Rural Connectivity: A response to BlazeWifi

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with railroads. On an otherwise silent day in Yankton, South Dakota, a train's powerful bellow made me tug on my dad's leg, begging him to drive me to the railroad tracks. We emerged from the car and I counted the carriages–sometimes to over 100 (no easy feat for a three-year-old). Visiting my grandparents in Tryon, North Carolina, merely changed the scenery and who had the burden of letting me loose to watch the locomotion. The trains shook the whole house.

Then the trains stopped running.

An artery was severed, and the effects were noticeable. The lights in cozy little stores went dark and the cracks in the sidewalk stopped being fixed. Today, the tracks are overgrown and rusted, but rural connectivity is alive–robust and evolved.

I now live in Tryon, but I have made some notable stops along the way: New Delhi, India, for two years; Washington, D.C., for a few summers; Wellington, New Zealand, for two years. Moving around showed me Tryon does not have the advantages in infrastructure or notoriety a capital city enjoys. However, though the portraits on our walls have stopped shaking in the night and travelers are a bit less common, we are more connected today than ever. We do share the most important resource of all: the internet.

This summer, I am working at an outdoor adventure company in the area. I completed my interview over Skype, sent the paperwork over email, and heard of my acceptance while hundreds of miles away. My story is not unique; the company employs multiple New Zealanders (myself not included) who heard about the nearby Green River and went halfway around the globe to see it. During training, I learned my coworkers came from places like Utah, New York, Texas, Alabama, and more–I was the only local.

What is even more astounding is those who come to see the area. I have met people from at least a dozen states and a handful of countries in the last week alone. While everyone's stories and motivations are different, they often share a common thread: they were inspired by the breathtaking photos or videos they saw on the internet.

Being a nomad offers me a unique perspective in observing the town. I usually come back to Tryon every two years, and each time the accumulation of each tiny change stands out to me in a way I am oblivious to when stationary. I thought the end of the railroad would be a deadly blow. Each time I return, however, the town proves me wrong.

I know how cliché this will sound, but every time I come back I am impressed by Tryon's resilience and ability to live beyond its borders. The local high school teaches Mandarin Chinese and operates a biodiesel generator that runs on sunflower seeds it grows on its own farm. Kids teach themselves instruments and origami from YouTube videos. Online classes have made tertiary education a reality for my peers who work full-time jobs. The Tryon Daily Bulletin, also known as "The World's Smallest Daily Newspaper," has gone digital. I even applied for the community foundation's scholarship program from India. BlazeWifi is looking for the ways the internet changes rural communities. The answer, in my experience, is providing a renewed connection to the world and bringing new energy to the rural lifestyle.

Although trees have fallen across the tracks and the heavy iron nails are now just souvenirs, this town is far from disconnected. If anything, Tryon's charm now has a much more intentional way of attracting wanderers than being a nameless pitstop on the way to a bigger, better town. While the illustrious news stories focus on how technology will shape our cities, the real change is happening in rural connectivity.

Reboot

Wow, this sure is a relic! Almost 5 years later, I hope to begin posting regularly here on a variety of topics. Stay tuned; you will find out as I do.

Santiago: first night on the road

There was nothing different about stepping off the plane except the language had suddenly switched from English to Spanish in a nanosecond. We met our first tour guide outside the airport and he led us out to the bus. Immediately a few differences were apparent to my team mates.

For instance, the zebra crossing rules were all different. The cars would blaze through them without a second thought whereas in New Zealand, drivers were expected to stop. Speaking of drivers, everyone drove on the right side of the road (in both meanings of the word). We were told about the mythical pickpockets of South America, but as far as I know, no one had any problems the entire time.
As we reached the bus we got the expected speech or two, loaded up the bags, and started a half hour drive to the first school.

On the drive we saw both the immaculate, opulent, modern areas of Santiago, and the poverty-stricken slums that surrounded it, all encircled and united by the majestic Andes mountains.

On the way to the school (actually 20 minutes out of the way) we stopped to see the field we would be playing on (which was separate from the current school; the school is being moved next year). There was one massive rugby field, two more smaller fields, with even smaller ones going sideways across them, two hockey fields and some more astros (astro turfs). We then went back towards the schools. Along that route, we saw the richest neighborhoods where all of the houses were super-sized, gated (with spikes on top of the gates), fitted out with tons of security cameras, and most of which had pools.

We arrived at the actual school at about 12:00 and had lunch as a team. We were alone because in South America, it is customary to have lunch near 3pm and dinner near 9pm. We waited around until the end of their school day (about 3:30) and met our billets. I was matched up with another forward of similar height to me but who probably outweighed me by 10 kilos. We (my billet, me, Jonno Wilde, Harry, aka RG, and their billets) walked back to one of the billets' house. On the way we passed a shopping mall with the most chaotic traffic I have ever seen. We literally walked through traffic unscathed, something that our billets would do daily (not the walk, the going through traffic). The walk was cold, but not too long, maybe a mile. On the way, my bag broke. Again.

