The black magnetic beaches of Piha

A couple of weeks back we decided it was time again to go on what Pooh Bear would undoubtedly call an expotition. At the suggestion, Maya groaned and asked if she'd be expected again to walk miles and miles. Max looked up and asked if we would be visiting friends. The answers, yes and no respectively, did nothing to perk up the younger members of the family. The promise of ice-cream and a picnic, however, did wonders to the morale of the troops; so, armed with our debit card (called an "eftpos" card here) and a picnic pack stuffed to overflowing, and with the inclusion of beanies and scarves being our one concession to the ominous autumn weather, we set off for the wild, surf-battered Tasman coast: the untamed western landscape that irreverent Aucklanders call "the West Island"; where the undercurrents (both oceanic and social) are unpredictable and undisciplined, where the "Westies" (think Pretoria West, Benoni or the Cape Flats) reign supreme and the very basic holiday cottages called 'baches' (from the term 'bachelor pad') still bear a resemblance to their original form (unlike the millionaire holiday retreats we find out east where we live).

Thus we picknicked on Piha, origin of the reality sea-rescue show originally entitled "Piha Rescue", where the magnetic black sand meets wild black waves and roaring western winds; and whose forests and perilous mountain passes are reminiscent of Fangorn forest and where one imagines quite easily the sudden appearance of prehistoric creatures peering between the giant tree ferns and misty bearded fronds. We dared the winding, narrow road down the beautiful, eerie black beach called Karekare where "The Piano" was filmed, and splashed through the river mouth along the narrow path between craggy peaks of the gods' most recent creations to stand in wonder at the vast expanse of fine black volcanic sand on a feral beach that is simultaneously peaceful and vehement, but always intense.

We drove along curving tracks where still grow the forests that time forgot, which until so recently had never known the tread of mammals or the stench and screech of modern machines. Here, so close to Auckland, we stepped into a time bubble where only a short time ago the world's largest bird, the moa, and its largest eagle, the Haast eagle, foraged and hunted in what must have been an avian paradise; where, unhindered by predators, bright and melodious birds bejewelled the forests of the land mass Zealandia. Here, the archaic curling tree ferns and ancient gnarled tree trunks still bear witness to history even though the song of so many birds is long silenced, and a centuries-old Kauri tree with a girth of seven metres still stands tall. Some of these trees and plants remain virtually unchanged from the time that dinosaurs splashed in pools among their roots.

It was a good day. Maya learned about birds and allowed herself to be chased by the waves. Max enjoyed his hot chocolate and bonded with his dad. We indulged our spirit of adventure and romance and intrigue. We all breathed deeply the oxygen-rich air of the rolling Waitakere forests. And when we got home, with black-sanded feet and wind-tangled hair, bellies full of ice-cream and excitement, we all sleep deeply, and well.

I know. It's shocking. Simply appalling. No blog entry for nearly three months. What excuse could possibly serve?

But perhaps this silence is diagnostic: rather than offering an excuse, perhaps I could offer our cyber-silence itself as an explanation of where we are in our process of acculturation, acclimatisation and accommodation (succinctly, perhaps: aKiwisation?). To spend time writing, or even simply pleasantly cyber-doodling such as posting photos, Skypeing or Facebooking, requires making this a priority over all else. And leisure (including such acts of self-actualisation through the creative act of writing) is something associated with the highest levels of Maslow's hierarchy, waaay past the scrabble for survival, food, sleep, shelter - past safety and security - beyond friendship, family, belonging - following even confidence, self-assurance, respect from and for others. No prizes for what emigration - and the need for dual-income families - does to all that.

Not accidentally, the dearth of blogs coincides with my engagement with paid employment outside of the home (notice how I didn't say "when I began to work", for obvious reasons). Since then, day-to-day life has largely become a case of doing things that win the bid in the top 20 need-to-do-priority lotto, with things like blogging, writing letters and Skypeing not even in the lotto. We had grand visions of keeping in touch with everyone in our lives once in NZ - Skype, email, and snail mail would turn us into creative gurus whose brilliant and witty correspondence would be worthy of publication, perhaps not even posthumously... We had not imagined the amount of time this would require. Consequently Willem has quickly made a name for himself as Worst Facebook Friend (all he does is benevolently accept Friend requests, but no more), Email Emo (sharing aspects of his life in cryptic verses which provides the sensation of intellectual contact at least) and Skype Hermit (he rarely answers the Skype ring). I at least churn out the occasional email in the dark hours of the night, but that seems to be the extent of it. Trying in this forum to explain that I am just too damn tired at the end of the day makes me feel like a Spoilt White Medem - but there it is, and it's true (the tiredness anyway; we could probably debate the spoilt bit too).

In fact, the only reason I am writing now is that I felt inspired this evening to the extent that I dared forfeit sleep. The source of the inspiration was literary: in a moment of fiscal recklessness I booked tickets to take Maya to see Cats next week (in the noble interests of mother-daughter bonding and an all-round education, naturally); and in preparation for this we watched the DVD production of Cats this evening, which I ordered online from the library together with TS Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats and picked up from the mobile library bus which parks a short way down our street on Wednesday mornings. (I love this country!) The DVD inspired Max and Maya to dance around the room in what they imagined were frisky feline poses, and reminded me of how much poetry, art and music delight me. So after a bedtime story revolving around the exploits of Macavity (with many embellishments in a-b-a-b-rhyme, which made Maya chortle and twist herself into further cat-like knots on the mattress, and which sent Max into a fearful, wide-eyed jitter of being stolen away by the Napoleon of crime), I left the dishes to the ants, piled the freshly laundered towels into the tumble dryer and put it on a long cycle, resisted the temptation to read a textbook, do some online banking or reply to my emails, and started cutting and pasting fragments of emails to put together a meagre blog offering for our friends and followers, who, like Zuma's supporters, amazingly don't seem to lose hope that we will deliver on our promises.

Speaking of friends. We miss our friends in SA something fierce. We miss being part of a circle of old friends, where comfort and energy can be derived just from being in their company, and where company and entertaining replaces rather than drains energy. Maya is still struggling to make new friends and my heart bleeds for her - she pines for her best friend in SA. Max has made friends at school but misses his grandparents and his nanny Emma. He often asks when we are going back to SA and occasionally demands "white pap like Emma used to feed me" for breakfast, lunch and anytime he's feeling hungry, grumpy or fragile. (It is salient to mention here that mielie pap is nonexistent in Kiwi society and can only be obtained with some effort and at no small expense from a South African speciality shop. The closest thing I could get from the local dairy, in desperation last Sunday morning, was polenta.) It is still an effort to remember not to insert Afrikaans words or expressions into our vernacular, and to use words that are common here (knickers not undies, jumper or cardie not jersey, chook not chicken, togs not swimming costume, traffic light not robot, tea or dinner not supper, dairy not cafe, and so on). Argh! I catch myself becoming morbid. Time to change to subject.

Our work is very demanding, but also very exciting. Willem works with the very bad (sex offenders), and I work with the very mad (chronic schizophrenics), and we both relish being in the thick of things and at the cutting edge of what we were trained to do. It is immensely satisfying, but horribly scary, not only because most of the time we feel as if we have no idea of what we are doing, and are confronted daily with our discomfiting lack of knowledge and skills and the sense of floundering in a sea of as-yet-unmastered knowledge. We love our jobs and love the fact that we can build a career here and expand our skills is multiple directions, far more than we ever could in the field of clinical psychology in South Africa. Yet it is not a comfortable place to be for two professionals who were very comfortable with and skilled at what they were doing before. I personally despise feeling like a green intern all over again. And all learning is painful. And tiring. (Have I mentioned tiring?)

