Classes

Okay, so I've talked about the school system here at Massey, now it's time to talk about my actual classes. I'm only allowed to take four (some weird international student requirement where they think we should be outside exploring something instead of just doing homework - I don't get it, but that's just the way the cookie crumbles. Ummmm, I hope it's chocolate chip. . .)
The four classes I'm taking: Post-Colonial literature, Chinese Film, Maori Language, and Greek Mythology. It's just easier to talk about 'em independantly.

Post-Colonial Literature: I took this one because I think it may (just maybe) count towards a graduation requirement back at UNR. It so, then it has the distinction of being the sole class in my entire schedule that does. Yay. Also, I figured, hell, I'm in a colony, is there possibly a better place to take a post-colonial literature class? No, of course there's not. So here I am.

I thought that maybe I would read a bit of New-Zealand literature, ya' know, get a taste for the national identity. I was wrong. It turns out that my teacher is an Irishman, so we've spent this whole semester reading works by different Irish authors, which is actually pretty awesome, but it's not as Kiwi as I'd initially hoped. That being said, It's really my favorite class, the people in there are pretty awesome, the teacher's a good Southern Irishman, and I've learned a lot about Irish literature. I have to write two 1500 word essays and take a final. That's it.

Chinese Film: I chose this class because, as I said before, the way they have of setting up timetables at this university is re-goddamn-tarded. Seriously, I figured out my schedule for UNR fall semester today, it took about 20 minutes. Here, it took me two and a half hourse to find a class that didn't conflict with the other three that I definitely wanted to take-chinese film.

The class itself is not exactly riveting. We sit down, have a "discussion" (the quotes are quite necessary) about last week's movie, watch another niche chinese film, and leave. I say "discussion" because the teacher has this habit of taking any question aksed to him, answering the first word of the question, namely "why" or "what" and answering a completely different question for about 15 minutes. Oh, and usually "discussion" implies more than one person talking. Usually. Again, that said, I know a lot of useless information about the fifth generation of chinese film makers, and I've seen a lot of "important" chinese films that I'd never heard of before. Let's see if you can recognize any of these: Yellow Earth, Hibiscus Town, Life on a String, and Horse Thief. Yeah, didn't think so. All that's due in this class is one 1500-2000 word essay, a midterm, and a final.

Maori Language: I took this class because I figured, rightly so, that I would never be able to take this class anywhere else. Also, what better way is there to get into a cultural identity than through their language? So I took this class.

It's been totally worthwhile thusfar, I've learned how to say a lot of really basic things in te reo Maori, and it always feels really good to learn another language. It opens up unique pathways in the brain that are difficult to activate in any other fashion. It's probably been my second favorite class thusfar this semseter. I have two assignments consisting of written, oral, and listening portions, and a final.

Greek Mythology: I've had a passion for Greek Mythology for almost as long as I can remember. I've been actively reading mythology books since I was in third grade and before; it's one subject that I actively, passionately adore. So I thought it was like Christmas when an actual class was offered on one of my few passsionate subjects. My how fleeting hope is in the heart of the young.

I went to the first two classes before I realized that Phoebus had no hidden knowledge from me in this class. A trip to Delphi would benefit me naught if I were to ask questions pertaining to the material. In other words, I basically know this class already. Thus I've taken my perogative to attend every other class, and each one of those that I attend I could probably teach. Unfortunately, my conscience will not permit me to skip the class altogether. So I continue to show up, bored to tears, but feeling better on the inside. It's not that the teacher is bad either, it's just that the class is rediculously easy and therefore boring. I have to write two 1000 word essays and take a final for this class.

So there you go, my classes in summation. None of them are even slightly work intensive, but still the Kiwis here at the college stress out over 1500 word essays. It's simply astounding to me that they think that's a lot of writing. Honestly, I can't wait until I get back and can take real classes that make me work. Or at the very least, classes that make me feel like I'm learning something.

Butko out.

Climbing: Part Last

So, after the hippy chili and the American drinking games, we walked a little distance down the road to a campsite where Matt had set up a campfire. I sat by the fire and watched as everybody and their dog got drunk and hilarious. Sadly, the drunken shenanigans weren't nearly as awesome as I would have hoped, I mean, what equation is better than drunks+fire=shenanigans? But we all sat around the fire, talked, sang, listened to Matt play his digeridoo, and a truly awesome time was had by all.

