SUNDAY, APRIL 18, 2010
The NZ Wooden Houses Story.
Courtesy, a good Kiwi friend.
Houses in the lower North Island are build almost exclusively out of wood because the people who live there have a high degree of respect for earthquakes. There are 5 major fault lines running through the Wellington province, all of them still active.
This is the story that is told to students, about the European settlers who came to Wellington in the 1840s. As they started building their town, they wanted their important buildings to last - - schools, churches, civic buildings etc. So they began to build in stone. Then in 1848 there was a large earthquake in Blenheim (top of South Island, about 100 km from Wellington). The BIG shake in Wellington; all the stone work was badly affected. When the settlers had recovered their nerves they rethought their policies. Clearly if one wanted a building to last in Wellington, one did not build in stone. So the town was rebuild in wood. 7 years later, the 1855 earthquake struck. 8. something was the stregnth. Lifted up the land on which Wellington airport is now built, lifted up the land one which the motorway from Wellington to the Hutt Valley snakes, drained the Hutt Valley, turning a swamp into liveable land. There were about 5000 people living in Wellington itself at the time, but only 7 died -- because the town had been rebuit in wood. That lesson has been firmly embedded into the psyche of everyone in the lower North Island, which is why virtually every private dwelling, and every building older than 50 years, is built in wood.
Courtesy, a good Kiwi friend.
Houses in the lower North Island are build almost exclusively out of wood because the people who live there have a high degree of respect for earthquakes. There are 5 major fault lines running through the Wellington province, all of them still active.
This is the story that is told to students, about the European settlers who came to Wellington in the 1840s. As they started building their town, they wanted their important buildings to last - - schools, churches, civic buildings etc. So they began to build in stone. Then in 1848 there was a large earthquake in Blenheim (top of South Island, about 100 km from Wellington). The BIG shake in Wellington; all the stone work was badly affected. When the settlers had recovered their nerves they rethought their policies. Clearly if one wanted a building to last in Wellington, one did not build in stone. So the town was rebuild in wood. 7 years later, the 1855 earthquake struck. 8. something was the stregnth. Lifted up the land on which Wellington airport is now built, lifted up the land one which the motorway from Wellington to the Hutt Valley snakes, drained the Hutt Valley, turning a swamp into liveable land. There were about 5000 people living in Wellington itself at the time, but only 7 died -- because the town had been rebuit in wood. That lesson has been firmly embedded into the psyche of everyone in the lower North Island, which is why virtually every private dwelling, and every building older than 50 years, is built in wood.
THURSDAY, APRIL 15, 2010
Masterton,
Martinborough and Carterton.
We are invited for lunch
by Ron at Masterton. Masterton, I find out isn’t exactly next door. It’s about
110 kilometers away!!! Yes, only. I have been told that we will be travelling
through a beautiful part of the country. We hit the road at half nine in the
morning. And it is a beautiful day. Clarity is almost brittle. The odd fleecy
cloud in the blue sky- you’ve got to see it to believe the blue. We swing into the mountain road of the Rimutakas, leaving the
Tararua range to our left. Vivid hues of green bush are breathtaking. The green
just engulfs you. We drive past patches of the road being broadened. The road
is being made straighter so that there are fewer accidents. It takes us about
half an hour to negotiate these serpentine curves. We are on the other side of
the range. This is what we see.
Above:
Green undulating mountains.
We keep passing huge
tracts of land which are farms. Some with cattle and the others are vineyards.
We go up a small hill and what meets is the eye is stunning. The rolling land
with cattle grazing lazily and water sprinklers languidly make patterns with
the misty spray. Each house is a about five to six miles away from each other.
The land that separates them is farm land. This land is mostly used as fodder
for cattle or horticulture. At least in this part of New Zealand.
Above:
Cattle grazing on the farms.
Above:
On the way to Masterton.
We are entering
Martinborough. Martinborough has become a hot spot for the rich living at
Wellington. This town evokes memories of a small town in a western movie.
Quaint wooden structured shops and cafes with the maximum, a first level.
