tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50664524445826444352024-03-05T14:55:15.862-08:00New Plymouth News and Views - Jim HickA collection of my news-stories and opinions Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09962406744199318424noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5066452444582644435.post-73684496900764376782012-11-21T18:09:00.002-08:002012-11-21T18:09:52.870-08:00Photo Photo Photo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09962406744199318424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5066452444582644435.post-36558056786867446432012-09-27T16:17:00.000-07:002012-09-27T16:17:37.388-07:00Taranaki Charity Worker visits Uganda
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVlzW7DVNehC_zIe-93RHFSyknUdBWtfUX2jOdoYhW6KT2FMBd7nTydSv_n9AI1KTfkSm-MvOXwDqdu72k1lRa_NFpOngnDC2BbjA4ElZxC3AP5_o75QrVachW0Tz05YD5OLjvP46QJo/s1600/dympna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVlzW7DVNehC_zIe-93RHFSyknUdBWtfUX2jOdoYhW6KT2FMBd7nTydSv_n9AI1KTfkSm-MvOXwDqdu72k1lRa_NFpOngnDC2BbjA4ElZxC3AP5_o75QrVachW0Tz05YD5OLjvP46QJo/s320/dympna.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Charity work</strong>: Dympna Hart recently returned from a trip to Uganda where she delivered aid and saw poverty first hand. </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBCmXfNY8FuzYCG3X0q0iO1TQ2Y1C87izlxgt_7fYwBMt-Af0SfuJ66wIKzyufOXcbvApNCyDgTNpVFU7KL2qzXTJNTXjQd026Cc_YoJW9lZ5E45ucjjKfAORs73vU7QO_PCNoS7phcA/s1600/uganda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBCmXfNY8FuzYCG3X0q0iO1TQ2Y1C87izlxgt_7fYwBMt-Af0SfuJ66wIKzyufOXcbvApNCyDgTNpVFU7KL2qzXTJNTXjQd026Cc_YoJW9lZ5E45ucjjKfAORs73vU7QO_PCNoS7phcA/s320/uganda.jpg" width="121" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">By Jimmy Hick<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">New Plymouth woman Dympna Hart has seen poverty before but
her recent trip to Africa revealed a new level of human hardship to her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mrs Hart spent June in <span style="background-color: white;">Uganda</span> working with local Christian ministries
to deliver food, clothes and money to poverty stricken children outside the
capital Kampala.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The part-time worker at the Good News Centre Christian
bookshop on Devon St has previously spent a month working with charities in
India, but the destitution she saw in East Africa was different.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: lime; font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I thought I’d seen that in India, but this was poverty they
were living in thatched huts and cooking with charcoal embers,” said Mrs Hart
who worships at the C3 church in the city and New Zeal at Okato.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While in Africa Mrs Hart also linked up with children’s
charity <a href="http://www.imani-foundation.org/index.html">Imani</a> and took part in three "crusades", delivering food, clothing and
money to poor people in rural areas.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We did a clothing drive to the east from Kampala, almost to
the Kenyan border. Two people carriers absolutely loaded with clothing,” she
said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mrs Hart said she felt privileged to be able to connect with
the two charitable groups.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“They’re both totally dedicated. They live in their own
country amongst their own people. They’re changing lives daily, offering people
hope, let alone clothes and food.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As well as experiencing how the Ugandan people live, Mrs
Hart also squeezed in some sightseeing, travelling to the source of the Nile to
fulfil a childhood dream, and while in Kampala she also visited the
Presidential Palace, home of former dictator Idi Amin.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now that she’s back in New Zealand, Mrs Hart hopes to set up
permanent links between the groups she worked with in Uganda and the churches
she is involved with here.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I wanted to see their ministry working, and connect what
I’ve got here with what they’ve got on the ground over there,” she said.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mrs Hart said her Ugandan experience left her feeling like a
local, and she hopes to return and see how the ministries work is going.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It’s a given I’ll go again one day.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jimmy Hick is a Witt journalism student<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09962406744199318424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5066452444582644435.post-72178397385650504422012-09-27T14:30:00.000-07:002012-09-27T21:37:33.570-07:00Austin Martin Win Gold in Los Angeles<h2 style="text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Solid gold</strong>: Musicians Lee Martin (left) and Karl Austin had their instruments stolen in Los Angeles - but still managed to bring back the gold from the World Championship of performing Arts. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>By Jimmy Hick</em></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Taranaki musicians
Lee Martin and Karl Austin played up a storm at the World Championship of Performing Arts in Los Angeles – despite having their instruments stolen just
before the show.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Austin said
the pair were enjoying a few drinks at a Los Angeles bar before the contest when
their guitars were swiped from right in front of them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We were having a bit of a good night,