Me playing with the fireworks setting on my camera:

By 2:00 or so, everybody was either too liquored up or too tired to continue, and we all left to our respective places of residence: some just brought their sleeping bags with them and slept under the stars, some smarter individuals had brought tents to sleep in, and one very stubborn individual made his lonesome way back up the hill to the Wool shed. Yeah, that was me. Now, it's a simple walk from the campsite to the Wool shed in daylight, you start near the rock walls we climbed during the day, walk upwards along a white gravel path, open a gate, walk some more, jump two more gates into a cow paddock, cross the street, ascend another hill, and you end up at the Wool shed. Easy. Seriously. By Day. By night, on the other hand, it becomes somewhat more difficult, especially with a new moon. The only thing I could see as I attempted to walk home was the white gravel of the road, everything else was effectively black. Honestly, this was no problem, I rather enjoyed it; looking at the stars, alone, walking in the dark just thinking about nothing in particular. The tranquility was sadly brief. As I entered the cow paddock I remembered what somebody else had told me earlier, that these weren't cows, they were bulls, half-castrated so that they had no horns and a "happy" disposition. I like to think of them as half cow/half bull crossbreeds, becuase these were not exactly complacent animals. "Whatever," I thought, "they'll all be asleep and I'll just waltz on past 'em." It worked until I noticed that there was a cow just to the left of the gravel road. The great thing about gravel, of course, is that it's rather loud to walk on. So I got within about two meters of the cow/bull, and it stood up and stared at me. I stared at it. It made a muffled, angry "moo." I took one step closer to guage its intentions. It took one step closer to me and made a less muffled, more obviously agressive "moo."

I walked around the cowbull paddock, returned to the Wool shed, and went to sleep.

Earlier I promised to rant about the climbing rating systems. I think now's a good time to do so.

American: So, one day two climbers were out climbing a rock. They got to the top and decided that the climb they had just done was the most difficult climb in the world. So, logically, they called it a 5.10 (there's a reason for the 5 but I don't know it), and they would rate other climbs with respect to the highest possible difficulty, the 1o. Then another group of climbers went climbing and realized that the rock face they had just surmounted was more difficult than the climb the other guys had called a 5.10. So they called that climb a 5.11. Another group climbed another climb, harder than the first, but less difficult than the second. And thus the 5.10 a,b,c, and d were born. This retarded process has continued increasing ratings up to the 5.14d.

Australian/New Zealand: Unlike the dumb yanks, they decided that their system would start at 1, and continue with climbs that can be done without the use of the hands (stairs, etc.) up to a 10, after that point the use of hands is required. The climbs that I did roughly correspond to a 5.7, 5.8, and a 5.9 bordering on a 5.10. Nothing impressive, but quite fun nonetheless.

English/French: I know very little about them except that both systems are effectively the same, but the French started a little lower than the English, just to be different.

In case you can't tell, I rather prefer the Aussie system over the American system, mostly because it makes sense to start difficulties at one and do one point increments. It's really, really arbitrary and dumb to start at ten, add letters, and then decide to jump up one number after four letters. Bah.

Here's the wall that I climbed the second day, it's called Frogatt Edge. We had less time to climb on Sunday because some, admittedly bizzare, people preferred doing their homework for monday and getting to sleep before 2:00 over climbing up a steep rock-face. Weirdos. Oh, and they said something about being sore from climbing on Saturday, I don't understand 'em.

This climb was a 14, but it has the distinction of being the first route that I've ever lead-climbed. It's sort of a coming of age thing for a climber, it's like turning 16 and driving a car, or turning 25 and being able to rent a car. I did it without difficulties, and now when I get back to the states, I can lead-climb! Hooray!

This route was a 16, but it was really, really fun. Climbers like to name their routes cute or poignant names, this one's called "White Christmas." It was just chock full of really fun little balance and control moves and it had nice hand-holds if you could get yourself into the proper, contorted position.


This route was a both a 16 and an 18, one face of the rock was a 16, but the person who ran the rope ran it off of the wrong side of the rock, so you were forced to climb the 18 side of the rock face after the first half of the climb. We just called it a 17. No cute name for our hybrid climb, I'm afraid.