We drive down to the
busier end (not a car or people in sight) where the cafes and hotels are. We
notice something very interesting- all the shops are open on a Sunday!!! It’s
because Mr./ Ms. Money Bags are here for the weekend. Apparently the price of
land here is very very expensive- not even an arm and a leg will suffice.
Above:
A sign board on the beginning of Main Street.
Above:
Another signage.
The
Martinborough Hotel.
We glide to the busier
end of Main Street and there stands in its full glory the Hotel Martinborough.
An amazing wooden structure. Not a single brick was used when it was built in
1880. Prettty as a picture.
I haven’t cropped this
picture; to let you take in the serenity it has. And the flowers too.
Historically Martinboroughs was a sheep town. We are at the centre of the town
and the pictures now take over.
Above:
Martinborough. Main Street.
Above:
A Café.
The temperature that day was
about 15 deg Cel. Splendid weather for a wine or beer in the mellow sun.
Above:
Martinborough Postie.
Post offices are called POSTIE. And the post man/ girl are POSTIEs too!!!!!!!
Post offices are called POSTIE. And the post man/ girl are POSTIEs too!!!!!!!
Above:
Martinborough. A quaint Museum.
Above:
Martinborough. Sunday fish monger. He and his mate are fishermen too.
Below:
Martinborough. A provision shop- Pain & Kershaw, was also built in 1880 too
and the same family owns it today.
Harley Davidson owners
have a jamboree at Martinborough. We had to drop that as we short on time and
needed to zip to Masterton. We drive past large tracts of vineyards. Can’t take
pictures. Too jerky. The speedometer reads 120 kmph. We slow down to 40 kmph as
we cruise through Carterton.
Another
picturesque town. Methinks it’s more so than Martinborough. Carterton:
Carterton
Main Street.
Carterton.
Carterton.
Carterton.
We now gather speed again
and close into Masterton. Masterton is an industrial manufacturing centre along
with farming too. What hits me are the HUGE size of the tractors, other allied
four wheelers. The sheer size makes it overwhelming.
And
another picture. These are humongous machines- mean and robust. The larger tyre
of the tractor is six feet plus.
We had lovely lunch with
Ron. Ron, incidentally is 84. He gave us smoked ham, salad, boiled vegetables
and mashed potatoes. Ron grows most of his vegetables and has a small vegetable
patch in the backyard, Apples and grapes too. Ron’s son, Kim, is intellectually
handicapped and was under Lisa’s care for a long time. We hit the road again
and stop by at this farm that has miniature horses.
Miniature Horses.
Miniature Horses.
The
signage.
A
beauty- sheer black magic.
These are pets. Yes, and
are kept for the kids and their friends to ride.
SATURDAY, APRIL 10, 2010
‘90 minutes is cutting it very fine’…
‘90 minutes is cutting it very fine’. ‘And what if bad weather shuts Wellington airport down?’ Says RB Rosay. Damn him. I am to catch another flight from Auckland. Mahesh says that there is ‘code sharing’ between the two airlines; he normally knows his onions and is my source of hope. I make frantic calls to Air New Zealand and Cathay Pacific the day before I am scheduled to leave. They think I’m touched. Let the adventure begin.
‘90 minutes is cutting it very fine’. ‘And what if bad weather shuts Wellington airport down?’ Says RB Rosay. Damn him. I am to catch another flight from Auckland. Mahesh says that there is ‘code sharing’ between the two airlines; he normally knows his onions and is my source of hope. I make frantic calls to Air New Zealand and Cathay Pacific the day before I am scheduled to leave. They think I’m touched. Let the adventure begin.
‘ 90
minutes is cutting it very fine’. We reach Wellington airport. Not a soul at
the check in. . I have the hibie jibies. The girls assure me that 90 minutes
are enough. They are struggle with my e ticket. Computers refuse to budge. The
systems are playing up. Won’t print my boarding cards. A senior girl has been
called help. My luggage has been booked through to Mumbai. Relief. Finally the
senior girl is able to coax the stubborn system to print out my boarding cards.
Wellington to Auckland and Auckland to Honk Kong. The system refuses to budge
any further so I need to collect my Honk Kong – Mumbai sector boarding card
from Auckland.