hanging out with some local kids,” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“We played them a mini concert, then they did the old smoke and mirrors
and took off with our gear. I chased them and fell down some stairs.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The <a href="http://www.wcopa.com/">World Championship of PerformingArts</a> is a global talent quest, where singers, dancers, musicians and actors compete
for medals and exposure.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Luckily the New Plymouth duo who use
the stage name <a href="http://soundcloud.com/austin-martin-the-band-nz">Austin Martin</a> managed to get new instruments before the
competition.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The effort was worth it as the duo snared
14 medals, 12 of which were gold.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Austin Martin, were selected to perform
in Los Angeles as part of 14-strong New Zealand contingent of competitors.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now they're back home, they want to keep up the momentum.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The plan is to write an album and
get back over to the States,” Austin said, “although there’s definitely some
Taranaki gigs in the pipeline.”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<u>Jimmy Hick is a Witt journalism student</u>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09962406744199318424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5066452444582644435.post-17185627585648200262012-09-26T19:34:00.001-07:002012-09-26T19:55:11.339-07:00Asset-sales petition gathers New Plymouth support<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Signing up</strong>: Dr Stuart Bramhall says 3000 New Plymouth residents have signed the asset-sales petition</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><em>By Jimmy Hick</em></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thousands of
New Plymouth residents have signed a <a href="http://keepourassets.org.nz/">petition</a> which aims to give voters a say
on the Government’s plan to partially sell State-owned assets.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dr Stuart
Bramhall, who is collecting signatures in New Plymouth, said the <a href="http://www.greens.org.nz/">Green Party</a>
alone had collected about 3000 signatures.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We probably
have five or six people in New Plymouth collecting signatures,” Dr Bramhall said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The
petition, which aims to force a citizens’ initiated referendum on asset sales,
has more than 225,000 signatures but needs to reach 304,000 by next March.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The National
-led Government is trying to pass <a href="http://www.parliament.nz/en-NZ/PB/Legislation/Bills/c/6/8/00DBHOH_BILL11223_1-Mixed-Ownership-Model-Bill.htm">legislation</a> which would see up to 49 per cent
Mighty River Power, Meridian Energy, Genesis and Solid Energy sold to private
investors.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dr Bramhall
said</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> the
public stood to lose a lot if the assets are sold.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“If we lose
this regular income we have from the assets, the Government will have three
choices – to increase taxes, to cut services or to go deeper into debt.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jimmy Hick is a Witt journalism student</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09962406744199318424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5066452444582644435.post-2349137980667723592012-05-15T03:26:00.003-07:002012-05-15T03:26:26.749-07:00<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Facebook – unlike. In fact, Despise.</span></b></div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Facebook kills communication. It
devalues the beauty of the written word, rendering it a cheap,
<span lang="en-GB">bastardised</span>, lesser form of itself. The
barrage of mindless messages flitting between the vacuous minds of
facebook's self-selected drones has done to literature what Britney
Spears did to music. And all at a price mind you.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The idea is novel. What do people want?
To be heard by other people - and to hear other people themselves.
Humans also have an urge to peer over garden fences, and peep behind
curtains. Facebook (the online human zoo), among other websites, is
simply the online version of this natural voyeurism. Except someone
is watching you, while your playing peeping-tom.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
People will argue that social-networks
have it's benefits, and they surely do. But the amount of pop-up
advertising, time-wasting links and pouty self-portraits is enough to
make a venereal-disease ridden sailor nauseous.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Communication is amazing, exhilarating
and priceless. But the exploitative nature of websites like facebook
mask the true intentions of the creators. Hiding behind a fuzzy
shield of 'connecting people', the creators sit laughing on
multi-million dollar profits, selling YOUR information to the highest
bidder.
</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's all about money. Advertising.
Promoting. Surveying. Gleaning personal information for market
research. All in the name name of the mighty dollar. 'connecting
people' indeed; more like 'connecting' a clique of
capitalist-vultures with a large amount of cash.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The majority of people, who use social
networking, don't even realise how much they gamble when they log on.