Unfortunately, demanding jobs, no matter how interesting, mean that we are wasted when we get home. When the car pulls into the driveway, Shift 2 commences (homework, play dates, mediating midget wars, making endless healthy snacks for the constantly-ravenous Audrey II and III (if you don't get the allusion you shouldn't be reading this blog), ballet and swimming lessons, doctor's and dentist's appointments, house cleaning & maintenance, washing, cooking, dishes, bedtime stories, teeth-brushing, toilet-seat mopping, picking up clothes and wet towels scattered by diminutive trolls, etc). After this, Shift 3 starts (more dishes, PhD, correspondence, ironing, home admin and internet banking, possibly even some grownup conversation that is more than just a scheduling meeting, or - first prize - collapsing in front of the TV and the fire with a DVD series of 'House'). Theraafter we retire to bed for the start of Shift 4 (sleep, usher shivering kid back to bed after bad dream or loss of duvet, cat wants out, sleep, take kid back to bed, cat wants in, sleep, get kneed in groin and find kid in bed, move to kid's bed, cat wants out, sleep, kid wants hot chocolate and a cuddle, sleep, cat wants in... Shift 1 starts).

In a nutshell: life is very full and also very exciting, but the ups and downs are extreme. In all of this craziness, we draw strength from small moments in the present, the love and enduring connections with our friends and family, and the vision of a time when our children will call this country 'home' and when we will have worn comfy me-shaped dents in our life-mattress. We do not regret moving to NZ at all, but the effort it requires is great and the toll it exacts is no small pound of flesh. Paul Simon (whose upcoming concert the new emigré could not afford to attend) sums it up better than I do: "The thought that life could be better is woven indelibly into our hearts and our brains".

So don't hold your breath for blogs. But somewhere, in the smoky office of my mind, an old typewriter is clacking away, tapping out the minutiae of our lives that are for each of us as we live them masterpieces of insight and wit, emotion and reflection. More than this, in a corner of the ramshackle office is a stage, with a red velvet curtain, and every now and then, when my mind-manuscripts manage to draw breath through connection, through reaching out beyond time-space boundaries, clocks or schedules, temporality or inscription to touch the people I care about and who care about me, the curtains open, and the lights go up.

And then, and then, and gloriously then, I become a Jellicle Cat.

A blog entry from Maya, by Maya

It is fun in new zealand I like the plants and the rain! I like the fire at home but we never use it. And I like the Silver ferns. And school is fun we do lots of fun at school. Sumtims we walk to school and I walk on my own from the Dairy and on. This year Im torning 8 and I am 7 now. And I like going Bird woching we found 11 or 12 Birds I think 11. I made an new friend here name is Imogen and Shania. We play on the ropes.

(Dictated to Penny) This photo was taken at Cornwall Park one Sunday. I got a new dress and we went to a park. The trees were so big we could hide in the roots and the roots were so big we could climb and sit on them. They were as big as Max, my brother, the little one in the photo.

(Dictated) This photo was taken by me and it was so windy I nearly blew away. And it is at the top of One Tree Hill. And we could see the whole town. And it was so beautiful. And we saw the sea in the distance. The hill was so high you could die if you fall off it. But luckily there was grass but you could still maybe die.

(Dictated) This is a picture of my brother dressed as a mother. Between a mother and a fairy! With glasses on. I dressed my brother and I put my mommy's shoes on his feet. And he had makeup in his little pink handbag. And his favourite colour is pink. My favourite colour is red. And blue. And purple. And pink. Dark pink.

(Dictated) This is a photo of us - me and my dad and my brother and Franco our friend - and my dad is holding everybody and everybody is so heavy especially Franco. And my brother is pulling a funny face for the camera. And he always pulls a funny face whenever he sees a camera. And it's so funny. Sometimes I do it too. We are my friend Franco's house and they just came from South Africa, same as us. And today Franco moved house again. And his new house is pretty, he has a garage and an attic and he has a nice garden and his house is so pretty, it looks like an old-fashioned house.

These are the orchids in Franco's garden at his old house and they look so pretty and when it was Franco's dad Francois's birthday we had a chocolate mousse cake that my mommy made that we put one of these on and I like the big leaves and I was wearing my daddy's glasses.

Pining for Pretoria, sentimental for Centurion? Ag PLEEZ, man!

Last weekend we were feeling rather low. We were behind with the bloody cleaning again (we have a resident spider who has been living in her corner above the sliding door so long that we named her), we had a 24-hour long downpour that left everything damp and leaking and humid so we couldn't do any washing (we haven't yet acquired a tumbledryer), we were so behind on the ironing that it wouldn't have helped to wash anything more anyway if it hadn't been for the imminent danger of running out of underwear, we didn't have anyone to invite over for an impromptu tjop en dop (aka kla en baljaar), and - to top it all - we received a couple of emails from SA as well as a lovely letter containing photos of our tearfully-given-up-for-adoption kittens, now grown and so very beautiful and looking decidedly like their father was indeed the Siamese I suspected him of being, all of which left us thoroughly homesick and pining.

I was also feeling particularly dark and bitter since I'd been on a full-day course the previous Thursday and shortened my lifespan by about 6 months with the stress of trying to make the necessary arrangements for child care and school fetching and carrying, only to have my manager inform me late on Friday afternoon that, oh sorry, he forgot to mention that I was booked for another full-day orientation programme on Monday. So I had to repeat the painful exercise of trying to juggle a one-car family and run a household without any friends or family to step in and help out. I also had to consider the frustrating prospect of having to enrol Max in full-time daycare (and pay the hefty full-time fees) just so I can afford to work part-time (and earn a part-time salary, of course) and so save my sanity with the little extra flexibility it would afford me during the day.

But then Maya discovered birdwatching. All by herself. One day she was poring over the bird book because the DVD she was watching was getting boring after the 78th viewing, and the next day (it would be a Sunday), she woke me up at dawn, hopping up and down in excitement, to tell me she had seen a BIRD! And looked it up in the book and FOUND it! And it's such a BEAUTIFUL bird, come and LOOOK, Mommy! Naturally there was nothing for it but to clamber groggily out of bed and hurry through to the deck, where, silhouetted against the sunrise, I beheld the awe-inspiring object of my daughter's rapture. "Mommy, do you know what bird that is?" whispered my shining-eyed child with authoritative zeal. "It's a MYNA!"

Yes, dear friends. New Zealand is full of unique, endemic birds, the likes of which cannot be seen anywhere else on the planet, and my daughter's first discovery is the ubiquitous myna. Although, to be fair, it is a good bird to discover. It is noisy, cheeky, colourful, and doesn't fly away when you are trying to look it up in the book. It proved remarkably more considerate than some of the other birds Maya attempted to identify later that day when she actually asked to go for an afternoon walk in the forest. She geared herself up with binoculars, her nascent bird list and The Book, and we ended up having a delightful conclusion to the weekend all walking through Omana reserve, and rounded off with a delightful dinner at the Maraetai Boating Club, which we've been meaning to visit for ages but not quite got around to. (You're supposed to be a member to go to the restaurant, but they're lenient with signed-in 'visitors', and their excellent menu at ridiculously reasonable prices, their location on the water's edge, as well as the fact that they are almost the only establishment in a 30km radius that is open on a Sunday evening, made them an irresistable proposition.)

And this week started with some acknowledgement that although my daughter's bird-checklist trophies in New Zealand may not be as diverse as they would be in South Africa, her opportunities for rambles through the bush are far more than they would be in the land of her birth. And although even the reasonably-priced restaurants in Maraetai are much more expensive than good ol' Mimmo's, the view here is certainly far superior. The mosquito bites here are without doubt far more vicious and irritating and enduring and itchier than those of any of its African relatives (which was proven once again in the week following the rainy spell); and the spiders, albeit small and harmless, are far more tenacious in their foothold above my curtain rails.

