Out of Mountains @outofmountains-blog - Tumblr Blog

Silver

I work with a young guy, a skinny, smart kid. In Hong Kong, international companies pay at least twice as much as the market pays, and they have a certain hiring profile. They end up with the children of the elites. Kids whose parents own enough property to buy them foreign passports and send them to posh Hong Kong international schools and then overseas for more integration into the culture of the global elite. If you have the money to give your kids that life, then you give it to them.

By the time they graduate from university, they speak English at a native level and perhaps even more importantly, they speak the culture of America and Europe. They get jobs at the kind of place where I work, and it’s all good. They jump on late night calls and travel to the head office in San Francisco or London and they just fit in.

But occasionally there are bright kids who didn’t hit the family background jackpot, who didn’t benefit from international preschool and college in New England, but are smart enough to get the job under their own steam. Maybe they’re brilliant, maybe they have in-demand skills, maybe they just put their mind to it and don’t let anyone stop them.

I work with a few kids like that. If you’ve seen any YouTube videos on average middle class life in Hong Kong and what regular people have to put up with here in terms of living conditions, well, that’s probably their life. That’s all they knows. That’s all most people here know.

Let’s put it this way: there’s no Filipina maid at their houses.

These days, there’s a fire in their eyes. After happy hour, they head to the MTR to join the funnel of angry youth making their way to the protest site du jour.

The children of the elites wax philosophical over imported Belgian beers and fries with mayo, but you won’t see helmets on their heads or masks on their faces.

You get the sense that until a month ago, everyone, including Hongkongers, had written Hong Kong off. The Umbrella Movement of 2014 was a distant memory, and it seemed that full integration on an accelerated timeline was becoming inevitable.

But a funny thing happened on the way to authoritarianism.

As it turns out, the rights and freedoms that Hongkongers enjoy have become central to their identity. If Hong Kong is just another Chinese city, then what sets it apart? What makes it different than China? A free press, freedom of speech, the right to protest.

Central to Hongkongers’ identity are some very un-Beijing values. And when you try to take peoples’ identity away, it pisses them off.

And a month ago, it all blew up.

People looked around, and realized they didn’t want to lose what they have.

They realized they weren’t alone, that there were still seven million of them, and that they had fight left in them.

The common refrain has been that this is “Hong Kong’s last chance.” That if something isn’t done now, it never will be. That this city is so far down the slippery slope to tyranny, there is no climbing back up except for this last collective grasp at the cliff’s edge. That for so, so many, there is no foreign passport to fall back on.

So there is fire in their eyes, and each day after school or work, they stream down into the MTR and head for the next flashpoint, armed with the internet, with information, with minds unpolluted by authoritarian propaganda.

They know the risk, the know the hopelessness of their cause, but they believe in themselves and who they are, and they believe that this is their last chance.

It’s really something to see.

Queen's Birthday

One of the strangest things by far about moving to a new land is getting into the rhythm of new holidays.

This Queen's Birthday, we hired a car and went for a long-weekend scoot around the central North Island. Napier, famous for food, wine and Art Deco architecture, was the highlight.

We had a tramp along cliffside narrow gauge tracks, enjoyed some gorgeous sunsets and one sunrise, and ate a lot.

#new zealand #travel #joyride #sunset #sunrise #elegance

Pants

When you start off in life, you can't wear pants.

Pretty soon you can wear them, but someone has to put them on for you.

Later, you put on your own pants but you throw them on the floor when you go to bed.

Eventually you get old and boring and fold your pants, putting them on the shelf each night. That's where I am now.

What next?

Hong Kong again

I went to bed sick in Taipei, ate a Japanese fast food dinner with Nick Mon, and woke up on an airplane swooping into Auckland. Twelve hours later I was back on a plane, pointed toward Sydney in the too-bright hours of the morning. Played some laser tag in that pretty, expensive Australian city, circled back to Auckland, and one week elapsed. And then, just like that, I was in Hong Kong again.

From Sugar bar on the roof of East Hotel Hong Kong

I came here to play corporate games, which I did at least adequately and sometimes excellently. What never ceases to amaze me about corporate travel is how un-travel it is. I can break corporate travel down into exact percentages of time spend:

30%: air time

30%: meetings

25%: sleeping

7%: cocktails

5%: choreographed meals

3%: cab rides

Note the conspicuous absence of any shred or pretence of experiencing new things, which I had (understandably?) misconstrued as being worthy of at least 20% of trip time. Not so with corporate travel.