It's easy to pretend that a website like facebook really was set up
to help you keep in touch with Granny. But whoa there! Think for a
minute, look around, be cynical, and ask yourself if it's really
worth it.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
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Selling your soul for a look at someone
else's.</div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09962406744199318424noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5066452444582644435.post-51905298124891086222012-05-15T02:42:00.001-07:002012-05-15T02:42:31.835-07:00<br />
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<u><b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Fracking is not the issue:</span></b></u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<u><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Fracking is a word that most people
would not have understood a few years ago. Only those in the oil and
gas industry, and those who the contentious method of fossil fuel
extraction directly affected, would have had any idea what it
involved. That's all changed in Taranaki now.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Hydraulic fracturing is a method of
reaching oil and gas deposits, deep under the Earth's crust, by using
a mix of high pressure chemicals and water to crack solid rock, and
release deposits of fossil fuels.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Discussion around fracking generally
gets stuck on whether this method of extraction is safe, how it
effects underground water, and whether the chemicals used will be
harmful to the environment around the drill site.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The problem with how this fracking
debate is framed, is that it only involves talking about whether
fracking, as an isolated method of oil/gas extraction, is harmful to
people and the environment.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This discussion, although it needs to
happen, ignores the crux of what fracking represents.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The range of debate around fracking in
the mainstream media seems to avoid (purposefully?) the bigger
picture.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Discussion on whether fracking is
harmful to the environment or not, while ignoring the fundamental
issue of fossil fuel dependence, is like discussing the merits of
different methods of murder; while ignoring the victim. The methods
used to reap oil and gas aren't the point. It's the fact that it is
happening at all that should be <span lang="en-GB">scrutinised.</span>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The way we live is dependent on fossil
fuels. That is a fact. From how our food is delivered, how we get to
and from work, the clothes we wear and the ways we entertain
ourselves all require oil and gas in various forms.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The world is dependent on a finite
resource, the gleaming treasures which we frack for. The trappings we
take for granted will eventually cease to exist if we keep using our
resources in an un-sustainable and reckless manner.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The arguments around fracking bring to
mind the tired cliché of not being able to see the forest for the
trees. It is not how we acquire the fuels we have come to rely on in
the last few centuries, but why we need them, that needs to be
seriously looked at.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">For thousands of years human beings
survived without the luxuries we, the pampered first-worlders, take
for granted daily. Some would argue that humans are exploitative by
nature, that we are cruel, greedy and selfish. Only time will tell.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Perhaps it is naïve to hope that the
oil magnates, plastic toy <span lang="en-GB">manufacturers</span>,
car designers and the other industrial powers that hold sway over
economies will see that what they are doing is unethical. And that
thier behaviour is harmful to all of us that are alive now, and those
who are yet to be born.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The discussion around fracking needs to
be expanded to include a wider angle of thought. We need to consider
just how much we want to be reliant on fossil fuels. For the sake of
short term profits, and short term employment, we are jeopardizing
our future - and we can all agree that we want a future.</span></div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09962406744199318424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5066452444582644435.post-61388364697832233402012-05-08T01:11:00.001-07:002012-05-08T01:13:30.639-07:00<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;"><u>ROBOTIC DEATH</u></span></b></h2>
<i><b><br /></b></i><br />
<i><b>I start this blog-post with an empty mind, but I'm sure something will arise from the recesses of my brain... Ahhh here we go...</b></i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
I was thinking about robotic warfare the other day. Robots have no compassion, and if one was ordered to kill, it would show no mercy - unless programmed to do so. This thought, although it seems quite obvious, has dire implications for the battles that will undoubtedly rage between humans for centuries to come.<br />