The comparisons could go on, ad nauseum. But instead, I'll just rejoice in my children's ability to lift me from the doldrums of daily toil (alternating, as they do, with putting me there), and hope that this weekend will provide opportunities for equally delightful (re)discoveries - of mynas, affordable coffee- and wine-spots, and family fun.

Omana Regional Reserve. Aren't the tree ferns COOL?

Maya and her bird list

Maya examines some elusive LBJ while Willem checks The Book and Max tries hard not to scare off every living creature in the forest.

The days of our lives

One of the joys of living abroad are the occasional letters (or even better, packages) from South Africa. Our parochial little letterbox has taken on monumental significance for Maya, whose interest in it causes her, most uncharacteristically, daily to lug out a heavy stool to enable her to reach the lid and probe its contents. In fact, she begged Willem for weeks to help her build a new, better, more interesting letterbox, which he has since done; however, her attempts to get me to help her decorate it in paint and mosaic have been less successful (especially since I started working), so to date the old, boring, white one still stands. Our respective parents – and also, most memorably, my grandmother – are very good at enclosing letters to the children, illustrated most entertainingly, and which Maya now reads on her own, much to my pride. My offspring generally consider the drawings quite marvellous, being considerably better than they themselves are capable of producing; although I suspect one of these days Maya is going to give the aged ancestors a run for their money as she is developing into quite the little artist, and has set up one corner of her room as an arts and crafts nook, complete with all the tools of that delightful trade.

Max also enjoys drawing, and we are instructed to pin up his scribbles on his bedroom wall to be admired by everyone. Maya has taken it upon herself to teach him to draw a person, which he now does: or rather, he draws an weird squiggly circle with spiky appendages which I am told are legs and arms, and equally squiggly markings for eyes etc), and he is very proud of himself. And the figure is always pink. Max – possibly in reverence to his sister, not least because she teaches him to draw – is going through a very pink phase, and everything he draws is pink, and he insists on using only the pink plate and mug at home and at school. He also loves to dress up in Maya’s pink fairy dresses, although he gets most annoyed when he trips over the long flowing skirts while whizzing around on his scooter or clambering on the jungle gym. Only then does he deign to swap the ballgown for a more practical pair of shorts. And should anyone dare call him a girl – well! The reaction is instant, with the offender (and anyone else within 100 metres) being informed with much fervour and stamping of feet that Max is NOT a girl, he is a BOY because he has a PENIS! (The word ‘penis’ usually echoes piercingly through the playground/shop/dinner party; and I have no doubt he’d demonstrate the fact if his mother would only let him.) But I digress – we were talking about drawing. Under the house we have an concrete-floored carport where Willem parks his motorbike and where the children keep a box of large coloured pavement chalks for their artwork – it is the only place where they are welcome to draw on the walls and floors. During a recent rainstorm they went down there and drew an enormous rainbow on the floor (with the colours even in the correct order) – the result was very pretty and it was a lovely way to pass the time in (relative) peace and harmony, with the cool rain falling softly on all sides and the grey skies making the rainbow look even brighter. It was especially lovely when a real rainbow followed the shower, much to their delight.

Maya is eventually settling in at school after finally having found a friend in her class. The friend, Imogen, is a quiet little soul with big eyes, and she came to play last Friday, which caused a night of sleepless excitement for Maya on Thursday, and provided enough of an incentive to get my daughter to tidy her excruciatingly messy bedroom for once. (A Virgo she is not.) Imogen’s mother informs me that her child has also struggled to make friends, and so I suppose it is not surprising that the two little social wallflowers managed to find each other. They now send each other affectionate letters and little gifts (pens, stickers) every day, and although I sometimes have to work hard to get Maya to reply to letters from people in SA, she requires no encouragement for the tomes she sends Imogen, spangled with stars and hearts and passionate professions of love and lifelong devotion.

So the children are happy, and their school routine is settling down nicely. Maya has started ballet lessons again, and Max is very upset that he can’t go too, but since most preschooler activities in this part of the world are scheduled for the mornings or early afternoons before I finish work, he will just have to wait till he gets to school before starting any extramurals, ballet or otherwise. Maya wanted to start music lessons, which are offered at her school, but unfortunately musical instruments are hugely expensive here – a piano is completely unaffordable – so she will have to wait till she’s older, and perhaps we can make a plan for her to use the school’s piano to practise on, or buy a small keyboard or something.

Both of them do take swimming lessons on a Saturday morning, though, which they love, and which is nice because there is no after-school rush and it is at a public indoor, heated swimming pool so we all get to have a lovely caper and swim after the lesson. It is great for Maya who is not wild about exercise that leaves her feeling hot and sweaty. The pool where the lessons are held is in the small town of Papakura, about 20 minutes’ drive south-east of Maraetai. The drive there is along narrow country roads, around hairpin bends and though acres of pasture, and is generally a pleasant way to spend part of the morning. The training pool is convenient in that the children have their lessons on either side, with lanes for adult swimmers in the middle. Chic-ching! So I also try to get in a few lengths while keeping a watchful eye on my children on either side of me. However, my plans went bung last week, when Max’s stupid idiot teacher let him go without warning and he sank, causing him to go into hysterics. It has set him back terribly and he has completely lost his confidence in himself, not to mention his trust in the dof teacher. So now I have to swim with them in the lesson because Max won’t go to her on his own, and he has subsequently been placed back in a less advanced class. I am so angry: it is an annoying waste of time and money, not to mention unnecessary and a great pity, since Max has always loved swimming and has never been afraid before. In fact, it has always been a joy to watch him, overcome with excitement and bouncing irrepressibly in the pool, so much so that his teacher couldn't get him to stand still for long enough to give him any instructions! It is very entertaining to watch, because he looks like a little, skinny, wet, blonde spinning top, shivering with excitement and cold, clutching his crotch with one hand and his pool noodle with the other, with enormous fly-eyes encased in blue goggles held in place by a permanent pearly grin. But now we have to get his confidence back before I have my spinning top back - and of course there goes my own half-hour of swimming time. (So much for losing those stubborn last five kgs.)

In the summer holidays I enrolled the offspring in a swimming school at another pool, this time in Howick (this city is just chock-a-block full of decent public amenities). This pool, in Lloyd Elsmore Park, is situated most agreeably in a large and lovely park, in which may also be found the Howick Historical Village. This museum is an open-air recreation of what life was like in this part of New Zealand when it was first settled by Europeans – specifically by a group of what they call the ‘Fencibles’ (from the world defensible): a group of soldiers in their thirties, no longer quite up to going to war, but still in good enough shape to defend New Zealand against the barbarous invading hordes ,whoever they might be. They were typically English- and Irishmen with young families who were promised a free house and pension by the British government if they did service in New Zealand for a number of years. But when the poor suckers arrived after a three-month sea voyage they discovered their promised houses had not yet been built, so they and their families were given a tent to live in, followed by a reed hut, and only later cottages, which were so tiny that by comparison I am quite the lady of the manor in my modest little rental. The Historical Village is a delightful place run entirely by volunteers, who dress up in the style of the day for the entertainment and edification of visitors, and tend gardens and veggie patches in the village so that the place looks entirely authentic and lived-in. There are tents and reed cottages as they must have been in the day, together with authentic restored cottages, hotels, bars, a farrier, church, school, dairy, etc which have been brought from all over the country – and even the Maori mail runner’s reed hut (this one a recreation, of course). The day we went, during the January school holidays, they happened to have a treasure hunt on for the children, and handed Maya a paper with clues that she had to find answers to and tick off, to get a prize (a ‘lolly’ – NZ for sweet) at the end. It took us the whole afternoon (Max fell asleep in his pram), and was great fun for Maya, not to mention an excellent way to get her to actually look at and appreciate cultural history. Usually she becomes quickly bored with all the ‘olden-day stuff’, but this time she was amazed and fascinated by how people lived in those times. Although I need no encouragement to enjoy history, I was impressed too, especially at how people managed to do so much with so little. It makes me realise how wasteful, consumerist and spoiled modern Western people are, and made me feel a little uncomfortable at how I occasionally complain about having given up a relatively luxurious, extravagant life in South Africa for a far leaner life here.

