Pacific Crystal Mountain

Dear R,

It's amazing how much less you're willing to settle for when you're a grandparent, in terms of sheer entertainment value. Or perhaps I should say, that one's threshold of entertainment increases with age until grandchildren are born, and then it almost immediately returns to the original level once again.

For example: Crystal Mountain. It's a little mineral museum with a huge gift shop, a cafe, and about ten acres of pastureland that's been turned into a petting zoo/ train ride. When I was five, it would have been wonderful. I would have been happy feeding and petting the animals, riding the train, and eating in a cafe. The gift shop would have overwhelmed me, and bungy trampoline was a far distant invention that I probably would have adored, just as my grandson did.

When I was 25, I would have passed it on the road and said, "hmmm, bet they have a good selection of polished rocks in there..." It would have never even attracted me, much less held my attention. Today, however, with Joshua in tow, it captivated me for a good three hours. I spent a lot of money there. I ended up buying Joshie a leopardine dalmation about 4" long and 3" high. I got his mother a pair of lapis lazuli earings, and I got myself a couple of new eggs for my collection. One is soapstone and the other is some pretty purple stone that I didn't pay attention to the name of, but it's not amethyst. I also got a bag of sand for Joshie to pan in their little mining area. He diligently shook his strainer in the water and found 7 pretty polished stones in his bag of sand. As is his nature, he generously gave me one.

We rode the little train around the ten acre paddock at a walking pace. We petted bunnies in the bunny barn, and fed the pig, the goats and the donkey some alfalfa mixed with sunflower seeds. I scratched the pig's back and he waggled his piggy tail in pleasure, so I slapped him on the bacon a couple of times like a dog, and he was just as happy as...well, a pig in shit, frankly. We had lunch in the cafe...actually the boys had lunch and I had a piece of chocolate cake and a coffee. We watched Josh bounce on the bungy tramp. It's kinda like a big Jolly Jumper. It only took him a couple of minutes to get the hang of it, and then he bounced to exhaustion.

But the fun was not quite over. This weekend is Pacifica; a celebration of all things Islander. Western Springs Park is completely taken over by various Island groups and sorted into little villages. You can wander from Tokaroa to Samoa to Tahiti in just a few minutes. Each area has homemade local food, crafts, and other items for sale. I was trying to be good after having breakfast out and then cake for lunch so I resisted the stalls of Fijian barbeque, and pudding and coconut milk in the shell, and watermelon, and Samoan chowmein, and pork buns, and fresh donuts and so on. It was torture. When we left at just about 4:15, I was wearing my Tahitian orchid headdress, and some Samoan beads. We ran into an old workmate, Bjorn on the way out and he told me I looked like a Pacific Queen. He's going to heaven for that.

There were a few Island goddessess in the huge crowds, and a number of aging Queens/Divas who are more impressive as they age than when they were silly young girls. But, sadly, far and away, most of the girls and women were packed into their clothes, and the clothing sizes were not small to medium. Lest you think that the men were any different, please do not. Between the coconut milk, the donuts and the chowmein, that place was multiple heart attacks looking for enough space to fall down in.

My headdress is currently sitting in some water in the kitchen sink and my beads are hanging in my bedroom. My feet are sore, my grandson is over-tired, but thankfully back home to throw the tantrums rather than here. I'm going to eat something light, watch a bit of brainless television and sleep the sleep of the righteous, for I have done well by my grandchild today, and I have walked off any chocolate cake that ever lived. It's time for a cuppa.

Love,
Tarla

New Zealand Drivers Suck

Dear J,

I was coming home from work yesterday and honestly, it's a wonder that I didn't have three accidents and/or kill someone. Kiwis are the nicest people you'd ever want to meet until they get behind the wheel of a car. Then they become arrogant assholes of the first order. Honestly, they seem to believe that they are the only real car on the road and that everyone else is just a spectral vision that they can pass through.

I don't necessarily mind being cut off by another driver, if they pick up some speed. But when you change lanes in front of me, leaving no stopping space for me, and therefore forcing me to slow down and increase the distance between us, you're an asshole. If you're going to cut me off, at least speed the hell up! Here's the thing, no one signals. I almost want to hand out awards to the few golden souls who actually know what that little handle on the steering column is for. I feel like a schmuck driving by the rules, being courteous to other drivers. They never seem to do the same for me when I need to be someplace in a hurry.

And last but certainly not least, bus drivers; unbelieveably rude! They above all believe that they own the road and that other drivers have to stop and wait for them when they want to pull back out into traffic. They don't even bother to check. They do signal, I'll give them that, but for them, the signal is not an indicator so much as it is a warning. God help you if you're half way past the bus when the driver wants to pull out! Nine times out of ten, they'll just start pulling into the lane whether you're there or not, edging you towards the centre as you pass. Then, when they stop for drop off and pick up, in order to sort of save their places in traffic, they'll angle the bus with the ass-end in the lane so that no one can pass if there's any traffic going in the opposite direction. I hate Auckland bus drivers.

Yesterday, I was plagued with being cut-off by an idiot who slowed down to 70kph on the bridge and then never sped up again, and being stuck behind a bus angled into the lane so that no one could pass his ass, and being cut-off again by another bus, and then, just when I thought I was safe, I started to turn onto my own street from the roundabout at the top of the hill and this kid, about ten years old, is riding his bike and honestly turned it right in front of me. Fortunately, I was only going about 20 kph because of the roundabout, but I yelled , "Very Dangerous!" at him as he pulled past my bumper. He scared the living shit out of me. I hope I did the same to him.

So, as much as I love New Zealand, it's a challenge driving here. It's always like a live-action driving test: are you alert enough and quick enough to deal with just about every driving irritation that can be thrown at you? How fast are your reaction times? Can you deal with people treating lines in the road as "suggestions" rather than rules? If you answered "No" to any of the questions, then don't drive here. Get a taxi, have a friend drive you, but save your heart and head and leave the driving to those who are nimble, yet frustrated, assertive yet courteous, and above all, not packing heat.