Weather Forecast: Hurricanes!

Okay, so the title is a bit misleading. There are no real hurricanes coming through. That also goes for the tsunami that was to have hit the north island a few weeks ago. Nor does this blog entry have to do anything with weather, at least not in its entirety. What I'm referring to when talking about weather patterns is rugby, that great New Zealand past time. In particular, the Taranaki regional team known as none other than the Hurricanes.

You'd have to be deaf not to have some idea about the sport of rugby when you live here, even as an American. Having grown up watching American football, or grid-iron as New Zealanders refer to it, rugby appears to be a padless, crazy version of football in which players are thrown about, dropped, and tackled with necks whiplashed in such frantic fashion one wonders how the players are able to walk upright and in a straight line again, much less in a conscious state. Regardless, it is the national game. It's either talked about, watched, or played by virtually everyone. The sport is called by three different names: rugby, league, and touch. My limited understanding is that these three distinct versions differentiate the seasons in which the game is played, not so much the rules. All I know is that it allows the sport to be played year-round. There is the national team, known as the All Blacks, which is composed of players from the regional teams. The Taranaki regional team, the area in which I reside, is known as the Hurricanes, as mentioned previously.

Last night marked the final in the Super 14 series. It is the culmination of the playoffs between the regional teams. So in true rugby fashion, I joined some friends to watch the final dressed in yellow and black, the Hurricane colors, a requirement to attend. While my outfit was appropriate, it paled in comparison to the other party attendees, who stopped just short of face paint to display their team spirit. Ninety minutes later, full of jabs and snide remarks between the fans of the opposing teams, the Hurricanes unfortunately lost to the Canterbury Crusaders, a fact the "Saders" fans would not let us "Canes" fans live down. The playful banter and high fashion provided some great entertainment, important given the fact the fog was so thick we couldn't actually see the game.

Mother Hen

I know I've used numerous sentences throughout this blog to express my trials with small town life and being one of only a few GPs treating the patient population at large. Today I would like to counteract some of those statements. There are definitely benefits to having everything within walking distance, having no stop lights, and, when necessary, transporting myself by vehicle anywhere in town in under 5 minutes. From a GP perspective, there is definitely an upside to the continuity I obtain with my patients. I have now been here long enough that patients are making the rounds again for repeats of their medications. In doing so, I get to take one step further in knowing them, and in turn, them knowing me. You must realize the clinic I'm working for has gone through a lot of changes in the past eight months, most of which have revolved around a change in GPs from permanent, to locum, to nonexistent for a while. The fact that the patients see the same doctor two times in a row is as much a delight for them as it is for me. This past week I was greeted with several examples of gratitude for my continuity. One lady presented me with a homemade fruit loaf simply for making a phone call to get her the surgery she desperately needed. Another lovely lady made a special trip from home, aside from her scheduled clinic visit, to inform me about the local knitting club, thus feeding my fiber arts fancy. Most surprising of all, a very sweet elderly gentleman called me at the clinic Tuesday morning wanting to drop by some freshly plucked duck that he had shot over the weekend. All stemming from a simple conversation in which he mentioned he was going duck hunting and my reply of a culinary like for duck.

It makes you wonder, who's really taking care of whom.

Game on

Last week I told you all about the adventures of netball. This week I got to live them. Saturday past was meant to be my first real game, but turned into a three hour tutorial in netball lessons. The day was advertised as a simple game to give us practice. I emphasize the singularity here. However, Saturday morning I received a call informing me we in fact had two games that day. Okay, not a big deal. After the first game, marked by a horrible loss despite a fifteen point handicap, we geared up for our second match only to discover that we were entered in the tournament, a fact naive to our coach, and actually had two more games that day. It appears that we were entered into the wrong division and, despite our glaring lack of ability, been catapulted up the ranks. This is where it turned interesting. At half time of the second game, the coach for the top tear Ngati Ruanui team rushed over and asked to borrow two players so they wouldn't have to default their game. She grabbed one seasoned player and myself. I remind you, I have never played this game before, having only heard about it two months prior. Despite playing positions with which I was unfamiliar and having to be directed as to where to stand at the beginning of each play, I managed to hold my own. Luckily you can't foul out for creating too many obstructions. The irony is that even though I had never practiced with this higher level team, I was familiar with most of them through the clinic. A fact that rang true even for the opposing team, noted when the girl I was defending heard me speak, turned towards me and said, "Hey, you're that American doctor. Hey, you're my doctor." Oh, you have to love this small town.

Swish and Sorrow

The past week marked another first in my athletic career: netball. Somehow unbeknownst to me I was coerced into playing for the second rung team of Ngati Ruanui, the organization that employs me. From my recollection I was asked if I wanted to join in a pick-up game on Sunday as they were a player short. Why not? The next thing I know I was attending practice on Monday night and was put in the line-up for Saturday's game. Okay. It was another new experience I could add to my memory bank and my blog.