The McDonalds of technology, and don't it taste good. What happened to think different?

Where do you stay if you work for Apple? In a one-piece glass box with no air holes? You will suffocate for sure.

face/off

Hong Kong's arteries flow fast and furious with buses, trams, and subways. It's a transportation paradise.

A living breathing place

Unique places have unique problems: political ambiguity, real estate speculation bubbles, impossibly low starting salaries. I ended up in a park near Causeway Bay eating Subway and talking about life with two gentlemen whose current life locations mirror my own, thanks to the introduction very competently given us by a separate and equally interesting person.

On the bleeding edge

We were out on the roof

With the world below us

Having chips and stuffed mushrooms

And burning the roofs of our mouths on the cheese of scrumptious margherita pizza

Underbelly

Is this world anything more than seven billion (at minimum) separate little Gods struggling for supremacy? Remains to be seen.

A match made in heaven

My hotel room was well equipped for a romantic rendezvous.

I thought as I stared dimly out my 19th floor window at the early smoggy twilight.

Back to New Zealand and I'm old again.

Brands

As a kid, I remember going down to Christo's Market with my childhood friend, Dermott, to buy soda and candy. My parents wouldn't let me near that kind of stuff, but at one point Dermott and I realized we could just walk ourselves down there and with a little spare change, get whatever we wanted. I habitually bought Coke and Dermott bought Sprite. One day, looking at his Sprite bottle, I noticed that swirly text: "A Product Of The Coca Cola Company." I was taken aback. Sprite was also Coke? It was too much for my child's brain to comprehend. Today, I work for a multi-brand corporation. We sell the exact same thing (room nights), but in lots of different wrappers. Peoples' tastes and preferences vary wildly, so corporations have to nurture multiple brands to adequately meet the needs of consumers. It's all sugar water, but you can sell more of it if you make it taste a little different going down. What's the point of all this? I don't know, exactly. I guess it's just that I can't believe how much more I know now than I did when I was nine years old. And what that drives home, for me, is that it's incredibly dishonest for corporations to market their products--especially unhealthy products--to kids. They say you can't get a woman to understand something upon which her salary depends on her not understanding. Nonetheless I do wonder if Coke marketers feel a little guilty. I'm glad soda sales are down and I'm grateful to have had parents who kept soda out of the house. It's encouraging that society eventually lashes out against destructive products, and forces them to either change or go away: cigarettes, fast food, soda. I call that progress.

Poor New Zealand

Six(ish) months ago I made the crazy choice to emigrate to a new country far in the South Pacific, where I hoped to find employment, gain experience and a bit more breadth of understanding of the world, and seek my fortune. The first two have been going pretty well. The third one? Not so much. Every day I come home and my Italian flatmate and I gripe about how damn expensive everything is in New Zealand, and how hard it is to save money. Yet he's a talented software engineer and I work for a big multinational corporation with deep pockets. How are two guys like us barely scraping by? I set out to find out, and here's what I came up with: A perfect storm of three conditions exist in New Zealand which, taken together, contribute to its status as a place uniquely penniless among its OECD peers. 1) Crippling Brain Drain. This is the absolute worst nightmare for an advanced, services and technology-based economy. All good things economique flow from doctors, lawyers, entrepreneurs, and teachers. A debilitating chunk of these native assets flee New Zealand, mostly to Australia but also to the UK and Europe, to cash in on easy work papers and high wages. NZ and Australia are independent but joined at the hip, and it's a decidedly dysfunctional relationship. New Zealand loses all its value generators to Australia, where they work hard and save or send money back home, therefore putting all their value generation in Australia's economy, and injecting a bit of too-little-too-late short term cash in New Zealand's. It's a nasty arrangement and an unshakable relic of the bond the countries share. 2) Regressive Tax System. The high GST ("sales tax," we Americans call it) in New Zealand is not only exorbitant, but applied to everything, even groceries and private health care, and legally must be included in the price, so that you don't even know you're paying it. When I first got here I thought it was great that there was no sales tax! Wrong. It's 15% on everything. And income tax rates are not that high, especially in high income brackets and when compared to other OECD countries, meaning that the overall tax system is very regressive. Which leads directly to... 3) Welfare State. I'm all for a little homegrown socialism, don't get me wrong. But the regressive tax system in New Zealand has the effect of discouraging people without much earning potential from working as much as they would if it was less regressive. I'll never forget my mother's story about the library ladies in Tracy, CA who would work right up to $4,400 each year, the amount of their personal deduction, and then stop! There is no personal deduction in NZ; income tax is 10% right from $0 earned, so some of those library ladies, were they Kiwis, might simply choose to not work. The aggregate effect of that lost work on the economy could be huge. In NZ, that effect would be forfeited, and what's more, the non-workers would unsurprisingly be clamoring for welfare as a result of their effective $4,400 deficit. And they would get the welfare--it would pull straight from the regressive tax system. Result? Lost value in the economy, more tax strain on low earners but some scooting by on welfare. Not exactly a socially optimal outcome. All this adds up to this outsider basically feeling sorry for New Zealand. It's such an awesome country, with insane rugged beauty, amazing cafe culture, and truly unique design sensibility and local companies. But I feel like the systemic weaknesses of the economy's setup have really left Kiwis (those who are still here...) with the short end of the stick. And two poor Italian/American guys. Poor New Zealand.