<br />
Let me elaborate.<br />
<br />
I was watching a film about the 1914 Christmas ceasefire in WWII. The picture illustrated how even in the hell of close combat warfare, in the cesspit of human wretchedness, kindness and peace can shine through. The heroes who participated in the numerous ceasefires on that fateful day, (and in the few days that followed in some cases) shared the common interest of self preservation. Caring about themselves and other people, rather than the lofty ideals and territorial gains in the psychotic minds of the masters of war.<br />
<br />
The unfortunate souls, stuck on the fronts, showed that even when hope seems lost, and when death circles above, all it takes to regain some aspect of humanity is to lay down your weapon.<br />
<br />
Robots wouldn't do that.<br />
<br />
Modern drones show no compassion, no differentiation between victims and no humility. They kill (in some cases) indiscriminately. The future of warfare seems to be leaning towards robotic, apathetic androids, without the 'frailty' of self determination. It would seem that this is an attractive concept to those who play men like pawns, and gamble human lives at a whim.<br />
<br />
An automated, weaponised unit which cannot look into the eyes of a cowering victim is useful , when cold-calculated murder is the goal. Humanity is surely descending into a period of ethical chaos, with these robotic beasts reigning havoc on populations world-wide. Maybe one day a code of ethics will be able to be programmed, morals micro-chipped or compassion coded. But until that day, have fear citizens of the Earth, death from above has no mercy!<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqkWTwMlguXAZMEg9ZzLqrVM3tzQy4Z1tzJxkjmoKrOKbYCuy6mkwWuTarw-jFhbxr__EBHfM4-FlNsy5p6sYKJLhA6__qH6TyoHtb6dVvWoIQmilukVZn2Fc1INMX-hEBT5iaKGDWLUQ/s1600/robot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqkWTwMlguXAZMEg9ZzLqrVM3tzQy4Z1tzJxkjmoKrOKbYCuy6mkwWuTarw-jFhbxr__EBHfM4-FlNsy5p6sYKJLhA6__qH6TyoHtb6dVvWoIQmilukVZn2Fc1INMX-hEBT5iaKGDWLUQ/s320/robot.JPG" width="304" /></a></div>
<br />Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09962406744199318424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5066452444582644435.post-87591458706444428492012-03-19T02:25:00.000-07:002012-03-19T02:25:46.348-07:00Articles For Taranaki Daily NewsAuthor's fascination with war spurs novel with local flavour<br />
<br />
Taranaki author and history buff Sid Marsh toured the villages of northern Italy finding authentic voices for his debut novel. <br />
Greyhound was launched at Puke Ariki this week and it follows the exploits of the NZ 2nd Division which fought throughout Italy during World War II. <br />
"I spoke to locals over there and had a yarn with Italian writers, novelists, historians and reporters," Marsh, 55, who went to Italy in 2008 and 2010, said. <br />
During his five weeks in Italy, the Eltham writer also visited the Vatican City and Triest, the city where the New Zealand 2nd Division ended its Italian campaign. <br />
The novel is also the result of hours of research done at Alexander Turnbull Library and the Archives New Zealand Building in Wellington. <br />
Filled with terse humour and the banter typical of Kiwi soldiers, Greyhound has a Taranaki spin, with the main characters hailing from the province. <br />
A WWII history buff, Marsh also interviewed Taranaki veterans, to help give his novel authenticity. <br />
The author said he had always been fascinated by the war. <br />
"I've been interested in WWII for years," he said. "About 10 years ago I started looking into tank warfare, and I've always been a sucker for Sherman and Tiger tanks". <br />
An author for 22 years, Marsh has written several non-fiction books which explore his other passion, New Zealand wildlife. <br />
He said he would decide whether to continue with fiction after seeing how well Greyhound was received. "If it sinks like a stone, I'll stick to non-fiction." <br />
Greyhound is available from Woodshed publishers for $39.99. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.stuff.co.nz/taranaki-daily-news/news/6596294/Authors-fascination-with-war-spurs-novel-with-local-flavour">http://www.stuff.co.nz/taranaki-daily-news/news/6596294/Authors-fascination-with-war-spurs-novel-with-local-flavour</a>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09962406744199318424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5066452444582644435.post-54487685827878901742012-03-19T02:23:00.000-07:002012-03-19T02:23:52.868-07:00Articles for Taranaki Daily NewsCar groomers given a clean start<br />
<br />
A new carwash business in New Plymouth is offering a leg-up to New Plymouth's unemployed. <br />
Mick Willbourne, who runs similar businesses in Wellington and Tauranga, has employed four people through Work and Income at his Courtenay St Shop n' Shine site and hopes to hire two more. <br />
"We are working with Winz to employ people who have a difficult time finding work," said Mr Willbourne, who is also offering work experience opportunities at the carwash. <br />
