Island Life

It may be only a few hours away from Auckland but life on Fiji, well Malolo Island to be more precise, couldn't be more different. And, whilst five days on an island resort may seem like an ideal holiday to some, it was a world apart from our usual kind of break. For the first time in fifteen years we decided to swap hiking boots for espadrilles and kick-back rather than clamber up. At least that was the plan - we were entering uncharted waters and didn't quite know what to expect. At just under 6kg, it was certainly the lightest suitcase I have ever had as shorts and t-shirts don't weight a great deal and the heaviest item was a pair of running shoes. Well some habits are too hard to break!

Within minutes of touching down into Nadi, the international hub for the mainland, it became clear that the hour difference in time zone was more of a concept than reality and that time was a bit more elastic than specific. Although we had chartered a seaplane to take us to our island resort, and did indeed had a departure time, this was clearly more of a guideline as no one really knew when it might depart. But it was all good, we were in no rush and quite enjoying taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the bustling airport. Finally we were directed to the domestic terminal (shed) and told to report to check-in desk 6. This came as a bit of a surprise as we weren't expecting to check-in for our fifteen minute flight across the pacific. It was even more of a surprise that we, as well as our luggage, had to stand on the scales to be weighed. I did wonder, as the digital readout settled on a weight that was higher then I would've liked, whether they added a few pounds for the return journey. I was sure that a few days of doing very little would have an inflating effect. If you catch my drift.

Once checked-in we went through airport security, which was actually an X-Ray machine and not a bloke who rifled through your bags like I was expecting, and settled in the departure lounge. Well I say lounge, it was actually a couple of rows of chairs in a side room. We didn't have long to wait, and we were soon escorted across the aprointroduced to our pilot and helped up the steps into the plane.

It was the first time that i have been so close to the pilot that I could, if I had wanted to, actually tap him on the shoulder and point at stuff. But I didn't. I figured that he had more important things to do, like keeping the plane in the air, than answer my idiotic questions. I'm sure anyone else would've had the same questions; what does that dial tell you, how can you tell how high we are and why are you yanking that lever so hard? It was over all too quickly as we banked and started our descent into the bay of Malolo Island.

"Err guys", our pilot said, "I can't actually take you all the way to the resort". I was nervously wondering to myself that I may have inadvertently booked the economy flight and maybe we were expected to swim the final few hundred metres when he added "It's low tide and my wings would clip the jetty - the resort will be sending a boat to pick you up in a few minutes". Phew, disaster averted as was my gaze towards Sarah who I knew, from experience, would've been glaring at me.

The resort did indeed send a boat and we were soon on the aforementioned jetty, and shaking hands with the welcoming party who had turned up to sing us a Fijian greeting. It was a lovely welcome and quite a surprise to a couple who are used to dumping their luggage in the back office of a hostel reception whilst they went in search for some food for breakfast the following morning. I can only begin to wonder what they were thinking as two grubby northerners turned up having arrived by seaplane. Maybe they were expecting a celebrity; a pop star, rugby player or a minor member of the royal family. I can't help but think that we were a disappointment!

It's a commonly held opinion that island life runs at a different pace to normal life and within a few hours I became to accept this as a cast iron hard truth. For the first time in a long while we weren't on any timetable, didn't have any obligations to meet and could do as little as we wanted over the next five days. Then it hit me. Five days. Five. Days. Five days doing nothing, what on earth was I going to fill my time with? There was no mountain to climb, no road to run down and no sight to see. This wasn't working, I wasn't relaxing and instead I had managed to convince myself that I was very likely to go slowly mad. It took until later that evening to finally unwind and start to accept my fate. This was helped no doubt by the beautiful weather, the lovely staff and the fact that is was Happy Hour at the bar and I was part-way through my second cocktail of the evening.

So what does doing nothing feel like? Actually it's quite relaxing, once you get the hang of it. It does take a bit of effort doing nothing but it's worth it. After a day or two, it no longer matters what day it is, or what time it is for that matter, as bit by bit the mechanical nature of city life ebbs away and is replaced by island time. At around the third day in, time becomes a concept that other people need to worry about and the day is marked by other events, such as the twice-daily arrival of a passenger ferry, rather than the ticking of a clock. Oh, and Happy Hour of course!