Warm Christmas Shennanigans

"Is this your first Warm Christmas?" asked every Kiwi in New Zealand, eyes wide, over the past few weeks. "Yes," I would answer dutifully, "it's so strange! Where is the snow? I am so frightened! A small change in relative seasonality is really too much for my narrow American mind to handle. How glorious to experience something so life-changing as Warm Christmas, and thanks be to you and your great country for bestowing this graciousness upon me and my limited understanding of the world!" What I should have said is, "well, the thing about Warm Christmas is that it's just summer, but at a different time of year. I have experienced warm weather before, and I have experienced Christmas, so Warm Christmas is really just like if you've eaten peas and you've eaten carrots and then you eat peas and carrots together." The first answer got broad, welcoming smiles. The second, fearful glances and backing away. An even stranger thing happened recently at the doctor's office. I was getting my prescriptions localized and the doctor sort of turned to me: "I've always found Americans to be so smart. Something in the education system, I suppose? You all seem very knowledgeable about medical matters. What can we chalk it up to, hmm..." he trailed off, fiddling with his computer. I didn't quite know what to say. I'd never heard a doctor talk this way. "Ha ha ha," I chuckled awkwardly, "yep, sure are. Pretty smart. Education. Took six years of Latin. Ho hum." Was he indirectly cutting me down to size? Do I suffer from Tall Poppy Syndrome? Am I supposed to feign ignorance when it comes to intraocular pressure and corneal scratching? And why do I still, suspiciously, not know the rules of rugby? Or is he genuinely impressed by the sum intelligence of all the Americans he's ever met? Or, was it a masked warning about Kiwi lack of brainpower? And how, I wondered, could I be having so many confusing cultural experiences in a country which was supposedly a fellow English colony? Though they still have a Queen. Meanwhile, outside, it was Christmas. And it was Warm. Here are some of the things you can do on a Warm Christmas.

Gangnam and Samsung

I am literally rocked to the core by South Korea. Here is a country that was colonized by Japan for the better part of the first half of the 20th century, ravaged by the conflict--World War II--that brought the empire down, and then re-ravaged less than a decade later, literally pushed farther toward oblivion than any state ever has been, by the proxy war of two feuding titan superpowers. Fast forward a mere 50 years: enter Samsung and Gangnam Style. Samsung is an enormous, shockingly successful company. Yeah, we get it. Asian country, huge conglomerate corporation with crazy-long hours and employee housing takes over the world. We've seen this movie before. It's called Mitsubishi. It's called Toyota. It's called Sony. They all got huger than huge and in their respective heydays went head-to-head with the best firms of the U.S. and Europe, and often came out clearly on top, with products like the Discman and Corolla. Samsung pretty much fits that mold, but we shouldn't underestimate the significance of what it has done. Up until recently, Japan was the only country outside of Europe and North America that had produced firms with complete global reach and penetration. Now, because of Samsung, South Korea is also in that club. But the truly startling thing about this tiny peninsular nation is Gangnam Style. Yeah, it's a phenomenon, I've heard that. It's a one-time thing, right. I don't believe that for a second. Korea has a genuinely innovative cultural product, and Gangnam Style is the proof in the pudding. It's closing in on being the first video ever to reach a billion views on Youtube, the American video site. The insane thing about Gangnam Style is that it is a cultural product which has actually exceeded the popularity of any one product from any other country, ever. It is the most popular thing to ever happen, in terms of human pairs of eyes which have spent three minutes on it. And they aren't all Korean eyes. Hundreds of millions of them are American eyes. What does this all mean? America is still the world leader in overall cultural soft power, decidedly (think Hollywood and McDonald's). But South Korea has produced a cultural and economic offering which, taken together, amount to what I would argue is more global influence than any other country except the U.S. has exerted in the past half century (if you forget about the Beatles and Rolling Stones for just a minute). And it's just the beginning. Look out for South Korea. What this tiny war-torn nation has done literally rocks me to the core.