Originally from Romford, East London, Mr Willbourne has been in New Zealand for about five years, and has previously worked as a butcher, owned a delicatessen and has worked in various hospitality positions. <br />
He said he decided to open Shop n' Shine in New Plymouth due to a lack of similar services here. <br />
"There's great opportunities for small businesses in Taranaki. We saw an opening in the market and decided to go for it." <br />
Launched to coincide with Americarna last month, Shop n Shine's prices range from $15 for a quick wash to $50 for a more thorough mini-groom. <br />
Work and Income Taranaki- King Country commissioner for social development, Gloria Campbell, said Mr Willbourne's initiative was to be applauded. <br />
"This is great news for four local job seekers who are now in paid work. I hope other young people looking for work will be encouraged by this." <br />
Work and Income offers a range of assistance to employers who provide first-time workers with a job or support unskilled workers who require training. <br />
The assistance can include subsidising wages and funding for training. <br />
Mrs Campbell encouraged other Taranaki employers to get in touch with their local Work and Income work broker, whether they were considering hiring now or in the future. <br />
<br />
Jimmy Hick is a Witt journalism student. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.stuff.co.nz/taranaki-daily-news/business/6522624/Car-groomers-given-a-clean-start">http://www.stuff.co.nz/taranaki-daily-news/business/6522624/Car-groomers-given-a-clean-start</a>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09962406744199318424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5066452444582644435.post-34904811910914507412011-05-16T00:40:00.001-07:002011-06-16T00:22:35.512-07:00The Elephant's Party<div lang="en-NZ" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LW2DFFEoKwjHWTNXgx5iHCKQgLTE7FpwKw5I2SokEfOytF5QN4TFRyd8BEDaRFI6nI1xXq9jkNaRVi01zLO67bDG1HWGYxGonUzss3Cgg0UZ82wGrEsbJ8-d6q4qmyIQhVMhhmoWNHI/s1600/Elephant1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LW2DFFEoKwjHWTNXgx5iHCKQgLTE7FpwKw5I2SokEfOytF5QN4TFRyd8BEDaRFI6nI1xXq9jkNaRVi01zLO67bDG1HWGYxGonUzss3Cgg0UZ82wGrEsbJ8-d6q4qmyIQhVMhhmoWNHI/s320/Elephant1.bmp" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elephant approaching the Riverbank, Mongwe, Zimbabwe. Photo by Karl Raubenheimer.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The huge Bull elephant surveyed <i>Whip-it-dupa-do</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> with wise </span>ochre<span style="font-style: normal;"> eyes. He advanced down the mud bank and to the rivers edge. Behind him a line of eight more Bulls followed suit, the damp mud of the Zambezi River collapsing easily under their combined weight. Mark, our guide and boat driver, tried the 200cc engine, it whirred </span><span lang="en-NZ"><span style="font-style: normal;">meancingly</span></span><span style="font-style: normal;"> but the boat didn't move an inch.</span><span lang="en-NZ"><span style="font-style: normal;"> The Bull advanced again, lifted his trunk and stepped into the slow flowing water.</span></span></div><div lang="en-NZ" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div lang="en-NZ" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">In the heart of Southern Africa, the Zambezi River begins in Angola, flows through Zambia, and graces the North of Zimbabwe, before finding the Indian Ocean in Mozambique. Behind the huge man-made Lake Kariba which borders Zambia and Zimbabwe, the Zambesi River flows down into the Zambezi valley. In this section of the River, between Zimbabwe and Mozambique, we found ourselves at Mongwe, far from civilisation, for a week of fishing, game viewing, and adventure. </div><div lang="en-NZ" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div lang="en-NZ" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The day had begun with a beautiful sunrise, making the hills of southern Zambia glow like embers in a fire. The insects rose as early as our motley crew of would-be bushmen. The tsetse flies delivering potent bites, filled with sleeping sickness. The heat of the day turned idle-lazing into a sweaty activity, and casting fishing lines into the deep eddies became a tiring task. Any liquid consumed rapidly became sweat, drenching ones body and flowing from every pore. We spent the morning motoring upstream, then drifting back down the River with the current, enjoying the tranquility. Pods of hippo and banks of crocodiles bordered the river, watching us with beady eyes, ready to tear to shreds any unwary swimmer. Brave Zambians rode the same river on hollowed out wooden canoes, coping with the imminent danger of becoming dinner, in order to put their own on the table. </div><div lang="en-NZ" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div lang="en-NZ" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The River flows over ever-changing sand banks, and around one particular sweeping curve, a pair of Lioness lazed with blood-stained chops, after feasting on an unknown and unseen victim. The boat drifted closer and closer to the magnificant cats, eventually coming to rest against the bank. The pair of Lioness, sedated after their feast, looked at us with satisfyed boredom. Karl, being brave, ventured out of