Quiet American visits Australia and New Zealand I spent mid-September though November 2004 in Australia and New Zealand as an itinerant whale biologist. I was fortunate enough to join two different whale projects in Australia, and then spent three weeks wandering around New Zealand. Below are some selections of updates I sent to friends, and some more random journal entries. The Welcome Bottom of the Ninth November 4, 2004 New Zealand Three Nurses Wellington ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Welcome So I believe all of you know that I have embarked on a personal odyssey to the southern hemisphere. I’ve been ‘Down Under’ for about a week and already have a few comments to make about the kind and generous nature of the Australian people, and few comments about the kind and generous nature of Australian sea gulls. Perhaps instead of ‘generous’ it would be more accurate for me to say the… ‘sharing’ nature of Australian sea gulls. But first, the people. My first brush with kindness came from the lovely immigration officer who miraculously held himself back from muttering “stupid American” under his breath as he stamped my passport, for I had hurriedly written on my immigration form that my temporary address was 13 Willurah St, Melbourne, New South Wales. I learned later that that was the equivalent of saying that I was visiting the city of Chicago, located in the state of New York. Melbourne is in the state of Victoria; Sydney (where I was at the time) is in the state of New South Wales.  Like I said, lovely man. I was met at the airport by two men I had never seen before (friends of a friend) who whisked me off to what they referred to as their bed and breakfast, and graciously incorporated me into their social life for three days. On the way home we drove past the brash and very large, downtown Sydney which by night is overflowing with pizzazz. I was impressed.  Every single blinking light seemed to say “Hey, I’m Sydney!” “Welcome! I’m Sydney!” “Hi there! I’m Sydney!” “G’day mate! I’m Sydney!” “Oi! You there! Hi! I’m Sydney!” By day Sydney turned out to be colorful, clean and not daunting; kind of a New York City crossed with Los Angeles but without all the bullshit. I spent an afternoon wandering around by myself, trying not to look like a gawking tourist, and failing. I was a little worried about the effect my American accent might have on people, sympathizing with any current disfavor my country is inspiring. My parents had given me the mission of finding out what the Australian opinions were of Iraq, our policies, etc. What I have found thus far is that no one likes the war, but other than that, no one really gives a rat’s ass about our politics. It gets a limited amount of coverage, in that it’s mentioned once in a while, but Bush is acknowledged as a bit of a buffoon and the big article about our presidential election, which fronted the A3 section of a Monday Melbourne paper, was actually sandwiched between an article about a grand dame of the Australian ballet, and an opinionated piece on themed children’s birthday parties.  I would say that the Australian public isn’t terribly concerned about us. Hallelujah. What is covered by the local news media is the current Australian election (John Howard’s seat as Prime Minister is being challenged by Mark Latham), Indonesian voters who ‘dumped Megawati Soekarnoputri and elected former army general Susilo Bambamg Yudhoyono’, discrepancies on how to pronounce “Bambamg”, the war and hostages in Iraq, the Australian Rules Football Grand Final, the dress worn by the girlfriend of an Australian Rules Football player at an important awards ceremony and how it required double-stick tape, the Emmy’s, and Australian Idol. Conservation concerns seem to get a little more media coverage here, and IT has it’s own section in each large newspaper.  Australians seem captivated by the same things that dominate the attention of the American public, for better or worse. We are a distant, but familiar neighbor, and they have what I would term a “world citizen curiosity” about our politics, but it ends there. If I had to give a one sentence summary about the Australian people (after a whopping one week here) I’d say that the thing that sets Australians apart is that they seem to carry off the sacred balance of taking things seriously that are serious, but not taking themselves too seriously. It’s a beautiful thing and I’m taking notes. I spent yesterday evening with my friend Sue at a place called the Penguin Parade. It’s a sanctuary for Little penguins on Phillip Island. People pay a healthy sum of money to sit on concrete bleachers and watch the penguins return from the sea and waddle up to their burrows. There is actually a raised wooden boardwalk from the ocean back up to the main center and penguins’ burrows are all along it, so as we returned we were able to watch hundreds of determined penguins teeter their way up the hill. As the penguins were thinning out along with the crowds and we all began to head back inside, there was one particular pair that caught the interest of the people around us, and instead of hurrying up the hill back to warmth and coffee, nearly everyone just kept pace with the penguin pair.  