Life of a twenty-first century corporate drone

Beautiful people, the 2010s have come, and I'm here to tell you: it's not all neckties and TPS reports. In my life I have worn many clothes: from knee-socked Dinotopia reader in a ghetto elementary school to stud-belted ska kid to cowboy-hatted marching band geek to Chinese-textbook-laden Taiwan scholarship student, I have pretty much seen it all. And now I'm something totally different: a tiny little piece of a profitable, innovative, multinational corporation. I am microscopic, a literal cog in the Great Machine that is capitalism. But there I am, spinning away, day after day, nine to five-thirty, in an expensive, trendy, well-maintained downtown office. The rhythm that comes with life in the Corporaverse is pleasant. There is the occasional 9pm call (thanks Singapore head office for always forgetting about tiny, unimportant New Zealand), but in principle I can rely on evenings and weekends totally free of homework, which is a first in my life. But there's a downside, too: working owns your life. And sooner or later you have to start thinking about the big questions: what am I doing? What do I want to accomplish? What do I want to make? On top of these idealistic whispers in the back of one's mind is the consideration of life's practicalities (rent, airfare home, food) and the constant fear of becoming obsolete and irrelevant to society. Finally, there is the question of competition. The world is undeniably competitive, and yes, there are winners and losers--for better or for worse. Which am I? Competition has always left a bit of a sour taste in my mouth.

Sydney Photostream

In early September I spent two weeks of corporate training in Sydney, Australia and stole the weekend to do a walking exploration of the coast, starting from Bondi Beach. Here's a photostream.

Extraordinarily redonkulous pictures of New Hobbitland

AS PROMISED: A BLOG POST. And it's about a 5-day getaway to New Zealand's South Island, starring Johhny Appleseed and Vanna White (real names disguised for contractual confidentiality reasons). It happened eight weeks before this writing and thus the exact chronology of events is getting hazy in the writer's mind. Historical accuracy is by no means guaranteed. Where do we even start? From the beginning, of course. On 30 July, Johnny (hereafter "Mr Appleseed") left the United States (again, sorry mum and pop!) on a haphazard, scatter-brained attempt to reunite with Vanna White. He had no job, no home, and no prospects. Before departure, yes, he had thrown a few appleseeds out into the summer breeze, hoping that some would take root... but the possibility looked remote. In short order things turned around. Within two weeks of Mr Appleseed's arrival in New Hobbitland (hereafter rendered as Nova Zeeland, in preservation of the original Roman spelling; or as Aotorea, in preservation of indigenous Maori usage), he had secured employment for an unscrupulous organization known to operate in the shadow world f tubes and wires which arose on Planet Earth during the latter part of the twentieth century. This organization is known only as Eh-ku-speedy-ah (exact spelling unknown). Finally back in the arms of Vanna White, and with his contractual servitude so close to starting, Mr Appleseed immediately set his sights on the fabled Southern Island of Nova Zeeland. The following is an account of what transpired. DAY 1: Extreme joy and high spirits The two travelers set out in the early morning from the northern isthmus known in the native tongue as she who is desired by many tribes, or, in common English, Auckland. A dragon chartered by Air New Zealand carried them to the Southern Island, and on arrival they rented a campervan. That day they set out in high spirits from Christchurch over the high mountains that snake down the island and form its central, north-south spine. It was a joyful day, with rations still in plentiful supply and camera memory cards not yet filled.

An ancient aqueduct, perhaps constructed during the glory days of the Southern Roman Empire

Vanna White strikes out barefoot across the harsh southern landscape on a mission of reconnaissance and subterfuge

"This land is our land" -ancient proverb

Boulders fallen from the sky and smashed to pieces on landing

Our home in this hostile place

DAY 2: A dark cloud gathers To paraphrase the central message of an ancient Maori parable: "he who slays a Moa bird with his bare hands will thereafter have hands covered in feathers." The following pictures will explain in more detail.