I know this is going to be short lived and pretty soon I'm going to have to get back in the game. But I'm determined to enjoy it while it lasts.  On which note, I'm going to have to leave you, there is a cocktail at the bar with my name on it. 

Indecent Taste

It's a funny thing writing a blog. It really is. On one hand it's great to have to opportunity to share experiences; things seen, done, thought and avoided. But on the other, it can be a very risky thing, for once something is posted there is no going back. It's out there. On the web. For all to see.

So it is with some trepidation that I write this blog. It's contents are so shocking that I may never have the nerve to post it. Let's see….

Well, it all started in the green grocers at the top of the street. Ours, being run by an Asian family, sells all manner of exotic vegetables, fruits and others items so odd that I can't tell which food group they belong to. Not that I have bought any of the exotic items. I mean, what am I supposed to do with a fruit that has spikes on it? Obviously nature put those spikes on for a reason and was determined that a casual passer-by, or curious shopper, wouldn't be tempted to put one in their mouth. No way. 

Then there are those that have clearly been made up, like the Tangelo for example. This, being a cross between a tangerine and a grapefruit, must have been the result of a drunken night at the food laboratory. Did the tangerine really need improving? I don’t think so. And as for grapefruit. Well they are a bit tart but does that really warrant experimenting with food?

We will soon be coming into Feijoa season and I can't wait....not! These fruit literally fall from the sky and New Zealanders go mad for them. With thousands of trees planted around the towns and countryside a bumper crop is guaranteed. And the things that they can do with them; added to pies, cakes, ice cream. Eaten on their own and with friends. By mid-winter the office is usually awash with the little green, tart fruit. "Free Feijoas in level two kitchen" boasts the customary near-daily email. Yes, by August it is fair to say that Feijoa Fatigue sets in. Although they won't admit to it, they are sick of the sight of the little bastards. "Please! No more!" they scream as yet another carrier bag full dumped unceremoniously in the kitchen.

And what amazes me is that supermarkets sell them. Who on earth buys Feijoas when they are rolling around the streets? Maybe they have to. Maybe, if supermarkets didn't take their fair share then roads would be blocked, footpaths closed and life would grind to a halt by the inundation of green fleshed fruit. Maybe that explains why Kiwis bolt down the fruit ten at one sitting.

"How many Feijoas have you had today?"

"Twenty or so"

"Twenty? That's not nearly enough!"

"But..but"

"But nothing. Get another ten down you - do you want to drown in fruit? We need to eat our way through this deluge..."

And don't get me started on Tamarillos. For the uninitiated, or rather the unwary, I will quote from Wikipedia;

“Tamarillo, is a small tree or shrub in the flowering plant family Solanaceae (the nightshade family). It is best known as the species that bears the tamarillo, an egg-shaped edible fruit.^[2] It is also known as the tree tomato,^[3]”

You will notice in that quote, the phrase "...edible fruit". Whilst that may be true - indeed the fruit won't kill you if you eat one - but I take exception with anyone who says they enjoy the experience. I, whilst on a trip to our aforementioned local grocers, decided to buy a bag. I was curious and besides, the dark red fruit looked so tempting. How could I refuse? I wish I had. I wish I had walked on by and stuck with the apples that I had came to buy. But no. I had to be adventurous. How do they taste? Well imagine a passion fruit crossed with a tomato. Imagine eating a fruit that tastes juicy and sweet only to be over powered by the taste of tomato. Oh I know that tomatoes are a fruit but I wouldn't want one in a fruit salad or on my ice cream. Similarly, I wouldn't put a passion fruit in my Ragù. Sometimes curiosity is best left where it it. I did my best to get through these devil fruit but still, every time I opened the fridge door, there was the bag of Tamarillos staring back at me. I did try, but failed and ended up throwing them out. They were past their best anyway. Not surprising as they had been in the fridge for months as the battle of wills dragged on until it's inevitable conclusion.

Anyway, I have digressed somewhat so back to my recent visit to the grocers.....

Learning from my lessons with odd looking or tasting fruit, I didn't give them a second glance but then something caught my eye. There, wedged between the carrots and cabbage was a bag of brussel sprouts. "Brussel Sprouts!" I exclaimed, getting some odd looks from my fellow shoppers.  