This climb I didn't get to do because we ran out of time. It was only an 18 with jugs everywhere, but it was a really, really long climb, so everybody spoke of it with a tone of reverence, or at least of respect. It's called "Terra Incognito."


And, for those of you who enjoy this kind of thing, here are some pictures of the second day's surrounding countryside:


After saying goodbye to the rock and shedding a single tear, we drove to Taupo, to take a quick bath in the geothermal hot springs that you can bathe in for free. But before we got to the hot springs, our driver, Jeremy, asked if we would like to look at Huka falls. Naturally, I said yes. The falls have a spectacular shade of blue that's nearly impossible to describe; it's as if tropical waters were stolen from the Carribean, filled with a brilliant cerulean dye, then dropped into a clear mountain stream to cascade, brilliant and singular, in the form of a forgotten waterfall. I thought they were pretty.

Apparently there were boat tours of the river and the falls as well, they may be worth looking into in the future. . .

After that, we finished our jaunt to Taupo, and the geothermal hot springs. Before I talk about that, however, how's about some pictures of Taupo?

The hot springs were pretty awesome. The source of the hot spring begins right next to the river, runs into some naturally forming pools (which make awesome seats), and flows into the river right next to it. So, within about 4 feet you have the option of sitting in Hot-Tub hot water, cold mountain river water, or a mixture of the two. I, being the person that I am, took the middle path, mostly because it was awesome getting both extremes battering your body at the same time. We bathed there, let the hot water cleanse our wounds, got out of the beautiful water, dressed, had some Subway, and drove back to Palmerston North, ending three days of awesome climbing, and even more awesome times.

Real Climbing! Part 1.

Remember way back when I jumped off of a bridge? Well, this last weekend I took another trip with the Massey Univeristy Alping Club. This time, however, the point was not to jump off of a tall edifice, but rather to ascend one. In other words, I went rock climbing!

We met on Friday night at 5 o'clockish PM, got organized, divided into differening vehicles for the upcoming 5 or so hour drive to Wharepapa South to climb a rock wall. Naturally, since everybody there was a hippy rock-climber, it took about an hour and a half to get organized enough to actually leave the parking lot. I rode in a car with a Kiwi named Jeremy and three other Americans, Amy, Erica, and Alex. There was all manner of shenanigans occuring in the back seat, but since we were mostly all lazy Americans, as soon as it got dark, the back seat was out cold. Jeremy and I talked, comparing our respective countries, and after two stops (in Turangi and Putaruru) we finally ended up where we were going to stay. A Sheep-Shearing-Shed:

Anyways, we arrived there at about 1 AM, but I was really just jazzed to be going out climbing, so I had waaay to much energy coursing through my little veins to actually go to bed. So I recruited Alex and Erica (the two who rode in the car with me) and Clayton (an awesome climbing Kiwi) and we took a walk in near pitch black night through farming pastures talking and star-gazing. A good time was had by all. By the time we got back, I was really damn exhausted, so I ended up crasing at about 2:30ish AM. Some pictures of the surrounding area:

Pretty, neh? So they woke us up at about 8:00, and again due to hippyness I'm sure, we ended up actually getting to the rock at about 10:00. I should have been exhausted, but some of the left-over adrenaline from the night before was lingering, so I was really, really ready to go. Oh, yeah, and I had perhaps the messiest PB&J sammich of my life that morning. The J is more water than preserves, so it tends to come out of the little jar quite quick. Also, the top doesn't fit very snug. The combination naturally resulted in a Peanut Butter and Jelly Backpack. Not my favorite food. So about one of those two hippy hours was spent attempting to clean up after my sandwich. I'm the only one who could possibly make a mess of a PB&J. I think I deserve a medal or something.

Soon enough I was at the wall, climbing. And I've gotta tell you, there's a big difference between inside gym climbing and outside rock climbing. Searching for good holds in a deceptive peice of volcanic rock, belaying via atc, using quick-draws, and the ever present danger of the rock not actually being able to support your weight. This isn't a problem for most climbers, as they weigh next to nothing, but for us hefty types, it can occasionally result in really fun climbs:

This happened when I was attempting to rock over onto my right foot so that I could reach a nice hold. About the point where I was trusting the rock the most, it came off of the wall, and slammed my right leg against it. Did I mention that this was during the first climb of the day for me? It was awesome. Anyways, I did five climbs the first day, sucessfully getting 4 of the 5, and on-sighting 3 of them. I would have done more, but on the fifth climb, during one of my patented stubborn moments, I somehow jammed my ankle into the wall, effectively ending my day of climbing.