Let me give you a short description of netball. Again, it is a game only known to the Commonwealth states, a fact lost on most New Zealanders as evidenced by comments such as, "I wonder why netball isn't an Olympic event?" In brief, it's girlie basketball. This is supported by the fact that only girls play the sport (at least originally) and the uniform includes a skirt. It differs from basketball in that there's no net on the basket, you can't dribble, can't step with the ball, and can't contact another player. In fact, when facing your opponent you must maintain a 3 foot radius. This presented a slight problem for me given my whole defensive game when playing basketball in my younger years involved contact (and a lot of fouls). You might imagine I was a little nervous about the actual refereed game on Saturday. Unfortunately, our game was cancelled due to the death of a prominent trustee member of the Ngati Ruanui Iwi on Thursday. Someone who also happens to be a patient of mine along with his extended family.

The Maori memorial process is quite extensive and prolonged. It begins almost immediately at the time of death. The body is embalmed and then brought back to the family home where relations are received to view the body. Shortly thereafter, the body is move to the Maera, or meeting house, where it is displayed and the female members of the immediate family sit with the deceased. Here again, relations and friends are received to give their condolences. It is at the Maera that I joined the other members of the clinic on Thursday night to pay our respects. There were several groups who came through that night is succession, each giving a small offering to the family and receiving tea, or dinner, at the end of the process. Mattresses are also set up in the Maori with the expectation that family members arriving later that night or the next day will stay with the body until the actual memorial service several days later. The collective process is called a 'tangi', which literally means "to cry". And there was certainly plenty of that.

As an aside, so as not to end on a sad note, I would like to wish all the moms I know a happy New Zealand Mother's Day, as it comes a day early from the stateside.

Three alarm fire

One of the first unusual sounds I heard when I moved into my downtown flat was a siren-like alarm. It was reminiscent of those you here across the Midwest warning of tornados. There was no regularity to when the alarm would go off, happening at all hours of the day or night. It occurred so irregularly that I always forgot to ask what it signified. Then, when I was at my community pottery class one night, I heard the siren go off and finally got the sense to ask its meaning. After receiving an inquisitive look, I was informed that it signaled the volunteer fire brigade to rally and support the employed team of firefighters with a potential "disaster". The alarm is triggered any time someone calls emergency services.

Last night, after another rather hectic week at work, I decided to make myself a nice dinner of tuna curry, raita, and naan. Instead of purchasing the naan from the local Indian restaurant directly across the street from me, I got it in my head that it would be more fun to make it. How hard could it be? That was the first misguided step in my faulty logic. Living in a fully furnished apartment I was provided with all my cookery, however, it's not quite up to the standard I was used to in my American kitchen. In addition, the electric range I have is slightly more testy and difficult to regulate. So when I started to fry the naan in my pan, I generated a little bit of smoke. Unfortunately, it was slightly more smoky then I thought, triggering my fire detector. The problem was that it kept going off and I didn't know how to stop it. There is an alarm system for my flat, but I chose not to activate it, and thus was never given an instruction manual nor a code. In my irrational state, the only solution I could generate was to call emergency services. The next sound I heard was the alarm siren going off for the town and a fire truck pulling up next to my door. Of course, at this point the fire detector in my flat had shut off. Feeling about three inches tall, I answered the door, thanked them for their services, and sent them on their merry way. In the end the meal turned out quite well, but I do believe I will be the next subject of conversation in this provincial little town.

Provinciality

I know I keep perseverating about small town life, but it is where I'm living and thus dictates my social perspective. There is an expectation that people will know each other as well as ongoings in the town, but it still amazes me how much gossip occurs and anxiety about what people are saying. Granted, it is those same loose lips that have kept my after hours social outings to a minimum. It seems there's nothing better to talk about then who was seen drunk last night at the local pub and who's applying for disability benefit. Case in point, I went out to lunch today with two local friends who've spent most of their lives living in the area and who's family trees branch out enough to shade the entire town. It was great to catch up with them, but they spent most of the conversation discussing which farm had been bought by whom, the latest marital disasters and dating match-ups, and of course the latest drunken sightings. Not having lived in the area for more then four months, most of this discussion was lost on me. I will admit that I'm not one to turn a deaf ear on gossip, but I try not to spread it around like the next great news broadcast. It's certainly not the only thing I want to talk about, either. People are such interesting individuals in their own right, even without knowing their second hand social misfortunes and financial misadventures. It just seems sad that in this small town it's not what you know, it's who you know, and that's a little too narrow for me.