We’d wait for them when they rested, and followed them when they picked up the pace. Photography isn’t allowed (too many people had disobeyed the ‘no flash’ requests) so you are committed to enjoying the experience for what it is, and everyone gave the penguins their due respect. It was at this very sanctuary, though earlier in the day, when I discovered the sharing nature of the Australian Silver Gull. Sue and I had just gotten out of the car, donned our several layers of clothing (southern Australia is just entering spring), and wandered towards the first overlook when a gull flew overhead and deposited the gift-worth-giving, leaving both of us with clothes-worth-laundering. Now I’ve been told that getting shat upon by the bird-kind is a sign of good luck, but, as some of you will remember from my music collection’s encounter with a different bird in Hawaii, there’s only so much good luck I need. Sue and I decided though that this particular gull showed admirable skill in being able to bless both of us, and so after a quick trip to the restroom to contain said blessing, considered ourselves privileged, and made our way down the trail looking forward to an evening filled with good karma. back to top Bottom of the Ninth It’s the bottom of the ninth, the Sox are up 3-0, Ben has achieved a karmic connection to the television set, Alice is waiting for scores to be radioed to the hill station while she’s on shift, and I’m marveling that I’m in Australia and have never paid this much attention to American baseball. There’s no escaping it really as acoustic fixes and whale positions have been interspersed with score reports over the radio for the last two weeks.  I have just completed my last day in the field for who knows how long. I’ve been with the HARC project (Humpback whale Acoustic Research Collaboration) for the past month. Ben and Alice are both American staff members from the east coast who have brought their baseball loyalties overseas. Ben actually has the RedSox emblem tattooed on his back. There’s fan support for you. HARC has three research platforms. Similarly to the Hawaii project there is a boat (often two), a shore station, and, this project being an acoustic project, an acoustic component. Initially there were five in situ hydrophones which broadcast live whale song (and everything else that makes noise in the ocean) back up to the base station. Now I said initially, because an errant boat destroyed one in a lightening storm, and one seems to be in the Bermuda triangle of acoustics and hasn’t been reliable. The base station is set up with several computers that enable staff members and volunteers to track the location of different singers. The sound of the whale song reaches each of the hydrophones at slightly different times and a clever software program called Ishmael uses this time difference and placement of the hydrophones to triangulate the position of each singer. This position can then be radioed to the boat and up to the hill station. Cool eh? The base station is also where the cable television lives, so that’s how the scores also get reported. I took a little liberty saying it was the bottom of the ninth, because I was actually up on the hill station when the bottom of the ninth came and went. I was standing by the theodolite waiting to fix the position of any whale group that happened to pass by when the news arrived that the RedSox had won their first World Series since 1918. That’s pretty significant I’d say, and we’ve all gotten into it because who can’t support someone who actually has a tattoo of their favorite team, carries around a soft RedSox baseball even on the boat, and stands with hand over heart and tears in his eyes when the national anthem is played on tv for the opening game-- slightly insane though that may seem. So as I said, I was on the hill station which is actually called Emu Mountain. No one can answer my question as to how the mountain came to be known as Emu Mountain, but there it is. A pretty ugly stone statue of an emu graces the town center of Peregian Beach  so obviously the bird carries some local significance, but exactly what I do not know. Emu Mountain is a small mountain that we climb twice a day for each shift of 2-3 hours. It’s baked by a tropical sun ‘til the dirt looks like taupe play-doh left untouched for oh, say, 2000 years. The craggy rocks at the top remind me of Welsh hilltops, while the view to the west (away from the water) looks like it could be a more arid southeastern United States. Moderate ridgelines running parallel to the coast and layered one behind the other and each one getting fuzzier in the haze. The view to the east, just beyond a corridor of dry, slightly smoky eucalypts with sparsely leaved branches, is of a lot of water. Choppy water, water obstructed