Liquor? I hardly knew her...

As a South Australian I genuinely enjoy the novelty of buying alcohol from the supermarket in New Zealand, but I have to say that what I enjoy the most is the actual checkout transaction involving said alcohol. As I approach the counter clutching, among other things, a bottle of ridiculously underpriced red wine from my homeland I am greeted by a relatively bright uniformed year 9 with whom I gather I will be completing my transaction. He is cheery at first, if not a little pimply. We chat about the recent endeavours of Kiwi sports teams against Australia as he scans a box of washing powder, a carton of milk and a four pack of toothbrushes, but as we approach the Peter Leahman Shiraz his demeanour changes dramatically. He effortlessly goes from ill-proportioned teen to suspicious, sleuth-like detective. Shifting his head to get a proper view of mine he suddenly looks very stern. Unsure whether he’s going to call the cops or divulge the secrets of the universe I ask tentatively if there’s a problem, to which he responds by asking me for some I.D. Fumbling through my wallet I retrieve my South Australian driver’s licence. He pores over this before calling for what I assume can only be backup. He stares blankly, if not a little accusingly, as I gently rock my 6-month-old daughter back and forth in her pram as we wait for the manager. When he arrives, appearing to have only recently completed year 10, our man glances at the card before asking for another document that might more adequately verify my age. By some strange twist of fate I reach for my back pocket and find my passport (see previous blog). This appears to just scrape in as the proof they need to sell me liquor. Smirking rather cheekily as I swipe my credit card I ask whether comprehensively bearded 17 year olds with young children, fraudulent South Australian driver’s licences and a taste for wine from the Barossa are a common problem in Orewa. He replies that stranger things have happened - this only serves to heighten my intrigue at what I have already found to be a fascinating country.

In other news:

A few months ago we moved into a house that has to be an exact replica of the house that Phil Collins wrote ‘Easy Lover’ in, complete with retro brass décor and oversized light switches. Those attuned to New Zealand folklore will be impressed by the fact that this house was once owned by Mr Asia, an infamous drug tycoon for whom the aforementioned décor must have been contemporary. Whilst living in his past dominion I have wandered what sort of stunts you have to pull to get nicknamed after a whole continent.

Unfortunately for us and our would-be Skype friends we don’t have broadband at our new house. At our previous house, which was only 100 metres up the street, we had more broadband internet than we needed, but after a month long debacle involving the less than highly efficient NZ telecommunications bureaucracy they concluded that our new house is three kilometres out of range for the broadband service. With the only reasonable explanation being that there is a tear in the very fabric of the space-time continuum somewhere between our front gate and no. 23 Oceanview Road we have resigned ourselves to the waiting game that is dialup.

Lucy, apart from helping me to pose as an underage drinker, is making all sorts of new sounds, rolling around on the floor and waking in the middle of the night with the giggles.

The ocean is getting swum in despite it not really being warm enough (the entire nation seems to take to the sea to cool off when it hits 24 degrees). We call it ‘sympathy swimming’.

Our pohutakawas are turning red – which to the Australians out there may sound quite rude until they google pohutakawa.

Festive love and peace,

Tim, Liv and Lucy

Red Stars and Red Tape

After just about making a career over here out of photocopying my important documents and handing over large wads of cash to the countless manifestations of New Zealand bureaucracy I was recently awarded the right to teach in the country’s schools. This I have done with no small amount of enjoyment and I can say that teaching students whose pronunciation of certain vowels leaves one in mild hysterics is incredibly rewarding. Let me recount a typical post-lunch dialogue:
Taeuna, a lively lad, arrives well after the bell and pants breathlessly:
'Gee, um so hot und switty, ay?' To which Molla replies:
'Not uz switty uz yo mama last night bro!' At this point I interrupt and attempt to explain the irony of 'yo mama' jokes that end with 'bro'.
'Not evun!' Molla replies indignantly. This roughly translates into English as 'You're right, our cultural turn of phrase is very silly, our accent is ridiculous and all sheep related jokes made at our expense are true.' Very good fun in anyone's book you'll agree.

Unfortunately, in the midst of my witty classroom observations I remained naively unaware that the aforementioned paper work did not give me the right to be paid for said work. This would involve many more weeks of me disclosing increasingly inane details about my life such as the verification of my grandmother's next-door-neighbour's sister's second-best-friend's deceased budgie’s registration certificate. A particularly stunning example of a government department's complete inability to adhere to common precepts of logic occurred when I rang the Ministry of Education in order to procure for myself a Ministry of Education number. The response from my heavily accented phone correspondent was one of uncertainty:
'Ah...I'm not exactly sure… I don't think we actually give those out here.' To which I responded:
'Isn't this the Ministry of Education?'
'Yes it is.'
'Do you deal with Ministry of Education Numbers?' I ask, now second-guessing my own logic.
'Yes we do, that's how we identify teachers and allocate their pay'
'But you're telling me,' I continued, in increasing bewilderment, 'that you can't tell me how I might get one of these numbers?'
'Well, it's not a simple process...' I stopped him here to explain that previous experience in this country had left me with no illusion that the getting of this number would be, by any means, a simple process. But it was again my naive hope that I might get the ball rolling before continental drift saved me buying plane ticket back to Australia.

Finally, feeling battle weary but mildly triumphant at having gathered and forwarded all the relevant details to every person in the country in possession of a shirt and tie, I eagerly awaited my paycheck. This arrived quicker than expected but appeared a little thin. Don't get me wrong, I know teaching's not rocket science and I don't do this job just for the money in any country, but being paid at the rate of $29K per year, holiday loading included, certainly makes me thankful for all those diligent colleagues of mine back in Australia who turn up to enterprise bargaining meetings to fight for more than the award rate. This is not forgetting that we're talking New Zealand dollars here - which are at best worth marginally more than their cricket team.

Needless to say I've decided to focus my attention on the country's better-known attributes in the remainder of my time here like the dramatic landscapes, endless pristine bays and my beautiful wife. Thus I have chosen not to work on sunny days and, as summer is almost upon us, there is a distinct possibility I may not grace the gates of another place of learning until we return to the big brown land.

Big love.

Mr Moore (+ Mrs and Miss Moore)

Ps. In keeping with the theme of tedious bureaucracy I have decided not to put any photos or videos on this post but you can click here to find semi-recent photos of the Moore family at various states of rest and play.