the boat, camera in hand, in search of the perfect shot. He stepped cautiously onto the grass of the bank, and raised his camera. In a flash the closer of the two Lioness leapt forward in a classic move of intimidation. She mock-charged, and came in a single bound, halving the distance between her and the bewildered Karl. Our burgeoning photographer froze, the yellow eyes of the Lioness piercing through him. The 250kg mass of rippling muscle keen to test its teeth and claws. A violent death felt very close. Karl retreated and made it back onto the boat. Luckily, like domestic cats, Lions too hate water, unless you find yourself in the Ocavango delta of Botswana, where the Lion spend their lives hunting in knee deep water, bringing down Buffalo. “I thought she was even closer” Karl managed, “Then I realized I had my Zoom on”.</div></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDTOEFosqW9eTqE9LPH4-QdN3ynpyHAF26xjxmMfAQ3IQOMkAC3I_J-cSNybQ2-gB6jdNUIIqttO7Uq5apUy1EXaBfM6wFgfUTT2MG4-gyOYlD9vRx0wgywgjKZtLFnv8aRDyCXsaWq8U/s1600/Lion1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDTOEFosqW9eTqE9LPH4-QdN3ynpyHAF26xjxmMfAQ3IQOMkAC3I_J-cSNybQ2-gB6jdNUIIqttO7Uq5apUy1EXaBfM6wFgfUTT2MG4-gyOYlD9vRx0wgywgjKZtLFnv8aRDyCXsaWq8U/s320/Lion1.bmp" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lioness, Zambezi River. Photo By Karl Raubenheimer.<br />
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<div lang="en-NZ" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">As the day began to age, the sky changed, evolving from blue, to azure, to a pink tinged canvas. We first saw the Bull Elephant around another bend in the River. 5km downriver from Mongwe, we crossed into Mana Pools, a section of the River plentiful in game, and popular with travellers and locals lucky enough to make it into Zimbabwe. The Elephant were gathered at the riverbank, eating the thorny acacia trees, and caressing each other gently with their massive trunks. We egded closer using the current of the River, and took the boat within 10 meters from the riverbank. Then the Patriarch spotted us. </div><div lang="en-NZ" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div lang="en-NZ" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>Vroooom</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, the boat's engine roared, </span><i>Vroooom</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. We were stuck, the unseen sandbank below holding us fast. The enormous Bull was now only 5 meters away, and advancing quickly. With his trunk raised brazenly above his old grey head, decision time was upon us. At any moment the huge grey shape could pluck one of us out of the boat, and dash us against the jagged rocks. Mark, putting down his beer, gave us our instructions. “Everyone out of the boat, its time to push”. Giddily, we disembarked from the relative safety of '</span><i>Whip-it'</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, and stepped into the knee-deep water. The river was warm and the sun baked down on bare backs. Several crocodiles eyed us from a distance, and more than likely a few unseen crocodiles were even closer. They kept their distance. A nearby pod of hippo watched our actions with equal intrigue. The imminent danger filled us with adrenaline, and a rush of unexpected confidence. With our combined effort the boat finally moved, and Mark, sitting at the engine, sipped at his beer again. Reversing the boat 10 meters, we sat and watched the herd of Elephant gracefully cross the River, trunks and tails linked up in a grey train. They crossed the deep channel of water easily, and made their way to an island halfway across the River, where they were joined by a group of females who had appeared behind us silently. The full moon hanging low in the sky seemed to signal a social gathering for these huge beasts, an elephant party, and one where gatecrashing would mean certain death. </span> </div><div lang="en-NZ" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div lang="en-NZ" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Boating back up the mighty Zambezi with the warm wind blowing in our hair (and lack of in Mark's case), life felt sweet. The nightcap went down with much appreciation; Appreciation for the beauty and joys of our adventures, the luckiness of such a luxury as travel and the contentness that comes with a fulfilling day. The sun set against a tranquil backdrop of Zambian Mountains . The mighty Zambezi kept flowing, as it always will, long after we and the Elephant have left this world.</div></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset on the Zambezi. Photo by Karl Raubenheimer.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09962406744199318424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5066452444582644435.post-62703999941624595432011-04-28T20:41:00.001-07:002011-05-02T04:06:17.109-07:00Mozambique<div style="text-align: center;"><u>September 2010 Mozambique</u></div><br />
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<span lang="en-GB">The drive down into Mozambique through </span>Ressano Garcia does a good a job as any at summarizing the feel of the <span lang="en-GB">impoverished</span> southern African country. It is obvious that no words can ever begin to explore the characteristics of a people or the aesthetic of a country. As everyone’s individual experiences govern their emotions and perceptions of any specific place, only our own words can explain, and do justice to the things we see. <br />
