Lights out in land of sheep dogs

AUCKLAND, Feb. 24 – New Zealand, like any island state, guards its borders closely. Undesirables and foreign plagues –fruit flies, the potato blight – must be kept out. The invaders are at the gates and an unsullied nation must be protected. Well . . . that may be something of an exaggeration. The thing is, I'm still sore from my encounter with customs.

I was looking forward to describing the lush countryside of Aotearoa (New Zealand's pre-European moniker), its mix of pastoral grandeur and subtropical exoticism, but that'll have to wait. So, too, I must postpone columns on the nation's sights, sports, linguistic quirks, fascinating Aotearoa tradition, and how (omigod) different it is from America. All that guidebook jazz.

Events have conspired to make my first days down under a pathetic comedy of errors. No sooner do I arrive in Auckland airport than I am attacked by some weird-looking little dog. I almost kick the stupid mutt. Turns out he (she?) is a latter-day McGruff who has me tagged for possession. (Forgive the triteness of that last phrase). Perhaps my latent sympathy for Ross Rebagliati sets the creature off. In any case, he understands "take a bite out of crime" in the literal sense. Thank heaven for high tops.

Panic rises. My throat feels very tight. My head spins. I blame secondhand smoke. I blame the man. Heedless of these silent accusations, little men (they're always little men . . . even disguised as a portly Maori woman I recognized them) take me to a back room. Suddenly my ten days of mangy facial hair don't feel quite so liberating.

For those of you who have never been suspected of smuggling marijuana, let me say that it can be kind of daunting. Time and intimidation are both on the side of your would-be prosecutors. A uniformed man is a few inches from my face: "So you smoke pot, now, do ya?" in that lovely accent. My bags are unpacked, my clothes unfolded and turned inside out (I think the boxers were a hit). Finally, I'm free to go. (Clean as a whistle, I might add. Cynics).

Having escaped deportation, I think the worst is over. After an uneventful orientation (remarkably like summer camp – everything is very outdoorsy down here), however, the farcical returns with a vengeance. I move into my dorm, which seems to be having electricity problems. Oh, well. Might as well head out to learn my way around downtown, enjoy a nice summer breeze and check out the Hero parade. Hero is Auckland's big gay pride event, set to roughly coincide with Mardi Gras. For obvious reasons, it's a big political issue as well.

I find a spot along the parade route. It begins to rain. People seem relieved: we are in a drought. The driving four-hour downpour that ensues doesn't really distract me from the streams of shirtless men in blue hard hats marching down the street. The weather only adds to the surreal bubble I am trapped in. More disturbing is a six-three block of granite I almost tangle with, the Kiwis' version of a redneck. Thankfully, he eventually directs his belligerence elsewhere.

The city is strangely dark as I return to my quarters. Turns out all of Auckland's Central Business District is without power: three of its four main power cables are kaput, just like that. It seems nobody thought to maintain them. Along with many businesses, my building will be locked for at least a week. The University is postponing the start of the school year. Until then, international students are on their own. Cheerio. See ya.

I'd thought things were going kind of strangely until now, but this is a bizarre third world beginning of the apocalypse-type stuff: the vital centre of a city of 1.1 million shutting down for a week because of poor cable maintenance? It goes to show that "impossible is not capitalism," as the French might put it. Apparently Mercury Power decided to buy up its competitors' stock rather than keep up the infrastructure. The irony serves the greedy bastards right, but in the meantime the city is at a standstill.

Most students scramble to find lodgings; I have a friend down here. My problem, a glaring inability to plan ahead, is highlighted when a week of fall break is cancelled, meaning I have to travel earlier than I'd thought. I don't know what I want to see. I can hardly buy a bus ticket by myself at this point. Where are your parents when you need them?

All this has kept me quite busy. I leave for Napier and Wellington tomorrow (look 'em up, I'll be giving you the lowdown). Tourism is a nice consolation for eviction.

In the tradition of similar fables, allow me to point out the moral of my misadventures. For one thing, know what you want to see before you go overseas: things change in a hurry. More important, though, are the two fundamental laws of Study Abroad. First law: don't smuggle drugs (Corollary: avoid Turkish prisons). Second law: expect the unexpected. Right-O. See you next episode. (Trevor Sweek is currently studying abroad in New Zealand)