The
wife and a close friend see me off at the Wellington. Wellington is a small
airport. The short runway can’t take the larger wide bodied aircraft. Only
Boeing 737s. And God help you if the weather plays up. The airport just shuts
down. We walk to the security check area; this is where we say goodbye.
Wellington
to Auckland is a forty five minute flight. By the time I munch a few crackers,
cookies and sip a cola. We start descending. Auckland looks like any other
large city from where I am sitting. The airport, by the looks, is in the
outskirts of the city. The Indian in me makes a hasty exit to find the shuttle
that will take me to the International terminal. ‘90 minutes is cutting it very
fine’. The lady attendant says I could walk too, it takes only seven minutes. I
am nervous and anxious. I probe further. ‘When will the shuttle come’? In
another 10 minutes. The lady who ‘wom- mans’ this post is genteel and serene;
she has this calming quality. Very very Kiwi- they are just unflappable. They
are a lot like the Goan - Suse Gaad (come easy). The two seem to be similar in
many other ways too. Three minutes later the snazzy shuttle arrives. I sit
meself down and we zip to the International terminal. I still have butterflies
in me stomach. I keep looking at my wrist watch like the Mad Hatter. A thick
squat Maori girl greeted me at the Cathay Pacific counter. ‘What did your bag weigh
when you checked it in Sir?’ ’20 kilos’. ‘Good as gold’. ‘Am I in time to catch
my flight?’. ‘Oh Sure, you have can a have coffee too’ said she, flashing her
best toothpaste smile. Damn the nephew, I muttered. I collected my boarding
card and meandered into the milieu.
I meet
Manny at the money exchange kiosk. A short dapper Indian. Manny is Mahendrabhai
Shah, from Gujarat, Navsari, came to New Zealand when he was 5 years old. Today
he is 62. Speaks English with an absolute 100% Kiwi accent. (Will do a blog
later on the kiwi iccint- ‘e’ becomes ‘i’). Manny has forgotten most of his
Gujarati. He says, English that is spoken at home. I exchange the currency. I
head for the toilet. The urine stench hit me. India already? Wellington’s
toilets are clean as a whistle and smell really good. No such luck here. I then
take the escalator to the departure level. I am in the queue waiting to go
through security, immigrations and customs. Airline officials eye my rucksack.
An Asian airline girl approaches me. ‘Your rucksack is overweight Sir’. ‘Could
you please put your bag on the weighing scale?. I try and look pathetic;
hurriedly tell her that it is overweight by two kilos. She smiles and tells me
to carry my camera and binoculars in my hand as these along with a laptop are
free. I sail through the Airline. I am in the queue for security and
immigrations. I fish for my passport which is in my travel pouch. No passport.
My mouth goes dry. I do a hurried check going through all the pockets. I rush
out of the queue; it could have been left at the foreign exchange counter. My
hand then goes to the trouser pocket. The passport is there. Phew. I sit down
and gulp an orange juice and calm myself.
Mr
Kashyap is in charge of the security. I speak with him in Punjabi. His face lights
up. He takes me aside and we have a cuppa chai. (Yes, New Zealand is very very
laid back- having long chats with strangers is the done thing.)He has been in
Kiwi Land for thirty years. Loves his
Punjabi food which his wife cooks. The kids have grown up and flown the coop.
He speaks very lovingly of his wife and longingly of Punjab. ‘I might be here,
but my heart is Punjab’.
I go
through immigration and customs in a jiffy. I am at the lounge from where I
will embark on my journey home. I still have twenty minutes before we board the
aircraft.
‘90 minutes isn’t cutting it very fine’……..
‘90 minutes isn’t cutting it very fine’……..
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY
25, 2010
Of late, two
service providers of NZ are in malfunction mode. The first being Telecom
Services, a Mobile service provider, and the second, Tranz Metro’s Wellington
suburban railway services.
Tranz Metro has decided not to charge commuters using the Wellington suburban railways today. Not even a cent.
Life for Telecom hasn’t been smooth at all. Telecoms latest XT services have crashed. So have a number of customers who have decided to either go back to the old staid service or quit using Telecom completely. Compensations may be paid to user too. Head honcho heads have rolled too.