The tour bags had already gained a reputation for being horrible. By the end of the trip only one or two people had a bag that wasn't broken. Two bags per 39 players. Plus coaches, plus parents, plus equipment bags. The first time my bag broke was in Auckland and it happened several times during the trip.

When we arrived at the house (not my billet's), there was a massive gate (yes, with spikes at the top). There was also a little booth with a guard operating the gate. As we approached, the billet greeted him and he opened the gate. The gate opened to show a cul-de-sac with a few houses in it. We walked to his and were greeted by his mother with a kiss on the cheek. We went upstairs to find a PS3, a massive TV, hundreds of games, and tons of other high-tech equipment. A far reach from the slums we passed on the way here.

After a bit of getting destroyed at a soccer video game, we got into a car (7 people into a 5 person car) and drove to another house (with their own personal gate with an intercom) where we met up with more members of the team. We were all jet-lagged, and I was the only one who knew that we would be waiting till 9pm for dinner. Our team captain fell asleep multiple times and was joked upon throughout the night. When the pizza finally arrived we all found it funny that it was called 'Pizza Pizza'. The language barrier was almost non-existent that night (mainly because they spoke very good English) and we all got along well.

After the 'mini party' my billet and I were picked up by his parents. I greeted them in Spanish but they spoke back in English, something I wasn't looking forward to (preferring to practice my Spanish). After getting back to his house, I took my bags upstairs, unpacked some PJs and had my first night on tour.

The Beginning

This is the first in a series of posts detailing and preserving the 2011 Scots College Rugby Tour.

The first great feeling of excitement came two days before the beginning of the tour, starting to pack my things. I realized that this was the start of an experience I would never forget. Thinking of all the little things my teammates and I would be doing and what I would have to do to prepare for them. The bag started off with a minimalist vibe, but near the end it was a bit of a mission to close it. When the date came, my father graciously dropped me off at the airport on the way to work and waited with  me for a bit to help me get organized. It was an hour and a half wait before anyone else showed up. Once the tour organizer, Peter Cassie, arrived things moved like a well-oiled machine, bags being tagged, sorted, and loaded onto the plane in a matter of minutes. We were given a speech and then we were off to Auckland.

I had a while to gather my thoughts, and it sunk in that this was our first step to South America. On the plane, you could see clear from one side of the North Island to the other, and we were on our way to the world.

The first sour note was struck in Auckland. We were waiting for a bit and questions were arising. One of the coaches then told us "This is what professional rugby is all about, standing around." After a while we found the truth: the flight was stuck in Sydney for a day. We went to a flash hotel and booked two floors. Each player was assigned a buddy for the tour and you were to share a room with them. I made an effort to put everything back in its place so as to not to disturb the gentle flow I had planned for the trip. Later that night we were treated to a fancy dinner. The food was amazing, that being an understatement. Afterwards we played cards and chewed up time until we went to sleep.

In the morning, still in Auckland, we had our first practice as two teams. I was a bit disappointed when I found out I was the biggest guy on the team and would have to play as a forward. After practice we walked around the block, played in the pool at the hotel, and generally wasted time before the flight.

If you have ever been on a similar flight (one of around 12 hours), you would know that those types of flights are some of the most uncomfortable experiences in the modern world. Cramped, sickly, ugh. It was all worth it the first step I took off of the plane, when the traditional greetings were replaced with Hola and Bienvenidos!

The Wellington Marathon - a great thing to finish

"Most people run a race to see who is fastest. I run a race to see who has the most guts."
-Steve Prefontaine

The day started out like any other day. Well, except for the fact that it started at 5:30. Went downstairs, put on all the gear I had prepared the night before, ate, yadda yadda blah blah. After the modified morning ritual, we all drove to the embassy and met the U.S. Marines, a few of whom were also doing the marathon.

The mood was cheerful and optimistic, in contrast to the gloomy weather (which we all said, optimistically, was perfect). I was certainly trying to make myself feel optimistic. Having a cough that had made me miss cross country practice, a rugby game, and get kicked out of chapel, it was more of a 'have a go' than a solid marathon attempt.

"What matters is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight - it's the size of the fight in the dog."
-Dwight D. Eisenhower

Upon arrival at the stadium (the starting place), the place looked rather mild. No decorations, no supporters, few organizers, and runners that looked more like vegetables than the hardcore, stereotypical kiwis (admittedly there was a man dressed as a sunflower and a man in a diaper). There really wasn't a big drama, the 3,2,1 countdown was a duet and there were no gun jumpers. I could tell that this was a massive step up from any race I had done before.

"Pressure is nothing more than the shadow of great opportunity."
-Michael Johnson

The course was through scores of mostly flat bays, the rain subtle but evident. Passing 'hydration stations' felt like material gain. Ever heard of the wall? After the race I would have told you that I never hit the wall, but in hindsight I was plowing through it since mile 1. The cough that had plagued the last two weeks of mine wouldn't leave me alone. The only comfort I had on the subject was that I had four hours to forget.