Strolling through the outdoor museum, under the spreading oak and pohutukawa trees, was an opportunity for reflection. I am grateful that we made this huge change in our lives, in part because I am learning how to live more conservatively, which is good in so many ways – I feel that I am living a more ecologically responsible and sustainable life – like the settlers, who used everything in their environment, even the ash from the fire (for soap and toothpaste, for example); I am also financially much more conservative, which is healthy, although not necessarily fun. I am also becoming a keener observer of primal aspects my own life (no doubt as the early settlers were too). In my case, this means noticing what things bother and stress me, about where in my body I hold tension, about what things feed my soul and what things drain me, and paying attention to these things rather than brushing them aside.

The irony of modern life is that it is meant to bring us additional opportunities for leisure, growth and personal improvement; yet it seldom does so. The irony of a simpler life is that the mundane struggle for existence should occupy every waking thought; yet it is usually in these periods of history that humankind has been at its most creative, reflective and ingenious. In my own life I am more confronted with odious toil than ever before (hell, I have a three year-old whose ball skills are impressive but whose use of the loo suggests that his aim has yet a long way to go); yet simultaneously I find more time to write, to exercise, to delight in play with my children, and to enjoy the aroma of a cup of coffee and the splendour of a sunset to a greater extent than I have done at any other time in my adult life.
So I reckon we'll visit the Historical Village again.
And Max will eventually get back into the pool without me and regain his bug-eyed grin.
And maybe I'll even get around to decorating our new letterbox with Maya before we move to the next house.
Dunno if I'll lose the five kilos though. Sigh...

Waiheke Wonders (or: Visions of Valhalla)

When Cook first ventured onto the islands of the South Seas, he marvelled at the 'paradise' he encountered there: white beaches nestled between palms and turquoise lagoons, profusions of fruit and flowers, waterfalls and green forests populated by bright birds. Waiheke Island, which shelters us from the vagaries of the Pacific and upon whose verdant slopes we gaze from Maraetai, must be one such place. The word Waiheke (pronounced Why-hee-kee) means "cascading waters" in Maori, which should give you a clue. Just a stone's throw across the Hauraki Gulf, we've been itching to visit this delightful little island - and its many wine farms and white beaches - since we settled in this part of Auckland. And we finally made it happen a few weeks ago, shortly after New Year's. We had actually planned to visit the extinct volcano(and now protected reserve) Rangitoto Island, whose delightful cone-shaped slopes also make a fabulous sillhouette to complement your sundowner spritzer; but a last-minute confusion with the ferry timetables found us perching on the upper deck of the Waiheke ferry, sipping fabulous takeaway coffee and clutching our sunhats (or motion-sickness pills, in some cases).

Our plans having changed somewhat at the last minute, we found ourselves on the car ferry (sans car) destined for the southern part of the island, about five kms from the small town centre and off the main bus route and away from the rental car agencies, which are all located at the other (northern) wharf. And so, armed with little more than our stalwart three-wheel pram (A New Zealand invention, incidentally), water, raisins, apples, and lots of sunblock, we set off on a cross-island trek. Maya performed remarkably well on the five km hike, buoyed up by the great game we thought out of imagining we were the very first people to discover the island, and were exploring it, charged with the task of thinking up new names for all the new flora and fauna we encountered on our voyage of discovery. We resisted popping in at every wine farm along the way, pausing only for a picnic ('morning tea') in the shade of a spreading tree on the local school field, before we shrieked in glee at discovering a picture-perfect white beach with cool water (and even a few waves!) as we crested the hill and descended to the northern side of the island, which faces the open Pacific.

Maya and I nursed our hot feet in the sea, while Max (who had fallen asleep in his pram) and Willem lazed beneath the trees further up the beach. Willem then did his Virgo Man thing and phoned a rental car company, who sent out a car for us so that we could venture somewhat further around the island for the remainder of the day. Waiheke town centre proved to be everything a little tourist-island town could be, with delightfully quirky lunch spots, art and curio shops to satisfy all tastes, and - of course - decadent ice-cream and sublime coffee at regular 50m intervals along the main street. Maya decided in the course of the day that the Waiheke beaches beat even Maraetai's, being composed of finer sand and more interesting waves, although she conceded that living on such a small island may require more ferry rides than she has motion-sickness pills for. Willem and I resolved to return soon, armed with our car and loads of cash to spend at the vineyards... After lunch we cruised the island east to west, before leaving the rental car at the wharf and embarking reluctantly on the final ferry back to Half Moon Bay, where our trusty car was waiting to take us home to bed and dreams of paradise.

Views from the restaurant where we had lunch.

A feet-finding mission

The last month has been busy. We've survived the school holidays, finally received our second overflow consignment of books and furniture, actually been for some good swims and kayaking expeditions in the sea, welcomed old friend and new FOB (Fresh Off the Boat) Elizabeth to New Zealand, made friends with more of our neighbours, done a few touristy things, and got Maya settled into the new school year. Oh yes, and I started my new job! So perhaps I might be excused for the paucity of posts this last month.

It's been good to spend time immersing ourselves in the ordinary joys of a family summertime before school and work accelerate our pace of life for the year. It has given us a chance to experiment with routines and forge the kind of understandings and habits among ourselves and our immediate environment (both social and physical) needed to find a life-rhythm. Of course, now that school and my work has started, we'll need to adjust again, but I have a sense that our foundation is solidifying. Last weekend we had a very active couple of days, with the neighbours on the three houses to our left inviting Willem for a boys' night out, followed by a weekend of tennis and squash games at the local sports centre (which we had not known about) and more coffee and drinks dates. I've now seen the inside of their houses, picked peaches off their trees, watched our children gleefully spray each other with water and bubbles and inspect each others' toys, and had fun comparing notes on New Zealand. I feel delighted to finally have made some actual live Kiwi friends!

We were told that it would take about two years before we felt completely at home in a new country. I can well believe this, as there is so much to the lifestyle and culture that is different, even if the language is the same. Actually, speaking the same language may lead to dangerous assumptions of similarity - for instance, in many English-speaking countries, the colloquial expression "to root" refers to searching for something - rooting through your underwear drawer for the other blue sock, for example. However, in New Zealand, 'rooting' does NOT mean searching. No, no. It refers to something very different. It means, in short, to have sex. So when you casually mention in the office tearoom that you were rooting around in the freezer last night, your colleagues might wonder at both your sexual predilections and your uncomfortable habit of oversharing... Yet, for all this, we are feeling remarkably content with our move. Despite being poorer than we've been since our student days, we have everything we need; we eat like kings, drink like fish, play like puppies and work like dogs - and are a very happy family doing so. I read today about a Life Satisfaction Index used by research bodies to make international comparisons between countries. New Zealand scores in first position. I'm not altogether surprised. There is a surprising lack of angst in this little nation, despite their quirky paranoia about all things nuclear (don't even think of bringing your radioactive ship into these waters) and fires (fire alarms in every house, and no open fires in public places - they provide free gas for the barbeques instead) and crime (every crime makes the papers, and the serious ones are headline news for days and the topic of radio debates for weeks) and, naturally, Australians (no explanation needed). There is an extremely high rate of physical recreational activity (which incidentally shows a strong correlation with reduced depression and increased coping), and of course, there is the beautiful sea and the majestic hills and parks and the fragrant air and the lack of pollution and the relatively well-functioning sociopolitical structure. We love that people are generally relaxed, laid-back, and friendly; we like their flexibility and openness and the slower pace of life (even the speed limits are lower); we love living where we do (despite the half-hour drive to the nearest grocery store and elevated rental prices); we appreciate that when I wanted a part-time post, they said, "No worries! What hours would suit you?"; I love the quality of the coffee, salads and seafood and that you can take wine or coffee into a cinema; we love that children are welcome most places and that even fairly swanky restaurants have children's menus; we love the vastly-reduced necessity for constant vigilance - that we can drive with windows open and that Maya can walk to school alone. There are also things we don't like: the deplorable lack of low-fat options on sit-down and takeaway menus, the absence of alcohol-free beer and GI indicators on packaged food, the high cost of living and house prices, the expensive public transport, the inattention to aesthetics and unaffordability of labour-intensive products and services. We dread the jet lag associated with visiting almost anywhere in the world; and miss the exciting biodiversity of Africa, with its cultural richness - but we don't miss our home country's political and social tensions, and the slow degeneration of its natural resources. We're coming to terms with not getting around to polishing the silver and ironing the bedsheets, and following the advice of a seasoned expat colleague, our new housekeeping motto is "Clean enough to be healthy, dirty enough to be happy".