Tranz Metro has decided not to charge commuters using the Wellington suburban railways today. Not even a cent.
Life for Telecom hasn’t been smooth at all. Telecoms latest XT services have crashed. So have a number of customers who have decided to either go back to the old staid service or quit using Telecom completely. Compensations may be paid to user too. Head honcho heads have rolled too.
Posted by Arup musesat 6:16 PM
E- Rejects from
prospective employers come my way in bushels; some through snail mail too.
Pretty expensive and good quality printing use and yes, equally high calibre
envelopes too.
Interestingly most senior executives in the corporate world are rather allergic to placement agencies. My interactions with these people has been of immense help and I have learnt a lot too.
These rejects remind me of my job hunt 20+ years ago. I received these rejects through snail mail then. I was most amused on seeing these after so many years. Most of them are very polite and tell you: We had a huge volume of very high quality of responses which made it extremely difficult for us to short list the ‘candidates’. One of them used ‘long list’ too. We regret that your application has been unsuccessful. They then add- This has no reflection on your rich and high quality of experience. The ones short listed are closer to our client’s brief. All these mails are the same with semantics juggled around. Some are curt and to the point and some are definitely didactic. Methinks that I now have enough of these reject letters to publish a book- Templates of How to Write a Letter of Rejection. OR The 1 Minute Reject Letter Guide. So, am looking for a publisher to publish these.
‘Arup, your credentials are fine but you have no networking’. I have tried reasoning but made little progress. So? Start networking on your own. I was put onto two Bharat waasis, who have lived here for more than 23 years. One told me that a fresh CV needed to be done for every application!!!! And asked me: How many Project Manager jobs do you see in the papers or on the net? None, right? I couldn’t be rude- but how did a Project Manager’s job affect me? I later learnt that this person was a Big Daddy in a MNC. Decided that he’d made many millions for the MNC and now needed to make millions for himself which hasn’t happened. The second bloke I met was a similar story. They both talked of the ‘tall poppy syndrome’ the tallest poppy getting lopped off; felt that a lot of shoulder tapping too happens in this country hence…… The second guy didn’t operate from his SOHO but spent his ‘working hours’ at his client’s office. This Indian tribe is found across the globe and has this de ja vu story which I’ve heard time and again. I must add that the parting note was very polite and almost warm- You must come and have a meal with us. Hastily adding- But do call us before that. The Corporate is bigger than you is easily forgotten.
Interestingly most senior executives in the corporate world are rather allergic to placement agencies. My interactions with these people has been of immense help and I have learnt a lot too.
These rejects remind me of my job hunt 20+ years ago. I received these rejects through snail mail then. I was most amused on seeing these after so many years. Most of them are very polite and tell you: We had a huge volume of very high quality of responses which made it extremely difficult for us to short list the ‘candidates’. One of them used ‘long list’ too. We regret that your application has been unsuccessful. They then add- This has no reflection on your rich and high quality of experience. The ones short listed are closer to our client’s brief. All these mails are the same with semantics juggled around. Some are curt and to the point and some are definitely didactic. Methinks that I now have enough of these reject letters to publish a book- Templates of How to Write a Letter of Rejection. OR The 1 Minute Reject Letter Guide. So, am looking for a publisher to publish these.
‘Arup, your credentials are fine but you have no networking’. I have tried reasoning but made little progress. So? Start networking on your own. I was put onto two Bharat waasis, who have lived here for more than 23 years. One told me that a fresh CV needed to be done for every application!!!! And asked me: How many Project Manager jobs do you see in the papers or on the net? None, right? I couldn’t be rude- but how did a Project Manager’s job affect me? I later learnt that this person was a Big Daddy in a MNC. Decided that he’d made many millions for the MNC and now needed to make millions for himself which hasn’t happened. The second bloke I met was a similar story. They both talked of the ‘tall poppy syndrome’ the tallest poppy getting lopped off; felt that a lot of shoulder tapping too happens in this country hence…… The second guy didn’t operate from his SOHO but spent his ‘working hours’ at his client’s office. This Indian tribe is found across the globe and has this de ja vu story which I’ve heard time and again. I must add that the parting note was very polite and almost warm- You must come and have a meal with us. Hastily adding- But do call us before that. The Corporate is bigger than you is easily forgotten.