"The gun goes off and everthing changes... the world changes... and nothing else really matters."
Patti Sue Plummer

The weather. It is often used as an excuse for producing sub-par times or measurements in various sports, but let it be known I am not claiming any excuses. At the beginning of the race, it was a drizzle, creating a humid scenario. As the marathon progressed, the weather deteriorated. After about 5km the waves in the bay and wind really picked up. About 10ft above the sea, getting concussed by waves was slightly unexpected (on the way back, the only way I could distinguish between a wave and the sideways rain was by taste). After the turnaround, (coming into Shelly Bay) the usual view I saw from the point (on a bad day) was obstructed by rain. The finishing point (now only 1.5 miles by air, 9 by foot) was invisible.

As if the gods were teasing me, the closer I got to the finish, the worse the weather became. I feared that if I took any longer the second biblical flood would come. My pockets were wells and my shoes felt like mud taped to my feet. According to my now pulpy race schedule, I was supposed to walk for a bit at 22 miles but I decided it would have been more miserable to walk for a second than to run for half an hour, so I kept going.

"Tough times don't last but tough people do."
-A.C. Green

Backtrack a bit. About 2 miles before the turnaround, I ran up behind a very muscely, determined-looking person. You guessed it, it was a Marine. After some salutations, we vowed to meet at the finish. Right before the turnaround there was an obstacle. The only hill worth its salt in the entire course. The Pass of Brenda. The only other time I had attempted this hill was two months into training, doing speedwork. The hill destroyed me. I ended up going so much slower due to the hill that my overall pace for that run stayed the same.

Looking it in the eyes, I put the motto of the entire race into action. As easy as that, I came up, I went down. On the other side of the pass, salvation. Well, not really. It was my equally determined father cheering me on at the base of the pass, having driven there endlessly due to road blocks. He had the whole nine yards. Support, encouragement, advice, and more Powerade. I had to leave him briefly, travelling about .5 of a mile to the turnaround and back where I started seeing all the faces who were behind me as opposed to those in front.

As my father had said, it's not the guys who win the marathon who really feel it like in other races, it's those guys who finish in six hours who are the real warriors. I paid my respects to those behind rather than those in front. After coming back down the other side of the pass, I set my sights on my second Marine, clearly identifiable as the guy with no shirt on.

On the back side of the 10k turnaround, the waves returned in addition to the sideways rain and the umbrella-snapping wind. The support crew at the water stations were sitting in chairs with waterproof ponchos at this point. This is when I decided not to stop for a bit of a walk - as my race strategy called for. The next half hour is a blurr, the basic cycle so monotonous, it made the rest of the race memorable in comparison.

The cycle I experienced was really tired, really cold, stiff muscles, don't give up!, really tired... As I neared the finish line I heard my name being shouted by my family. I made my way up the ramp to the stadium, which was now a river. As I was about to finish, I heard someone next to the finish line shout 'go mum!' and was subsequently chased by an annoying woman. I had come too long for too far to get passed at the last second. One more effort. One more sprint. I held her off.

Finished.

I could tell you how much it hurt. I could tell you the feeling of determination. But at the end of the day...

"To describe the agony of a marathon to someone who's never run it is like trying to explain color to someone who was born blind."
-Jerome Drayton

Thanks everyone! I did it

Although I felt ecstatic at the finish line, the aftermath of the marathon has kept me on the couch all day. So, can I just say, thank you to everyone who sponsored me? I have reached my goal thanks to all of you. I promise I will tell you all about the run when I can walk again. In the meantime, check out the reward below. Thanks again.

20 miles–and he doesn't wanna talk about it

It was a dark and stormy day - no, seriously, it was.

See, Morgan, this is the type of awful cliched writing you're going to get if you won't do your own blog post and make your father do it.

Anyway, the weather was atrocious. But with the Wellington Marathon looming, there really was no choice but to bang out the 20-miler in this miserable rain- and windfest.

Morgan and I set out from the Wellington Train Station - he on foot, I by bike. The wind hit as soon as we came to the Bayfront. It really was a howler. Trying to break the run down into manageable pieces, Morgan was to run around the bays for seven miles, then back and then add on the three-mile route along Hutt Road that he did for his 18-miler.

My task was to toss him a bottle of Powerade once in a while, and tag along on the bike to keep him on track. That plan came to naught when I hit a broken beer bottle and watched my tire go flat. Morgan was on his own. As I walked back to the car, I wondered how Morgan was going to run into the ferocious wind as it whipped saltwater off the ocean into my face.

When I reconnected with him at about Mile 13, he said the wind had twice knocked him onto his butt and that the seawater had left him unable to see for a couple of minutes.

In the end, he pulled through, hurting but focused. He's now ready for the Marathon. I figure the conditions today added at least three or four miles to his run. He cut through it and finished with a bit of a smile. Now for the marathon - and then South America.