Life here is just simpler, and in some ways, much easier. A good metaphor for this is the typical Kiwi house. Most commonly, it is built of timber and gypsum board, often mounted on stilts, and has an almost transient feel of treading lightly on the earth, not only because it can probably be picked up and moved, but also because it does not scar the earth quite so much in its construction. It is quickly and fairly cheaply constructed, and easy and economical to adapt (putting in a window or sliding door requires nothing more forceful than a frame, a chainsaw, and a Saturday morning). The laborious process of concrete foundations, heavy bricks, back-breaking labour and the time and effort of tiling and plastering is sidestepped, as is the expense of adding to or changing the structure later. There are naturally disadvantages to houses built this way - the dangers of poorly-treated timber, lack of insulation and soundproofing, etc - but all in all, it is simpler, and easier.

Which is really how life should be, after all the trouble we've gone to evolving this far.

Naybours

The thing about living in houses with low or no fences, especially the ones on our street where the sections are very narrow and packed together, is that you get to know your neighbours. Being deeply suspicious and recalcitrant Saffers, to date we have only got to know the neighbours in our newest house by observing their habits through the curtainless windows and by watching the comings and goings in their driveways. Oh, and by observing the state of their houses, naturally. People are born voyeurs, and if there isn't anything good on tonight's reality TV show, there is always the neighbours.

We have three sets of neighbours - or four, if you count the solitary sheep in the paddock behind the church over the road, who bleats conversationally everytime he spies us loitering in the driveway. First, to the south, there is Kerry, who is the Tenant-in-the-Garden. Kerry and her dog Tahi are seldom home, but when they are, Maya loves to go over and chat on the stoep, sorry, porch, about what everyone is having for supper (including Tahi), and then come home and tell me that both Kerry and Tahi are having spaghetti bolognese and although she thinks that must be a very unhealthy meal for a dog she thinks it's a great one for a child and what are we having for supper and is it spaghetti and if it isn't can't she perhaps go have supper at Kerry's...? And then to the east there lives an older couple with an adult son who spends a LOT of time playing computer games in his room. His desktop background is a pic of a scantily-clad model. (As I've mentioned, the houses are rather close together.) The front garden is well-tended, with carefully painted garden gnomes in attendance. They have a back lovely garden that, together with the son's bedroom, I can gaze at from the kitchen window. It is fragrant (the garden, not the bedroom) with magnolia and peach trees, and a luscious, green-spangled grapevine rambles across the sloping lawn.

And to the west are Tom and Isabelle, and their two year-old son James. Until recently we knew little about them beyond the fact that our magnificent view of the setting sun and the distant sea was marred by the unsightly heap of scrap wood and general DIY debris piled on top of their flat garage roof - clearly visible to us as our house stands much higher than theirs, and evoking undesirable images of derelict trailer parks weightily occupied by beer-bellied burping cat-shooting rednecks. It also rather spoils the effect of their garden, which is a bountiful, untamed green, replete with wild, happy flowers and tall, leafy trees. The picture is such that Willem and I have taken pains to arrange a row of potted plants along the narrow deck outside the west-facing living room to draw the eye to prettier things, and have contemplated lining the deck railing with shadecloth to further obscure the scruffy view.

But then Isabelle and I got chatting in a neighbourly way over the proverbial fence, and it ended in my inviting them for drinks after work last Wednesday. She accepted with alacrity - no doubt because of my sparkling personality; and surely not at all because of the opportunity to inspect the neighbour's interior, mere glimpses of which are gleaned before the curtains are drawn or while the movers cart the furniture in. It is always interesting to see what life looks like from the house next door. The view, for example.

As the children played happily indoors, we sipped our drinks on the deck and looked around at the vista as the sun went down. Tom and Isabelle gazed out over the deck, remarked on the view of the tree canopy and the sunset-sea, gave us an entertaining rundown on the comings and goings in recent Maraetai history, and compared notes on our perceptions of living standards in NZ and SA. With the conversation, the wine, and (some of) the view, it was all-in-all a most pleasant evening.

And when I took my morning coffee out onto the deck early on Thursday morning, all of the scene-scarring debris on their garage roof had, most myseriously, disappeared.

A moving experience

So, not content with having stayed in approximately eight different places in the last four months, or with moving house across the ocean, just when our container has been unpacked and the pictures and curtains hung, Willem and I decide that our pad is too pricey and we need to move again. But we'll take it easy, we agree - after all, moving is a huge undertaking and the end of the year is upon us. We'll just start keeping an eye out for a suitable place that is still close to Maya's school, because Maraetai rentals - especially in our new revised price range - are pretty scarce. Perhaps we'll find something in a couple of months' time. In the meantime, I'd start slowly looking around for a job too.

A week later, we signed a new tenancy agreement and I accepted a post at a clinic in Otara, South Auckland. Eish!

We have been incredibly lucky with how things have worked out. Our old landlords, Helen and Jake, were very kind about our giving notice, and even offered us the use of their small high-sided trailer, perfect for piling boxes, for the move. They also helped us hang the curtains back up and clean the house. I happened to hear of a parent at Maya's school who needed a house, so I linked them up with Helen and everyone was delighted with the new arrangement. Our new landlords, Benita and Quinten, are a young couple with a new baby who had just started renovating their house when they discovered they were pregnant. After the birth, they moved into a flat below their parents' house (which, conveniently, is in the road just behind our old place) so that she could stay home with the baby and they could make up the difference by renting out their house. They also offered us a large flatbed trailer, perfect for moving furniture, and told us we were welcome to start moving things before the official start of the tenancy as the house was standing empty and they were quite concerned about us moving so close to Christmas. They even invited us for Christmas dinner - the Kiwis get very distressed at the thought of people being alone over Christmas. (Chronic introverts that we are, we declined, but were very touched by the gesture.) So now we were set. Now there was just the minor issue of actually moving our enormous number of possessions one kilometre down the hill. By ourselves.

Willem and I don't seem to travel light through this life, despite our best zen-like attempts to live simply. So it's just as well we're both pretty robust people. (Must be all that wine.) We lugged, we heaved, we dragged, we shuffled, we trekked and trailed up and down the stairs and the sloping garden path and got half the big furniture moved on one fine Sunday, with the children ensconsed in front of the TV and the computer, respectively, held there with dire threats and warnings of the dreadful consequences of getting in our way. Then in the week in between, every evening we loaded the car and moved boxes and clothes and potplants, with the children now positioned in front of the TV in the new place with takeaway suppers. It was a tough week, with many late nights for us and the children, and panic about where to put the stuff and when to fit in all the chores and trying to manage all the end-of-year parties and prizegivings and various administrative tasks.

