, get to observe coral, plant life and all manner of marine creatures. There was no piped music, no crowds and no barking tour guides - just us bathed in blue light and silence, alone with the fishies in an octopus' garden. A more peaceful place would be hard to find.

Henry

My Cousin's Vineyard

My cousin Phoebe has a vineyard in New Zealand.  It lies on a green slope of the valley just south of a little town called Greta.   Her partner Gary is a wine-maker.  He is building a small house for them to live in, atop a tall mountain by the sheep-gate.

Last week, Henry and I spent two days labouring in their vineyard -- the first day cool and overcast, the next day amber and gold.  In early autumn, the nets need to be removed from the vines.  There are bright yellow pegs to be untangled, tendrils of grass to be torn from the lace-like cover, acres of white to be wound and twirled as if from a cloud.  We wondered aloud if Princess Catherine's wedding train the next day would be as long.

It's a memory now, and for seven days I've been mulling over what it meant to me.  It taught me nothing about wine, which I've never really understood anyway.  It taught me nothing about grapes, which by this time of year were nearly all gone.  But it has taught me something about a real day's work, and the joy of family from far afield.  Last Thursday was the essence of life.

Lots of nets

Gary, Phoebe and their net-pickers

In Gary and Phoebe's garden

John