by haze, deep dark pacific blue water, but always, a lot of water. And this is what we watch for the elusive sign of whales as we perch on the peak of Mt. Emu. I’ve been living with an international crowd of whale researchers, and you know those whale types are just nuts, so I’ve been hard pressed to form an accurate mental representation of Australia lately. I can say though that almost every interaction I’ve had with random strangers has been entirely pleasant. Shopkeepers smile and look you in the eye, neighbors stop and offer you rides into town when it’s raining, but it’s not nauseatingly Rockwellian, people leave you alone too if that’s what you want. I’m fascinated by the birds here. They’re voices are bolder, some with a metallic twinge. They make themselves heard and refuse to give way to the greater human habitation. I’m more aware of the wildlife here. The roadways in Queensland are lined with signs depicting koalas or echidnas and read “slow down, we live here too.” It’s not just a warning, they’re giving the animals a voice. back to top November 4, 2004/Flora   When I was walking through the Botanical Gardens in Sydney the sun was at its four o’clock place in the sky. The tall buildings blocked many of the rays making the east side of the city reach an earlier cool dusk, but some unchecked beams shot through the park to light up the orange petals of some flowers clustered beneath a tree. These downright happy flowers with their six petals and yellow centers that looked like they’d been plugged into an electrical outlet are originally from South Africa. They are known as clivia and I’ve decided they are the flower of Sydney. I’m currently back in Melbourne to pay another visit to my friends Sue and John and to attend the famed Melbourne Cup. A walk through the suburban streets of Forest Hill has convinced me that roses are the flowers of Melbourne. I feel like I’m back in England. Each walk from Sue and John’s house to the mall or train station has become a sweet olfactory journey and I thank every resident who has planted roses as though part of their civic duty. Now, about the Melbourne Cup. Flowers graced hats, hairdo’s, and men’s lapels instead of gardens; this was a good thing since most of them were silk. A fashion event, the Melbourne Cup (which is a horse race and not a yacht race) is a national holiday, shutting down the city of Melbourne for the day and bringing the entire country to a stop for at least the four critical minutes. There are Melbourne Cup parties all over Australia where people dress up as much as they would as if they were headed to the grandstands. Champagne is the beverage of choice and constraint is not followed in any category. The Cup has been run since 1861 and unlike the Kentucky Derby, horses of different ages can run, and can run in consecutive years. I wasn’t prepared with the right apparel for the event having just flown in from Brisbane the evening before. A fancy hat should have been a requirement, but I begged off as a weary traveler. Velvet made a good showing in heels and flirty skirt but I held back on the premise that if I couldn’t go all out I would just have to wait until next time. Not trusting the Melbourne sun when storms were forecast, I brought plenty of fleece and raingear. Suitably prepared, we were off to the races. We were joined at the train station by legions in fancy dress, some classy, some… not so classy. My catty fashion-police instincts were piqued and I prepared for a highly entertaining day of casting judgment on everyone who had made a better effort than I did in dressing for the occasion. After paying the hefty $45 general admission fee which gave us access to only the furthest, third rate seating area just beyond the finish line, we went exploring. Everyone was carrying around bottles of champagne and plastic glasses so that became our first goal- obtain a similar bottle of champagne and plastic glasses. First objective met we decided that it just wouldn’t be an experience without placing a wager. I had had all the best intentions of learning about the horses running before arriving in Melbourne, but while I’d collected quite a bit of literature on the contenders, I hadn’t even read all of their names yet. So like any good punter, I then scanned the field of 24 bluebloods and waited for a name to jump out. Media Puzzle, Vinnie Roe, Distinction, On a Jeune, Catchmeifyoucan, Razkalla, Mummify, and then there she was, Makybe Diva, a six-year-old mare. The Triple Crown races in the US are all for three-year olds so I sympathized with an older female and more importantly, anyone who is a diva is just damn cool, and anyone who is a self-described diva is, well, ahem, I wouldn’t know anything about that. Vel and I both placed our conservative bets on Makybe Diva and Vel placed a second bet on Vinnie Roe who was supposed to do well on a soggy track. It had indeed begun to rain and I was blessing my raincoat and sensible shoes. We took our ticket stubs and bottle of champagne