Without a second thought I threw two bags into my basket. Oh how I'd missed these little fellas. 

It was only when I started to put the shopping into the fridge that I realised I might have a problem. Just what was I going to do with two kilos of brussels? Although it was approaching Autumn and cooling down, temperatures were still hovering around the mid-twenties. Hardly appropriate for roast beef, veg and gravy. Nobody wants to sit down to a roast dinner in vest, shorts and flip-flops.

I was beginning to fear another plant based stand-off when it struck me. No, not a brussel but a brilliant solution. I'd barbecue them! Why not?  People seem to barbecue everything here so why not a brussel sprout? Buoyed by this wonderful innovation I set about preparing the delicacy; covering them in olive oil, adding some crushed garlic and a little salt. Perfect. 

Within a few minutes the barbecue was hot and without any further ceremony I threw my new creation onto the flames and looked heaven-ward……

Now there is one thing you should know about grilled brussel sprouts. They don’t go very soft. If mushy sprouts are your thing ,and by your book an hours boiling is not long enough, then these hard bullets are not for you. But, on the other hand, if you like your veg crunchy with a hint of garlic and not-so-subtle charcoal notes then these are just the ticket. Barbequed sprouts, who would’ve thought it? And not a christmas pudding in sight. Oh, wait. We’ve got two in the cupboard leftover from Christmas. What shall I do with them? Grilled christmas pudding. Now there’s an idea……

The Day Auckland Runs

It is definitely true that not all runs are created equal. On the face of it, an 8.4km run along the sea front should not really be a big draw. But of some reason, this odd distanced event has become a popular fixture in New Zealand's running calendar. No, wait. Scratch that. It is a popular event. Full stop.

At its peak, a few years ago, nearly 70,000 took part in the 'Round The Bays'; running, walking, pushing and rolling the 8.4km from the city centre to St Heliers and put the race in the top ten of world popular running events. 

Oddly, it's not really an event for runners. Not for those who slavishly pound the pavements week in and week out anyway. Unless you are right at the front of the mass of people at the start, you are going to find the first few kilometres a bit of a slog. Or if not that an extreme test of your ability weaving as pushchairs, scooters, fancy dressed participants and arm-linked walkers are negotiated. 

Having done exactly that last year, this year we decided to volunteer and help the race organisers in whatever way we could. It may seem like a very charitable thing to do but there was an ulterior motive. Kind of. You see our running club, The Auckland Joggers, set up the first RTB in 1972 when a few hundred negotiated the traffic on Tamaki Drive. Despite being handed to professionals to organise as the numbers got out of hand, it is our race. And with this honour also comes a large hunk of cash from the organisers in exchange for providing bodies to help with anything from manning information desks, giving out race bibs, marshalling crowds, blowing up start-line inflatables to protecting lost children. 

It is also because, while training in New Zealand in 1980, the former long-distance runner Brendan Foster took part in RTB and was so inspired that he set up the Great North Run. So for a northeastern lad, who has joined the founding Auckland running club, it was inevitable that when asked for volunteers a few months ago that my hand would shoot up. 

I must say that when the alarm clock went off at 05:10 this morning I did, for a fleeting moment, regret the enthusiastic manner in which I put my name forward. But promises are promises and so after a quick shower and strong coffee we stepped out into the cool Auckland morning.

I suppose wrestling with a stubborn giant inflatable start-line is one way to wake up in a morning. Not one I would recommend - try coffee or a nice cup of tea. This thing had a mind of its own, and once we had conquered this one, there was a second to inflate. At 60kg it wasn't light and just as we'd managed to get it into place, a truck wanted to get past to deliver some important event paraphernalia. After questioning the driver's parentage, under our breaths of course, we persuaded the giant inflatable to move to the side whilst the truck went on its way.

Thankfully a electric powered pump was on hand to provide the much needed air. I had images of trying to inflate the thing - it definitely would've delayed the start of the race. To maybe next Tuesday!

The second one was laid out and just as it was semi inflated, a large black SUV with blackened windows approached. The driver's window rolled down, a few words were exchanged and the SUV and its occupants reversed back down the road.