I ended up climbing a 14, two 16s, and 1.8 18s. I'll tell you what that actually means when I update later.

Here's some picture of the rocks that I climbed:

So after I jammed my ankle, I painfully put on my normal shoes and hiked up to the upper tier to watch the president and head rock-climber of MUAC, Matt Natti, trad climb. There are a few different types of climbs that one can do; one can top rope (climb with the rope attached at the top of the wall) lead climb (climb by attaching quick-draws at specific parts of the wall and threading ones own rope through them), or you can trad climb (place your own gear into specific holes in the wall, and rope into your own gear). Trad climbing tends to be the most dangerous, because if you place one of your own gears wrong, it can come out if you fall. This is exactly what happened to Matt on this climb:


Anyways, at the top of the little cliff that you see here, Matt was quite exhausted, and was placing all his hope in the fact that the top of the wall was not sloping, and therefore difficult to hold on to. Unfortunately, it was, causing Matt to have one of his rare falls, and even more unfortunately, the gear that he had placed underneath him was not in the greatest of spots. So he fell, and his cam (the gear) came out of the wall, and he fell some more, far more than he should have. There was a collected intake of breath by all assembled, because a fall from that height can mess you up, and luckily for him, the next peice of gear held. We all let out our breaths, and saw Matt dangling scarcely 1 foot from the ground. He was one luckly little bastard.
Oh, the picture is of Clayton, Matt's #2, I didn't have my camera ready when the scare happened.

We ended our climbing day shortly after that, and returned to the Wool Shed to some really awesome hippy vegetarian chilli. It was actually spicy, a trait extremely uncommon in Kiwi cuisine, and one that I've grown to miss a lot. After eating far more of that than I should have, I watched Andrew teach some Germans and Kiwis a couple of drinking games, which was extremely entertaining:

We did do something after, but I think this post's been long enough, so I'll tell y'all later about the rest of the trip.

I leave you with a few more pictures of the countryside surrounding Castle Rock:

Wellington, day 3:

For our last day in Wellington, Ben and I decided to do a little bit of a tramp. It began by walking on one of the steeper streets in San Fran Wellington:

I know it doesn't look that steep, but trust me, for two fat Americans, it was plenty steep enough. At the top of the street, we got to begin the tramp:

Again, I realized just exactly how fat and lazy of an American I really am. What was really interesting about the area, however, was that it looks exactly like home: dirt and pine trees going up a mountain-that's-really-a-hill. Just look at this picture and tell me that I'm crazy, c'mon, I dare ya. I was back in Dog Valley, hiking.

Luckily, I was travelling with a boy scout, so there was never any *ahem* fear of getting lost.

Anyways, after a longer hike than it probably should have been, we reached the summit of Mt. Victoria, and were rewarded with a really nice vantage. Here's some pictures at the top:

Earlier I called the city San Fran Wellington, there's a reason behind that. The city honestly reminded me of San Francisco; it had long, steep streets. It was around a bay. It gave off the vibrant undercurrent of a much larger city. The skyscrapers in the middle of town made the city seem much larger than its 300,000 citizens actually make it. That, and it felt like San Francisco. Nonetheless, it was a pretty view.

This was at the summit too, a monument to the Antarctic Treaty signed by some countries for some purpose (it's politics, I don't really care). What's great, is that I used my camera to manipulate this picture so that the monument looks really awesome. I assure you, in real life it looks like some 8 year old tagger had a go at a pyramid.

From Mt. Vic we walked down to the one and only beach that Wellington boasts. I read my new book, Nightwatch, which I have since finished, and ben made Sand Angels with Trang's friend Lizi.

We then returned home, walked past the bar we spent St. Pattie's day at (The Only Welsh Bar in the Southern Hemisphere that's actually a remodeled public restroom), hung out at Trang's dorm for a bit, and left to find that it was past 6 o'clock on a Sunday, and therefore the city was closed. We ended up going to a supermarket at the train station and buying chicken sandwitches for dinner. We had scarcely finished when the bus arrived and we returned home to Palmerston North, somewhat wiser and happier for the experience.