Ranger Brad

DAY 3, 4 and 5: Ranger brad joins the party and the writer of this post runs out of steam Three strong, Mr Appleseed, Vanna White and Ranger Brad journeyed south along the coast, through sparsely populated lands. Many hobbits were encountered, and an unfortunate tour group bus was overtaken by sheep and never seen again.

In the end it was deemed a successful journey, though several hobbit kiwifruit cartels would spend the next few years losing valuable fruit market share to the apple communes that sprung up in the countryside as a result of Johnny Appleseed's efforts. Johhny and Vanna returned, refreshed and amazed, to the land known only as she who is desired by many tribes. Vanna returned to her her studies and Johnny set out on a series of trips around the Southern Hemisphere which have not yet been completed. Tales of those travels will surely follow...

The pipeline

Heaps of posts in the pipeline right now! Next post coming is about my campervan trip down to the South Island. Right now I'm in Sydney, having just finished my first week of training for my new job, which is quite exciting, but also gives me not much time to think about the blog. Posts coming soon about Sydney, my Malaysia trip coming up in two weeks, and maybe even a bit about work. Very busy time.

NZ Coffee Shops

So this is my first time blogging from my iPod. Excuse the brevity; I just have to relay a quick, funny story. I checked out of my hostel in Christchurch this morning and came to a cafe down the street to have a coffee and wait for my flight later in the afternoon. I got here around 10 and the place was packed. Kiwis seem to either not work from 9 to noonish, or to utilize cafes as a place to do business. It's probably the latter. One strange thing I've noticed about cafes here is that I usually seem to be the only person sitting on my own reading and studying. Everyone else uses the neighborhood cafe as a place to meet. And it's never a Starbucks. You just don't see tables of people alone with their laptops here. It's noisier, friendlier. Around eleven the place started to empty out, and a worker guy came in and sat down alone at the table next to mine. A few minutes later a friend, another worker guy, joined him, and they ordered breakfast. Something artsy: benedict, interesting bread, little designer salads. The place is called Bean Scene, after all, and the music is experimental/ambient, the decor edgy and hip. One of the staff brought over their breakfasts and the following encounter ensued: Staff girl: "I'm glad to see you two branching out. This is a mocha, which is a coffee with chocolate [places mocha in front of one guy]. And this is a flat white, which is a coffee without chocolate [flat white is a ubiquitous coffee drink in NZ]." She walked away, still totally deadpan, and the two guys plus the other remaining customers in the cafe burst out laughing. These guys are regulars, I realized. They get the same damn thing every day. This led me to two quick realizations about Kiwis: 1) Profession as a means of class stratification is not meaningful here. Worker guys as regulars in a hip cafe joint? No problem. 2) Kiwi humor is insanely dry. Like some forsaken desert. Sydney on Monday for me, and my first day at work.

Into Mountains

Note: this is a flashback post to a 3-day solo trip I did through the White Mountains a few weeks ago, just before leaving the States. I was on the edge of a cliff: behind me lay the rolling pastures of 18 and a half years of formal education. I had been sitting around, somewhat restless, in Base Camp: Roslindale for the better part of two months. I felt that those two months had consisted mostly of me assessing those 18 and a half years, and then walking up to the very edge of the cliff, sitting down, and dipping my feet into the expanse. I started to feel the warm water of a career lapping at my toes. I thought of my blog and its namesake, the mountains from which I had been running all these years. From that moment, one thing was crystal clear: I must go back into mountains. Thus began the most epic 72-hour tramp in the history of the dangerously well-maintained, hut-supported Presidential section of the Appalachian Trail. Yes, I would be going where tens of thousands of men and women had gone before, where fathers take their whining 7-year-old sons, where you can get a hot meal prepared by someone else and modern accommodation for a reasonable price. I would be going to the most extreme(ly civilized) alpine environment on Earth: the White Mountains. And I'd be doing it in the middle of July. Unthinkable! They said it couldn't be done. They said it shouldn't be done. Were they right? Naturally, an expedition of this scope would require a level of provisioning commensurate to the scale of the undertaking. My dear mother was particularly cooperative on that front, handing me bag after bag of fruit and trail mix and sandwiches, in the faint hope that such slim rations would carry me through the entire 72-hour ordeal. "One more bunch of bananas or I'm not driving you to New Hampshire!"

Mother and son bonded in the car ride to Crawford Notch, enjoying each other's company. In the last moments a certain member of the expedition team forgot his map in his mom's convertible. A moment later it was thrust into his hands, with a 24-oz T-bone steak slipped surreptitiously into its folds.