On the Saturday we finally had some much-appreciated help in the form of our friend Jake and Ivan, a colleague of Willem's, who came by to help move the rest of the big furniture. Miranda prepared a feast of a lunch for all of us at her house, and by the evening, the beds were made, the plates were put away, the appliances were working, and we were in! Aaahhh. And then the doorbell rang, and who should it be but Quinten and Benita, bearing a housewarming gift of flowers and something they thought might help to make us feel at home: a milktart and a bag of koeksusters! My flabbergasted face must have said it all, because Benita explained that she had a friend with a bakery who knew what South Africans like. Sunday saw us back at the old house scrubbing and tidying and moving the last few forgotten boxes, and we hit a slight hitch when the moving company, which was supposed to have come to remove the boxes and packing material still from the SA move and never did, finally arrived - while we were out. They left again, and we were faced with clearing the garage of a truckload of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap - with no trailers. Willem phoned Jack, who brought his bakkie (sorry, pickup), and they dumped it all in our new garage. I was not privvy to Willem's Monday morning phonecall to the moving company, but by Tuesday my garage was mysteriously emptied of packaging. Who's Duh Man? It was not, unfortunately, empty of boxes. Full boxes. Of stuff that we don't know what to do with and are unwilling to unpack. Those remain, to be processed on some other day, hopefully before the winter damp turns our books and carpets to unrecognisable mouldy piles.

So here we are in our new house. Initially, we were not very excited about it. Although it was newly renovated inside, and lovely and bright and airy, it is on the main road and squashed between its neighbours, over whose less-than-tidy yards we gaze and into whose living rooms our windows peer. There is also a tenant in a cottage in the garden, so we share a driveway and look out over her house too. Not exactly a study in quiet seclusion. But the longer we are here, the more we like it. The house is old, with lovely wooden door frames and a villa-like feel, the but interior is modern and elegant, with clean, simple lines. The spacious deck looks out over the green belt behind the house (the selfsame Jungle Across the Road, but now viewed from the other side), and if you mentally photoshop out the jostling bristle of aerials and ugly tin rooftops alongside us, the view of the Auckland skyline in the distance, just above a turquoise strip of sea, is lovely. We have lots of storage under the house, and a little garden (although to our chagrin there are no stairs from the deck to the garden, which means you have to go all around the house from the front door to get to the lawn). The traffic from the road does bother me a little, the house is poorly insulated (hot in summer, freezing in winter) - but there is a fireplace, and a corner bath, and a separate toilet, and a separate indoor laundry. But all together, we look forward to happy entertaining on the deck, short, easy walks to the school and the corner shop (the dairy) and an only slightly longer walk to the beach. And we look forward to our friends and family coming to visit!

And at the end of January, I start my new job. I'll be working in a 20-bed inpatient adult male clinic for what were always previously considered chronic throw-away-the-key types. They haven't had a psychologist for about three years and so don't have any specific plans for what they might do with one now that they have one. But they're excited because they've been trying out all kinds of out-of-the-box therapy techniques, such as turning the isolation rooms into staff rooms, and the smoking room into a gym. And lots more cutting-edge stuff. So, would I please be able to write my own job description? And decide what I would like to do? And yes, of course you can work part-time - what hours would suit you? And yes, you'd be appointed as a senior psychologist with lots of opportunity for merit promotions and increases, and yes, you'd get specific extra training and supervision in neuropsychological testing, rendering you eminently employable anywhere in the country, or indeed the world. No, sadly, you won't get your own office - there's no space at the clinic at present. Or even your own computer - we'll have to write motivations for that (after all, this is a state institution). But you will be working with a highly motivated team of funny, committed, passionate people. Where they don't micromanage and where one might just feel that the loss of the freedom of working in private practice is not so bad after all.

So enter the New Year, a time of great promise and lots of (more) new beginnings. Viva 2009, in which we all get slim and fit and healthy and happy and rich and start, maybe, to feel that we are making this place home.

A Kiwi Christmas

Christmas happens slightly differently in New Zealand than in South Africa. True, I'm not mourning the absence of a 'winter wonderland' like some of my expat British acquaintances, but I did notice that when I bought the groceries for our big Christmas Eve dinner with Lize and Cindy, turkeys were remarkably scarce, and obscenely expensive (ranging anything between $45 and $70 - that's around R400 to you Saffers). However, there was plenty of pork. Robust roasts, huge hams - although none of the gammons we're used to getting in SA. And there were dozens of ducks, and naturally loads of lamb. Since none of the enormous hams would fit into my fridge (which is so large we had to remove a panel from the built-in unit to fit it into our new kitchen), I finally settled for what looked like the netted gammons I am used to; only here it was called a 'boiling bacon'. I cooked it up and glazed it, and although delicious, it didn't quite taste like home.

The other thing about Christmas in Kiwiland is that everyone takes their holiday in January, when it is warmest; which means the schools break up just before Christmas, work continues right up until Christmas Eve. So Christmas shopping has to happen after hours, and there's little time for baking mince pies or browsing leisurely around the shops. That being said, there are heaps of discounts and sales on just before and after Christmas, and the Boxing Day Sale is something the locals wait for with beady-eyed anticipation. The Kiwis are sale-mad. They go into a frenzy over the possibility of a bargain. Of course, so do poor immigrants. But after vainly trying to negotiate the rabid hordes on Boxing Day in a hot and crowded shopping centre, with miserable whiny children in tow, while the sun was shining and the beach was beckoning, Willem and I decided that there are some Kiwi customs that are just not worth adopting. We'll trade the turkey for a roast duck; we'll sacrifice the gammon for a smoked haunch of ham; and I certainly am very happy to adopt the Kiwi custom of decorating the entire exterior of the house with lots of twinkly lights from early in December - although I draw the line at acquiring, as is popularly done, a copious and kitsch collection of plastic Santa, snowman and reindeer figurines that light up and dance and generally reduce otherwise respectable gardens, roofs and windows to a Christmas equivalent of a Southern trailer park populated by ceramic cactuses and porcelain garden gnomes.

But our first Christmas so far away from home was, all in all, pretty good. Cindy and Lize brought loads of loot for the midgets, admirably choosing quantity over quality, and we cooked up a feast and played post-prandial card games with a competitive passion worthy of any Kokot get-together. And on Christmas Day the back-to-back TV movies, accompanied by scrumptious and abundant leftovers and bowlfuls of popcorn and chocolate, invoked a serene slothfulness that precluded any thought at all, including memories of home and mourning the absence of loved ones. (The homesickness hit a little harder once the leftover platter had been licked clean, and the reality of facing the January holiday without friends, without babysitters, without family get-togethers, with heaps of housework and no respite in the form of parties, braais, grown-up movies, or babysitting exchanges.) But on Christmas Day, we weren't worrying about the housework. Because on Christmas Day, we had presents.

Scooters for the children, a drum for pining Willem (unfortunately nothing as authentic as those we left behind), and a Field Guide to New Zealand Birds for Penny were joyously received. But the angel on the top of the tree must have been the rubber dinghy that Father Christmas left under the tree for the family, complete with child-sized life jackets and oars. Maya had indeed had a boat on her long and comprehensive Christmas list, and had spent the previous week reflecting on how - and whether - FC would manage to deliver such a large gift. So when St Nic hit upon the cunning plan of delivering an inflatable, the desire to go immediately to try it out was irresistable. Since the offspring had forced us awake before 6am, the presents had been opened and copious cups of pick-me-up coffee drunk before eight. Thus it was that few people were around to witness the landlubbers' first attempt at seafaring.

A fact for which we are humbly grateful.