Now I'm not one prone to exaggeration, but I like to think that we stopped none other than the Queen of Pop Madonna in her tracks. Well it could've been her Madgesty. She was playing the arena next door and the time was about right. Possibly. Anyway, why let the truth get in the way of a good story.

So with Madgesty on her way back and the inflatables puffed up, we headed back and waited for the start of the race.

If anyone wants to know how do 30,000 participants travel across the start line and 8.4km down the coast, the answer is simple. Slowly!

We agreed that we would wait until everyone had passed the start before beginning our run to the end. We hadn't, after all, paid to enter so it felt right. But we had to get to the other end because we were needed to help out. And besides, there was food and drink laid on.

So for the second year running I didn't run to the end - I weaved, bobbed and darted between gaps. It's hard work on a hot day.

The difference this year was that I felt an inner glow - it was either the thought of having helped in one of New Zealand's iconic events or the copious amount of grilled meat I had just ingested. I'll be back down Tamaki Drive soon - it's one of the popular and scenic runs in Auckland - but it will be without the 29,998 other people. A straightforward straight run with no bobbing or weaving. Now wouldn't that be nice!

It Ain't Half Hot Mum

I know it will seem like a very British trait to write a blog about the weather, but after last night's meteorological shenanigans it's has to be done. And besides, you can take the boy out of Britain but you can't take the Britain out of the boy. 

In my defence, a quick flick back through the archives of this blog will reveal that I have only written two blogs that mention the weather. That is not a bad track record for a native of a nation that relishes conversation that analyses the minutiae of current and future climate. It is an unwritten rule that, after the usual greeting, the next question out of a British person's mouth has to be about the weather. It's compulsory and written into our DNA.

It's also an unwritten rule that you have to understate the current weather pattern. It may be ten below zero and your snot freezes before it hits the ground but a simple "It's a bit nippy today" would sum up the situation nicely thank you very much.

And oh, boy do we like to complain about the weather. Too wet, too dry, a bit hot, cold, windy, humid and miserable. We are the Goldilocks of amateur weather analysis. 

Perhaps predictably, that's where I come it. It has to be said that, on the whole, the weather in Auckland does not lend itself to complaints. Not really. It can get a bit cold during the winter months but not enough to make you want to bulk buy anti-freeze. It's not needed. It is, during the heat of the summer months, a bit warm. And yes, it can rain when it wants to. But mainly the weather is just-right. 

And everything was ticking along nicely until last night. It had been a warm but wet day - not untypical for a sub-tropical climate in the late summer - and a little humid perhaps but the expectations were that as the evening drew in the temperatures would drop to a not-unpleasant 18 degrees or so. 

Except it didn't happen. Nope, the temperatures were locked in for the night at around 24 degrees and humidity started to rise. With not a breeze to be had, we were in for a sticky night. Just as we all should have been dropping off to sleep, the temperatures were hovering around mid-twenties and the humidity had just passed 92%. Seemingly the whole of Auckland had been turned into a giant sauna.

Nothing was going to help us sleep. Even with all of the windows open, the hot air seemed to invade every space. I will spare you the grim details of my sleeping attire, but needless to say I couldn't have worn much less. 

I resorted to grabbing the cushion covers from the our door loungers and sleeping as close to the open living room doors as I could. Yes I was risking becoming a midnight snack for the local mosquitos but I was getting desperate. I did contemplate, albeit briefly, getting the ice blocks from the freezer but common sense and a duty of hygiene intervened. I would just have to lie still, think about cold things and hope that exhaustion would overcome the insufferable heat. Eventually it did, or at least it must have, because I woke up again around 3am having become a tasty second course for Auckland's 1st flying squadron.

It was a long night and not one that I am keen to repeat. 

At least I wasn't the only one. Those without air conditioning, and that would be the majority of Auckland, had suffered the same ordeal. It made for an entertaining and occasionally dangerous day in work. Lack of sleep was making even the most mild mannered of people edgy, bad tempered and unpredictable. It was either that or the copious amount of coffee that everyone was drinking to try and get through the day.

And true to form, when a colleague stated that it was unbearably hot in their house last night, I simply shrugged and admitted that it "was a little warm last night," before adding, "but not too bad though"