I set out in the early afternoon, for a quick and uneventful hike up through the trees to Mitzpah Hut, which sits just below treeline on the slope of Mt Pierce. I camped at the tentsite next to the hut and listened longingly to the merrymaking inside. How I longed to be one of those merry folks, bathing in the glory of a meal carried up the mountain and prepared for them! Alas, mine is but the life of a peasant... The next morning I set off early, planning a 10-mile day past Lakes of the Clouds, over Washington, and down to a shelter known forbiddingly as "The Perch." The Perch of what, I wondered aloud, with no other beings around for miles. The Perch of the Disgruntled Raven, perhaps, who watches you all night and then gnaws your eyes out during the middle of your happiest dream? Or The Perch of a Fire-Spitting Dragon? Or maybe The Perch of The Invisible Shadow Squirrels of the White Mountains. I bared my teeth and continued off on my folly-laden journey.

Late in the morning a torrential rain started to fall, just as I came over the summit of Mt Eisenhower, the towering peak in the foreground of the above photo-graph. I quickly donned my rain gear and hurried down the other side of the mountain to safety. Nearly blinded by hurricane-force winds and glancing blows from the rain-bullets, I trudged several hours later into the relative safety of Lakes of the Clouds huts. Here I was faced by a question of life-and-death significance: should I continue, or stay in the hut, wasting years of peasant savings? Financial insecurity pushed me out the door and back into the wild. Fearing the worst weather in the world, I dodged Mt Washington and instead skirted the peak on Westside Path, a 1.5-mile go-around. Near the end of the path, about to meet back up with the Trailum Appalachiana, I was stopped in my tracks by an infernal screeching emanating from the impenetrable blanket of fog in front of me. What devilish trickery was this? What unknown horror lay behind the veil? It turned out to be some sinister contraption molded from the very metals of the earth! How such a thing had come to exist, it was beyond the faculty of my simple mind to imagine.

Ill tidings were writ large in the sky for the rest of the afternoon. The mask of fog never lifted and as my legs grey weary my mind began to imagine the deadly thunderstorms charging invisibly toward me, a lone adventurer on an exposed alpine ridge, a few hours in every direction from tree cover. Eventually, near the ominous outline of Mt Jefferson, I happened to pass another solo traveler on the mountain. He was treading the path I had already covered, and he brought news of others who had already been turned back by the foul weather and unholy omens. This only strengthened my resolve to press on into the impossible. Near dusk I split off from the Trailum Appalachiana and headed straight down the ridge toward treeline and the relative safety of The Perch. That night I held Dragons off alone, but Shadow Squirrels somehow gained access to my Bear Bag and consumed an unhealthy amount of M&Ms. I wished foul sickness upon them! The following day I set off early up the ridge and rejoined the Trailum. My legs already weary from two days of trekking, I struggled on until just before noon, when the infernal fog finally lifted, and the welcome sight of Madison Hut greeted me, nestled snugly in the notch between the fearsome peaks of Adams and Madison.

I permitted myself a stopover of only a few minutes in the warm hut, and quickly pressed on over the peak of Mt Madison, careful not to linger. I scanned the skies for signs of thunderous death and, seeing none, began my charge down into the trees. A full three hours of clambering painfully down the boulderfield ensued. Finally I reached the treeline, and carefully tempered my relief at again being on a dirt track with a cautious vigilance for Murderous Bears.

After several more hours of trotting down dirt paths, the trail finally leveled out, and I began a frantic run to Joe Dodge Lodge at Pinkham Notch, hoping to score some serious night time chow and blow a Bennie on a soft bed with hot breakfast and dinner included. The next morning would see me buying what the people here call a "ticket" for a "bus," which would whisk me at unimaginable speeds toward a place of untold glory and wonder. Around here, they are careful to only speak of this place in hushed tones. After a night of careful observation, I finally discovered its frightening name: Boston.