The Government Buildings in Wellington, New Zealand's Capitol. There more commonly referred to as "the Beehives."

~The Only Welsh Bar in the Southern Hemisphere.

-And The Only Welsh Bar I've Ever Heard Of.

Wellington, Day 2:

Day two in Wellington was forced to take place mostly indoors. The weather had changed extremes from the previous day's blue skys and sunny days and had chosen to rain and blow. Because, genius that I am, I forgot my jacket, I was only too happy to support the group concensus that we sped the day in museums. But first, breakfast. It had been a while since I last has sushi, and Wellington was a large enough town, so we talked to Trang, and she showed us one of the best joints in the city in which to get sushi. And, I'll admit, the sushi was rather amazing; they did something with the rice that made the oversized rolls taste rather good. Unfortunately, I could feel a collective groan from the entire country of Japan while I was eating it:

In case this in unclear in the picture, the center above roll contains teriyaki chicken.

The center middle roll contains tuna scarcely out of can state.

The roll on the bottom right was a "tuna triangle" that combined the amazingly tasty rice with the same tuna as seen in the center bottom roll.

Somehow, it still turned out amazingly tasty.

Anyways, back to the day. So, the weather was crappy, thus we sprinted (i.e. walked quickly) from the sushi joint to the "Museum of Wellington City & Sea," in Maori: Te Waka Huia o Nga Taonga Tuku Iho. It was cute, a 3 story building dealing with the founding of Wellington and assorted naval histories. I saw this on the third (or for non-Americans, the second) story. There was a little explicative plaque to the left of it which I took a picture of, and that I can send to people if'n they're interested.

The coolest thing, however, in this entire museum, was a little room:


It has a little screen that you can't see in the picture that played out a holographic Maori children's story. It was great, sitting on the floor and listening about a little boy who ended up putting the fire in wood, I was back in kindergarten, but this time, with better stories.

In the back of this museum there was a room dedicated to the national zoo. It was . . . interesting. For example, in each of the boxes that one could use for seats, there were plastic feces that you could learn about:

I don't even know what to make of that.

The back wall was magnetic, with little pieces of animals that one could jumble around to make one's own, personal animal. You know what I came up with, just use your imaginations:

Anyway, after playing around with that wall for waaay too long, we left the little museum and went to Te Papa Tongarewa, the main museum for the Cultural Center of the country.


I have to admit, it was a pretty cool museum; you could actually tell that they had invested no small amount of money and time in its creation and upkeep. This is a picture of the main lobby of Te Papa.

This was at the main entrance, overlooking any and all visitors of the museum.

There were exhibits about earthquakes, with interactive games that were supposed to teach you how to prepare well for a possible earthquake. Naturally, I played to lose. They even had an early chinese seismograph. Whenever an earthquake hit the land, there was a little pendulum inside the bell, which struck the back of the dragon's head, causing the large marble inside of the dragon's mouth to drop, telling everybody from which direction the earthquake had come.

In one room, I was privelaged enough to see what an ancient bird would look like if it were attacking a modern ham:


There was also a whalebone graveyard containing the bones of many different whales. It was a rather surreal and somewhat disturbing room.


Needless to say, it was a rather amazing and fully worthwhile museum to see. The only funny thing, for me personally, was that the museum was having an Egyptian exhibit on display. In my life, I've been privelaged enough to have seen the Louvre's amazing egyptology exhibit, I was also fortunate enough to be in L.A. when the King Tutankhamun exhibit was there. So I didn't go inside of their exhibit. Oh, and while the museum was free, the Egpytian exhibit wasn't. But that had nothing to do with my decision.

After the museum closed, we had some amazing take-out butter chicken, and witnessed what St. Patricks day was like in New Zealand. It was just like anywhere else in the world but Ireland. Day long drinking, green wearing, guiness, just like home. The best part was just sitting on a bench on Cuba street, people watching. I was personally just surprised to see that New Zealand has an emo/goth culture. Few things in life are as funny as watching a man who looks like he'd to do nothing so much as find a corner in which to commit seppuku speak in a Kiwi accent. Hilarious.

And I, I shot the Albatros.

And I, I go now to sleep.