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For me, a young traveler, fresh to the open roads and wide spaces of Africa, this drive seems to exemplify the inequalities, the ironies, and the feeling of everyday life in Mozambique. On a sweltering September day, our trusty set of 4 wheels, a 96 VW Golf, puffed wearily up the sloping hill from Eastern South Africa into Mozambique. The border post came unexpectedly. With little signposting the large tarmac car-park appeared from behind lush green hills. The growl of truck engines and a haze blue exhaust smoke greeted us. Following the few signs that hadn’t been salvaged for scrap metal, we parked our car and entered the customs office. The walk to the office meant a trek through the throng of desperate locals, jostling to offer their rates on cash exchanges, to sell their wares and to plead for a few spare coins. The desperation on the faces and the unceasing insistence of the hustlers made the 30 meter walk seem like a lifetime, and for once the inside of a border-post office seemed inviting. Inside the building the broken air-conditioner still hummed enthusiastically, contrasting fittingly with the completely un-enthusiastic border official, a middle aged black woman with an air of boredom and coldness.<br />
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Handing over the unexpectedly large sum of money for the visas, we were made to stand against a moth-eaten pale blue sheet, and look into the unfeeling eye of an old camera. Next our fingers were rolled in thick black ink, and pressed onto a piece of paper covered in unintelligible Portuguese handwriting. We received our visas gratefully, and were happy to leave the small plasterboard porter-cabin. Walking back through the throng of people, the noise of voices in Portuguese and English rang out, yelling prices, rates and offers. Although disdain for humanity is made grudgingly, it seemed far too easy to forget these poor folk's woes and much easier to focus selfishly on ones own tasks. Back into the car and across the border. <br />
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The road rolls down in a smooth long curve from Ressano Garcia, heading along the main highway to Maputo, the capital of Mozambique. The countryside is barren. The vegetation blasted day after day by the African sun hides meekly, and gnarled old trees occasionally salute the sky, looking pitiful and withered. As the road continues houses begin to appear. To call them houses is flattering; many are single huts, made from corrugated iron and other salvaged materials. Bullet holes pock mark these shacks, testimony to the savage civil war which from 1977-1994 tore this once beautiful country apart. The scars of this war are sadly and ironically most apparent on the already devastated housing, showing the price poor people paid to have nothing change. Many a local can be seen swinging wearily on crutches, paying the hefty price for colonialism and it's ensuing ramifications. The sacrifice of war was unrewarded; battles were fought in vain. Although Mozambique gained independence from Portugal, the result was a bloody Civil War, and the only consequence of the bloody civil war was the betrayal of a government; A government whose ideals were supposedly focused on the redistribution of wealth, the prosperity of the nation, and the uplifting of those people with nothing.<br />
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The barren drive down into Mozambique gives one time to consider the situation the people here live through day by day. The feel of the US funded highway is uncomfortably smooth, and one can’t help but think the tarmac is made from the crushed bones of the impoverished people. The highway, one of the newest and least damaged pieces of infrastructure in Mozambique must be maintained at all costs, after all the road is a very useful and convenient way to funnel the wealth from a country, gradually bleeding out the resources and siphoning the riches into neighboring territories. In the hazy distance Maputo is swathed in blue exhaust fumes, the noise of the city, where life and death occur constantly, drones like a hive of angry bees. <br />
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The road pulls you closer to the mass of humanity where people struggle, and where fortunes are made and lost overnight. The Indian ocean lapping into Maputo harbour, slapping against the cool rock walls echoes the fate of Africa. Waves and nations rise and fall, and as time goes on the Portuguese walls slowly erode away beckoning new opportunities, new governments and new tides. The sun sets beautifully behind this aged and worn city, the embers of the sun and the subtle changing colours give one a glimmering feeling of hope, that maybe the lingering scars of war may heal over, and that the people of this beautiful country will one day enjoy the fruits of their <span lang="en-GB">labour.</span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09962406744199318424noreply@blogger.com0