Arrival in Auckland

Yes, you're still on Henry's blog, OUT OF MOUNTAINS. My staff has advised me that I better come on up into the 21st century and that black backgrounds hurt their eyes. So here we are. Two weeks have elapsed since my arrival in Auckland, NZ. It was a normal flight: I sat next to an Australian chemical plant worker who had lived in the U.S. for 37 years and assured me it was a great country. "Okay, thanks for the tip..." I thought, watching the California coast drift out of sight from the tiny airplane window. We came into Auckland in the very early morning, just after sunrise. The early morning is a beautiful time in Auckland. The aircraft swooped down low over the haborfront downtown, and the air was so clear you could practically see joggers on the streets below. Then we went out over the suburbs and the range of forested hills to the west, flying out over the west coast and circling around over the sea. A 180 degree turnaround brought us back into the southern fringe of the Auckland area for a smooth landing on the damp runway. It was a still morning, and the not-quite-full plane of people were all well-rested and low-key. No loud talking, no pushing to get off. Immigration was no problem, they liked my hard-won visa, and customs checked out and checked off on my boots. I came out into the terminal and there was Zhenai waiting for me. It was strange to see each other again after two months apart... almost like a first date. But within fifteen minutes we were back to our old selves.

Everything I brought to the Southern Wilds

We rode the bus back into town and I spent the first few days getting used to the city, by means of early morning hour-long walks and a cafe tour with my Chinese textbooks. Here's some interesting information: when I came to NZ, I did not have a job. I had a very good work visa (which I was extremely fortunate to get) and I had had two phone interviews with a dream-job type employer. But they hadn't contacted me in almost two weeks as they looked into my visa type, so I felt that that very well might not work out. The first day I arrived, I finally got progressed to another interview. The first week I went to meet the person who will be my boss face-to-face. Within two weeks I had an offer. In Chinese that's called shun li. Smooth sailing. Auckland is quite a wild place. Other than Singapore and perhaps Hong Kong, I don't know if I've ever been to such a multicultural place. There are European Kiwis, Maori, Chinese, Taiwanese, Japanese, Indians, Turks, Arabs, Pacific Islanders, Mexicans, Americans, Mexican-Americans, Thais, Malaysians, Vietnamese, Europeans; everyone seems to have a stake here. And everyone is visible: on any given street you can probably find a restaurant from each of those places, run by people from there. Really remarkable. Most of my time so far has been here in Auckland, and so it will remain. The real beauty of New Zealand, of course, is in the wider country, and especially the South Island. So my first weekend we rented a car and drove up north. The beauty of this place is truly epic; it's all it's cracked up to be and then some, and it really makes the old adage "gotta see it to believe it" ring true.

This picture can't even begin to capture the awe of the sky, sea and land that we saw coming down off this hill. I need a DSLR!

Zhenai on one of the ubiquitous car ferries; drive on for $15 and drive off five minutes later on the other side of an otherwise impassable bay

A small waterfall we hiked to, with rainbow

On the beach

In just two days on this mini-trip, we merely wandered around and found some amazingly beautiful places. I don't have pictures of any of the best ones. Better come visit! We also went to see some movies at the New Zealand Film Festival, which was wrapping up the week I arrived. It was a great way to see some of Auckland's theatres, including some historical but oddly appointed ones.

At the Civic Theatre on my third day in Auckland

That just about brings us up to date. We're leaving on Friday for a quick 5-day trip around part of the South Island, for which we are very excited. Should see some great wintertime things, cook in the campervan, and it even has an iPod hookup! Very cool, New Zealand. Bonus points for auxiliary inputs on your campervans. I start work in two weeks. First up I have to report to Sydney HQ for two weeks of training, and then a week in Malaysia for a tropical conference. Pretty awesome way to start a job, if you ask me. Then I'll be in Auckland for the duration, hopefully with a bit of traveling around for work stuff. The exact job I'm doing is revenue management and inventory control for an online travel agency. You know, a lot of spreadsheets and stuff. I'll try to talk more about my thoughts about work and what it means to switch from a student life to a career life in a future post. There are some very interesting themes there. And in general I will try to be a Better Blogger in NZ. The last year I have been slacking. Stay tuned!

#reunion #new zealand #work #travel

Manila Sky

This post is a flashback to late January.

Victoria and I left Puerto Princessa, Philippines together, en route to Singapore. We had an overnight layover in Manila, and on the plane we plotted. Manila, we'd heard, was big, wild, schizophrenic, muddled, and maybe even a little dangerous. Someone had told us about a mythical place, almost legendary in its shroud of mystery and probable inaccessibility: The Mall of Asia. It was rumored to be the very biggest mall in Asia, perhaps in the world.

As our plane touched down in Manila on Saturday evening and that Philippine air started to stream into the cabin, we knew one thing: we were embarking on a quest of discovery, a quest that would lead us to the heart of this sweltering chain of islands.