It started off with great promise. The weather was fine, the sea was calm and sparkling, the sunlight was warm and golden. It was a perfect crisp, still morning, with the pohutukawas radiant in green and crimson. Willem pumped up the boat with amazing gusto, considering he'd had a paltry five hours' sleep; the children were enthusiastically kitted out in their new life jackets; and I had actually remembered to bring the camera. With the shutter clicking away, the kids leapt in and Willem pushed the boat into the surf (remember, no big waves here on the East coast), and off they went, looking very cool - the very model of a modern happy family. The first glitch came when Willem discovered it wasn't so easy to row a boat, what with the current and the swell and the requirements of coordinating the oars and manoeuvering the heavy-loaded craft with five hours' sleep and no experience. And that it is even harder when you have two children clamouring for a turn at the oars. And especially when one of those children insists on standing up in the boat and trying to snatch the oar from you over your shoulder, hollering in your ear and unbalancing the boat most alarmingly. And then you suddenly become aware that the rocks are actually rather close by, and there are a couple of them under the fairly shallow water too, and, as luck would have it, they are all covered with razor-sharp oyster beds. Suddenly it dawned on the landlubbers why so few people have rubber boats, a thought that struck at precisely the same moment that Willem heard a scraping under the hull and a soft, bubbling pfffffffft noise.

It was very funny to watch Willem hurriedly paddling for the nearest rocks so he could lift out the kids before the little boat collapsed in the gently bubbling water, yelling to me to wade out to help carry the children and the boat back. So after a mere three minutes on the water, the family expedition struck out for home, where we consoled ourselves with mince pies, more coffee and the rest of the loot. Later Willem fixed the puncture and we decided that next time, we'd try the other beach, where there were fewer rocks. And go early in the morning. After all, there's no need for witnesses.

Six O'Clock Views

When Alan Paton chose the phrase "Ah but your land is beautiful" for the title of his book, I am guessing that he was not referring to the highveld in winter. But barring the flat dreariness of the urban Witwatersrand, he's not wrong, of course. South Africa has an exquisite and incredibly diverse natural beauty. And so it is with some surprise, therefore, that I find myself completely in awe of, and indeed dedicating an entire post to, the splendour of the New Zealand landscape.

I think this in part because I grew up mainly in the highveld, where my daily perambulations were accompanied by visions of grey grasses and flapping plastic bags along barbed-wire fences, or lampposts amply festooned with grisly billboard headlines. The beauty of South Africa was something I enjoyed almost exclusively on rare retreats to the sea or bush, or in my garden after I recklessly squandered gallons of precious water on it. Here, however, I live in a particularly pretty coastal village, and any trip to town or further afield takes me on an undulating journey through green hills peppered with pine and pohutukawa, and salted with sheep. And even in town, there are no billboards on lampposts, ever; there are generous swathes of vivid flowerbeds, daisy-studded grassy banks alongside neat walkways, and even the ugliest industrial areas have trees softening their edges.

I miss very much many of my native ways of life, the familiar accents, the aroma of boerewors, the acacia-silhouetted, cicada-chirping veld, inexpensive coffee shops, the ease and excellence of Woolworths (food) and Ackermans (children's clothes), our dark self-mocking SA humour, and the company and support of my family and friends. And I hate that things are so expensive here, and our earnings so much more meagre, relative to the cost of living, than they were in South Africa. And there are days - usually when I have laboured the entire morning over laundry only to discover a hidden cache of crumpled malodorous clothes under Maya's bed; there are days - often when I spend hours dusting and mopping and tidying only to have the resident trolls immediately flip order to anarchy the second they burst through the door - there are days when I wonder if we have done the right thing by uprooting ourselves so drastically halfway across the world.

The richness of our lives at the moment does not reside in the accumulation of a nice little nest egg; nor of the experience of exotic travels; and certainly not in the joy and cameraderie of a kuier with old friends. But often, when I feel particularly sour and lonely and down and destitute and broken, ruminating bitterly that I have been irrevocably impoverished by the move, it is then that I notice the blazing ruby and garnet sunsets, the emerald pastures, the diamond-sparkling, crystal-encrusted midday seascapes, the golden clarity of the light, the mother-of-pearl and silver beaches, the ocean all sapphire, turquoise, and jade. And in that moment I embody every cliché, because suddenly I feel obscenely
filthy

stinking

rrrrich.

Moving

A short note, for the fans. We're moving again. Yes, I know. After all the fuss I made about finding the perfect house and everything. But what can I say? After two months of orienting ourselves in the country, I have a better handle on our actual expenses and needs, and Wlm and I have concluded that although we love our wooden cabin with two bathrooms, two living areas and a sea view, and even after drawing up budgets and projecting expenses to the best of our ability, and even after I start working, our lovely house is costing us a little too much moola. And in a debt-free world of nest eggs and financial stability, even the most beautiful abode with the most stunning view is subject to new rules.

So we're moving to the bottom of our very steep hill (yay), closer to the beach (yay) but losing our view, our second bathroom, our second living area, and the warm, well-insulated comfort of solid timber (boooo). Why we are moving now is that we just happened to find a suitable house - and houses in our village are hard to come by. We love living in Maraetai, by the sea and out of the city; and the house we have found is quite respectable - newly renovated inside, rather ugly on outside, but nothing that some potplants and creative gardening won't be able to fix. It's on the main road, which is not great, but it's very close to the school (600m away!). And - here's the thing - it's $130 (R600) a week cheaper than we're paying at present. Quite a persuasive argument. But I must say, the idea of moving AGAIN just after we've unpacked is a tad sobering.

So we're gonna be moving on the 20th December - right before Christmas - shoot me now! We have really been lucky though: in our present house we were able to use the existing furniture and crockery etc until our container arrived, and in the new house, we are fortunate to be able to start moving our stuff slowly, because it is standing empty and the landlords have no problem with us carting stuff across before we actually take residence (as the crow flies, it's a whole 600m from our current place, but you have to go up and down the hill so it is quite an effort). I felt very bad for our present landlords as they have been exceedingly kind to us, but I am grateful that we were able to stay in a lovely place while we got settled and sorted out our actual (vs imagined) budget and expenses. I'm also very grateful that we managed to find another suitable place nearby, so the children and the routine won't be disrupted to much. Ah, the joys of emigration!

Anyway. Our NEW address is 109 Maraetai Drive, Maraetai, Auckland, NZ 2018. (Kerrin! Take note!) Will send juicy posts and pics later. But now, Willem has loaded Whale Rider on the DVD (good NZ fare and part of our cultural education), so cheerio for now!

On pirates, parties and turning 'free'

They say the first year as an expat is the hardest, not least because this is when the uprooted little family must weather all the anniversaries and celebrations alone for the first time. For us, the first of these was Max's third birthday, which draws to a close as I write.

I was determined to create a celebration that would bring a sense of normalcy and settledness to our lives - in short, we needed a party. After all, no self-respecting three year-old will fall for a birthday devoid of candles and balloons and at least some decent noise. The problem was a distinct lack of available preschoolers with whom Max was willing to share his cake and toys. Not to mention the obnoxious presence of the ubiquitous boxes lurking in the corners of the new house. So Willem and I downed some mental Red Bull, worked till midnight either unpacking boxes or stuffing them unopened into the attic, bribed the few people we know with promises of lunch if they came and played children's party games, and asked the neighbour's little son over, to boost the number of children present to three.

On Sunday morning (yesterday), after days of no sleep, and hours of shopping, planning and baking, I told Max that today was the grand day of his party. He grunted politely without averting his gaze from the TV, where Peter Pan was enthusiastically engaged in sending Captain Hook over the side of his ship into the waiting jaws of the happy crocodile. Then Willem appeared with a bunch of balloons. The response was electric.
"Ballooooons!" hooted Max, leaping up and leapfrogging around the room. "It's my party! Yayayayay! Where my candles? Do I get cake? When are the friends coming?"