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY
19, 2010
Yesterday I was very
buoyant when I went for a final meeting with this Insurance selling outfit. I
was dead sure on wraping this up. I had the craziest figures buzzing in my
head. And all that Lisa and I could do with the extra money.
I am ushered into the MD's room who says: so are ready to start work? To which I nod enthusiastically. I hand over the HR papers. He smiles- at his killer best. Starts telling me what all he wants me to do. Goes on to tell me how good the insurance product is and what a whack I can make as a bonus on the sale. A six figure salary. Apart from the bonus. All the time I want for my wife and me. A par excellence salesman waxing eloquence. I patiently listen and then - any questions? Yes, what is my basic salary? None. I am dumb struck. I am going to be frittering away Lisa's hard earned money... on this bloke for 2 to 3 months till I've become an effective seller? I brave another question- Any Per Diem? None. My son in law is quitting his job which pays him xyz million, as the head of a Car selling outfit. He is going to be given the same deal. I don't have double standards. Have you seen the agreement? No? Okay it'll be mailed to you in another 30 minutes. He scribbles URGENT- MAIL AGREEMENT in large capital letters. It is still coming. So I ease myself out of the chair and thank him and head out. Oh yes, this is for you to read. A few spiral bound sheafs of paper are handed to me. By the end of the year I shall have a group of 10 immigrants. They will be a crack insurance sales team. The best in the country. By now I could puke on his expensive carpet. I smile at the innocent Kiwi accented Gujju kid who is the receptionist. And step out to the sunshine and take breath.
Now the dilemma- do I take it or not? I call Paul (B-I-L), who swings by, picks me up and will drop me home. I tell him the story. He grunts and says- A bucket of crap. (Kiwis pronounce that as CREP). And the son in law story is also a bag of crap. I call Lisa and tell her the Ram Kahani. She just can't believe it. Exchange notes with sibling who says think 'out of the box'. I've done exactly that and I have 2 meetings tomorrow and the 3rd will happen if it rains. Because she's taking her son to the beach !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
:-)
Yehi hai zindagi.
I am ushered into the MD's room who says: so are ready to start work? To which I nod enthusiastically. I hand over the HR papers. He smiles- at his killer best. Starts telling me what all he wants me to do. Goes on to tell me how good the insurance product is and what a whack I can make as a bonus on the sale. A six figure salary. Apart from the bonus. All the time I want for my wife and me. A par excellence salesman waxing eloquence. I patiently listen and then - any questions? Yes, what is my basic salary? None. I am dumb struck. I am going to be frittering away Lisa's hard earned money... on this bloke for 2 to 3 months till I've become an effective seller? I brave another question- Any Per Diem? None. My son in law is quitting his job which pays him xyz million, as the head of a Car selling outfit. He is going to be given the same deal. I don't have double standards. Have you seen the agreement? No? Okay it'll be mailed to you in another 30 minutes. He scribbles URGENT- MAIL AGREEMENT in large capital letters. It is still coming. So I ease myself out of the chair and thank him and head out. Oh yes, this is for you to read. A few spiral bound sheafs of paper are handed to me. By the end of the year I shall have a group of 10 immigrants. They will be a crack insurance sales team. The best in the country. By now I could puke on his expensive carpet. I smile at the innocent Kiwi accented Gujju kid who is the receptionist. And step out to the sunshine and take breath.
Now the dilemma- do I take it or not? I call Paul (B-I-L), who swings by, picks me up and will drop me home. I tell him the story. He grunts and says- A bucket of crap. (Kiwis pronounce that as CREP). And the son in law story is also a bag of crap. I call Lisa and tell her the Ram Kahani. She just can't believe it. Exchange notes with sibling who says think 'out of the box'. I've done exactly that and I have 2 meetings tomorrow and the 3rd will happen if it rains. Because she's taking her son to the beach !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
:-)
Yehi hai zindagi.
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