Outside the airport we were met with chaos. Jeepneys, taxis and private cars all rumbled around what must have been pick-up/drop-off zones in a confused jumble, like one-celled organisms in the primordial soup. The sun was almost down and Manila felt, to me, a little sinister. A few hustlers came up and tried to cheat us with various ploys. I cast about for order, officials, control, taxi stands, anything, but all I saw was the dull neon of various chain restaurants, both known and unknown, the only light to a darkening dusk, and ragtag groups of suspicious-looking men standing in circles and talking in hushed tones. Manila felt like the Los Angeles of a dark film noir, the indignity and lack of scruples visible in the air.

My companion and I went over our options. We could return to the relative safety and order of the terminal, curl up in a corner, and wait for our morning bird. Or we could go out into the wild, into a dark and chaotic city of millions in which we'd never before set foot. Which would it be?

At the last moment, at the end of the block, we found a Grand Am taxi from the 80s which seemed the safest bet. The driver welcomed us with a toothy grin and gleaming eyes. "Where to?" "The Mall of Asia," we said in unison. "Hop in."

We streamed past the blazing neon along a highway, bursts of Hispania coming in through the windows: music, the smell of food, glimpses of dilapidated third-world neighborhoods. Victoria stared off out the window, her eyes glazing over.

And then, suddenly, there it was in front of us: The Mall of Asia. Our driver pointed it out and swung inside. We zoomed past a massive globe-shaped waterfall and all kinds of stores. The Mall was made up of many buildings, connected by a series of roads and plazas. Finally we were dropped off at the edge of a string of free-standing restaurants along the water. Victoria climbed out of the taxi and I got out after her, taking it all in: the palm trees, gaggles of teenagers, well-off families in huge luxury SUVs, waterfront restaurant patios. It was too much. Definitely too much.

So what did we do, two lost Americans shipwrecked at the Mall of Asia for a 12-hour layover in Manila? Beeline to Hooters. Torie had a stringy, dry chicken sandwich, and I had a greasy, undercooked hamburger. Nasty stuff. A hostile wilderness.

But then our fortune changed. Stumbling out of Hooters and walking south along the quay, we came upon something remarkable: an outdoor Katy Perry concert. We teeny-bopped for a while, but the concert ended soon. Forty-five minutes of Katy Perry in Manila for forty-five dollars. Fortunately, we didn't pay: we just looked in over the wall with all the other leechers and ragamuffins.

After that we went and explored the carnivalesque land on the pier. There were street performers, carousels, popcorn stands, and so on. It was well past midnight, but everything was still open and moving. A midget in a gold suit was performing some arcane act and had gathered a huge crowd. When he set eyes on me, he immediately beckoned me forward to do his bidding. Finally I ended up with him on my shoulders, and now I am a feature of many Filipino photo albums.

Our quest was starting to feel complete. We had Hooted, Katy'd, and Midget'd. Eventually we both set our backpacks down on a curb and curled up in exhaustion for a few hours of rest on the streets. The air wasn't feeling so hostile anymore, and the vast night sky had lost its twinge of sinister foreboding. I looked over at Victoria, already asleep, and felt a deep happiness at having such a good friend by my side. Glancing around, it was already clear that the gaudiness of The Mall, next to all that poverty, wasn't really all that objectionable. The hustlers of Manila weren't all that different from everyone else in the world who tries to work their way up.

And as I closed my eyes, I still knew I was in a foreign land. But I felt a little better than in those first moments after walking out of the airport. The dawn line, a hint of the coming sun, was already visible on the horizon, and it felt not ominous but warm and welcoming. This was no malevolent film noir--it was just a movie I hadn't seen before.

A few hours later we were back at the airport, on our bird, zooming down an early morning runway, into the sky, on to Singapore.

Tangled threads of fuzzy twine

Last night I sat down for a light dinner about an hour before the third round of Skype interviews I have been enduring for a job in Auckland, New Zealand. I decided to have a bagel with cream cheese and an apple. Peeling the sticker off the apple, I squinted in surprise. Scrawled there in small, colorful letters were the words "Product of New Zealand." There I was, 9,026 miles from the place where the apple in my hand was grown. And I was about to eat it. And then talk to someone, semi-face-to-face, who is thinking about giving me a job somewhere near that apple's orchard. Can you see the countless threads of fuzzy twine that bind the modern world together? Sometimes they get all tangled up.

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