The friends duly arrived, clutching an assortment of gaily wrapped swords, shields, beach paddles, balls, puzzles and other most desirable objects, the games were played, and Max was delighted with the crocodile cake (in deference to the Peter Pan and pirate craze) that his mother and sister spent an enjoyable hour decorating - at first, we thought, rather tastefully, and then, since the vile-green icing refused to run out, with an increasing flair for the florid.

In all, it was a pleasant affair, and we were very grateful that we had been so fastidious about hunting a good house. The weather was rotten, with gale force winds and bad-tempered clouds exchanging insults around the house all day long. Although the rent is horribly high, we managed to have an indoor children's party with no breakages, happy kids and still enough space for the adults to mingle and chat.

Today, his actual birthday, I had promised to take the birthday boy on a boat ride. He has been angling, if you'll excuse the expression, to go boating since we arrived in this sea-ensconced country, and we thought it would be a lovely birthday treat. Unfortunately, the South Africans failed to take the fickle NZ weather into account. And when the weatherman predicted gale force winds and stinging rain for the whole of Monday, I couldn't very well go back on my word to take Max on a ferry boat into town. He was kitted out in his new Peter Pan outfit (complete with long-sleeved woolies on beneath it), jaunty cap and feather, and sword tucked into his belt, and nothing was going to stop him. And nothing did. He relished the tipping and heaving of the boat (not noticing that his mother was turning the same colour as his outfit), complained that he wasn't allowed to lean over the side of the ferry to see the sharks and crocodiles and whales and dolphins and fish and penguins he knew were crowding around the hull, strutted down Queen Street with such impish self-assuredness that he scored free 'lollies' (NZ for sweets) from every smitten waitress whose path he crossed, and demanded fish and chips and ginger beer for lunch AND supper.

So I reckon Max has found his Neverland. And it is an island. And it has magical flying ships (albeit ferries that lurch over waves), and crocodiles (in cake form), and although he declares himself now to finally be a 'big boy' (especially after we turfed the nappies), I don't think he's too worried about growing up. And so it was that with happy, happy thoughts and pixie dust, Max - and his very Wendy-like big sister Maya - lifted his homesick, tired parents to get them airborne, so that we too could feel that we, in our new beautiful island country, are slowly, slowly, 'turning free.'

Doing the local motion

The most famous non-indigenous New Zealand animal is most certainly the humble ovis aries, or sheep. And surely any blog on New Zealand worth its mutton needs to mention something about said sheep. So here goes: there are about seven sheep to every person in new Zealand. (There are something like fifteen possums to every person, but no one likes possums, who are decimating the endemic flora and thus also the kiwis who depend on the habitat, so we won't mention it again. Kiwis are also famous here, but you never see any kiwis. Firstly, they're nocturnal. Secondly, they're endangered. There are three species of kiwi, but only one is found on the North Island, and even there, mainly only in zoos. So we'll stick to sheep.)

There are sheep everywhere. While we were staying in Mount Albert, in the middle of the city, we would pass green paddocks of little white sheep wedged between the houses (the paddocks, not the sheep). Driving from one part of Auckland to another, one passes - you guessed it - fields of sheep. This is the only country I have been to where a regional nature reserve consists of a narrow band of indigenous coastal forest bordered by, yup, vast rolling expanses of pastures filled with sheep (really - Omana Regional Reserve, Maraetai). The lamb-and-mint hamburgers are delicious. The many Indian immigrants are in their element concocting lamb curries. There is a burgeoning trade in sheep soft toys. Mutton is the same price as chicken in the supermarkets.

Sheep tend to feature in a number of our favourite activities, such as walking through the lovely Omana Reserve, which is within easy walking distance from us, and sightseeing in the area. Two weekends ago, we decided to sally forth and take in one of the many weekend activities that we so enjoy about living in Auckland. This time we decided to go to the Clevedon School Agricultural Day. Clevedon is a very pretty farming village close to Maraetai, slightly inland, and is famous for its vineyards, among other things. Clevedon School has a policy that all its students must at some point raise from birth a farm animal of some sort. So we went to see the children show their pet chickens, pigs, goats, calves and lambs (and pop into a wine-tasting store while we were there, naturally). It was delightful to see these tots in enormous gumboots run over the playing field with a spindly little lamb on a leash trotting docilely behind. There were a lot of gumboots around. Must be a farm thing. Some folk even dressed up their lambs for the occasion - we saw lots of woolly jumpers (he he). Some of the chickens on show were nearly as large as their tiny owners. My children were entranced. The day took it in turns to rain, then shine, then rain again, determined no doubt to give the immigrants a thoroughly authentic New Zealand experience. No one paid any attention to the rain, nor to the biting artic wind. (It has not taken me long to resolve never to go anywhere in this country without a hat and scarf. Anything less would be asking for pneumonia. I might even have to start considering gumboots.)

Authentic New Zealand activities always seem to include a coffee stall selling serious coffee - namely 'flat whites', made with espresso, hot water and milk and a thin layer of foam (delicious), and 'hotdogs', which are not what we know, but are something more akin to what I imagine Terry Pratchett's somehwat shady character, Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, might have sold: a sausage on a stick, dipped in batter and deep-fried (not so delicious). The Kiwis are big on fried food (er, sometimes literally - especially the Maori and Pacific Islanders). They love chips, which can also be bought anywhere (usually served in a polystyrene cup), and there is pretty much never the option of ordering grilled chicken or fish instead of the fried version at takeaway shops or cafes. There is a concerted effort on the part of the government to help the populace improve their eating habits - lots of radio and magazine adverts to this effect - but I haven't noticed that it is sinking in. This is disappointing for us, especially given Willem's hypertension and Maya's insulin resistance. Shopping in the supermarkets is also a challenge in this respect: food labels are very precise in listing possible allergens, but hardly ever mention the GI rating, there is no such thing as a healthy bread roll (I really miss Woolies!), and the only place I could source Xylitol (natural, low-GI sugar substitute) was from an online mail order company.

New Zealanders do other things slightly differently too. The way they speak, for instance. The accent does take some getting used to. Words and phrases also mean different things: 'Cheers' means thanks, not goodbye. A dairy is a corner store. Sweets of any description, even chocolate, are called lollies. And many, many Maori words are incorporated into everyday speech, newspaper and TV news items, and even journal articles, on the assumption that we all know what pakeha, mana, iwi and whanau are. Maya is learning a smattering of Maori at school, but can never remember enough to teach me when she gets home. I am picking up bits and pieces here and there, though, and learning as much as I can about Maori culture from library books etc. Maori culture seems similar in some respects to African traditionalism, with a focus on tradition, heritage, rituals, ancestors, spirituality and extended family bonds. Also not surprising is the erosion of traditional culture by westernisation, with the resultant rise in associated social problems such as unemployment, domestic violence and crime. Genealogy is very important to Maori people and is called whakapappa - in Maori, the 'wh' sound is pronounced as an 'f', so this word is pronounced fuck-a-pappa. I kid you not. There are many, many words that begin with 'whak', which makes the language sound extremely crude to the unaccustomed English ear. Another common word part that South Africans might find interesting is kaka, which pops up frequently too...

So we are getting a truly well-rounded education – from learning about different cultures and new languages, to identifying sheep kaka in the fields. (Must definitely get gumboots.) And since I started taking Max to a mothers’ playgroup on Friday mornings and got to meet a bunch of mothers (mostly Brit ex-pats, interestingly) whose favourite activities are also drinking copious quantities of coffee and wine (depending on the time of day), life is looking up. The weather is even improving – we had our first sunny Sunday braai yesterday, on our stoep with the sea view, using real charcoal (no gas for the boere, fanks), and – naturally – loads of lamb tjops.

Not at all baaaaaaaad.