back to our concrete bleachers we’d paid so dearly to sit on and prepared for the race. On the way out of the betting area a far-too jolly woman attempted to ride up the escalator and ended up upside down and on her back. Two men jumped up to rescue her and amidst much yelling they eventually righted her. Ahh, the Melbourne Cup. Back in the stands we were fortunate enough to be seated behind a group of three women, one who’s name was Jasmine. The number of men in their group seemed to multiply as the afternoon wore on, and I think this was in proportion to the amount of champagne consumed by Jasmine and her crew. One member of her party had a hard time keeping the bubbly off the pavement, either tipping glasses or slamming the bottle down until it overflowed. The men didn’t seem to mind. In fact, no one seemed to mind, about anything. Very few people, including us, were sober, but there wasn’t an irate or self-righteous person in the place. Everything was funny and while everyone kept to their own social party for the most part, there was a friendly feel to the experience. And then horses took the field. We had a handy guide that showed us plainly what the jockey’s silks were for each horse. Since we were so far from the track and would be watching most of the race from a large screen tv on the infield (would have seem much more of the race itself from the television at home)  we needed to i.d. our horses on the jockeys’ silks (their shirts). Makybe Diva had red and white checks on the bottom with blue on top with the stars of the Southern Cross. They lined up in the gates; 24 horses is a huge field. Grass track, soaked now by the rain. And they were off! No bell like in the states, just a subtle start, and 24 thousand-pound thoroughbred speed monsters. All my ethical stances in regards to animals and humanity’s approach to other species objects to it, but God do I love high stakes horse racing. There are some animals that just want to run, and those are the champion race horses. I hadn’t looked at the odds when Vel and I placed our bets. I knew very little about the Cup, not even who had won it last year. Well, turns out our girl Makybe Diva had won it the previous year, and was favored to win this year. So much for the older female underdog. The Melbourne Cup is a 2-mile race. That’s a long horse race by both Australian and American standards. Tactics range from taking the lead early on, coming from behind, or sticking right behind the lead only to overtake right at the end. The tactic depends on the horse. The trainer’s job is to find out how each horse likes to run and to bring them to peak condition for each race. The jockey’s job is to guide the horse past the others in the field, give them a clear shot to win, and ask them for speed at the right time. Now keep in mind I’m talking about high stakes racing. Terrible things do happen in horse racing in lower stakes, but when you’re dealing with multi-million dollar animals, a bit more respect is involved. As the horses rounded the first bend Makybe Diva wasn’t in the first five and I couldn’t find her in the field. As they passed our grandstand I still couldn’t find her. Vinnie Roe looked like he was fifth, then fourth. The field disappeared from view and I went back to watching the tv screen. They rounded the last bend and made for the long straight stretch to the finish line. About half way down the stretch Diva showed up on the inside. Fourth. Third. Stayed there. Then second. Passing the last horse and clear to the front with perhaps eight to ten lengths to the wire. And there she was! Winning! She won! Glen Boss, the jockey, was up in his stirrups, waving his whip in the air and throwing his head back. I haven’t seen such joy in a long time. Makybe Diva was the first mare to win back-to-back Melbourne Cups. Making history. The crowd was screaming. I was screaming. I don’t scream much. We were out of champagne- not so good at conserving, but we toasted with empty glasses. See if I ever study bloodlines again, clearly choosing a horse by name alone is good enough. What a good show. We stuck around long enough for the excitement to abate and to see the blanket of roses laid across the shoulders of Makybe Diva, then joined the wholesale exodus from the track. Crushed plastic champagne glasses, empty bottles, and worthless betting tickets littered the ground. We were told we’d have to climb over people on the way out, but that was only true in a couple of areas. Blood spattered on the escalator that had claimed the lady’s balance earlier that day left us wondering what other action we’d missed, but fatigue got the better of interest. We lost 45-minutes in a fruitless chase after the TAB machine failed to pay out the money it owed me, and after several discussions with some helpful and some not-so-helpful staff members we discovered that I didn’t know how to use the computer. Oh well. back to top Early November, New Zealand  Lots and lots of input. Sensory input, emotional input, memory input. Eeeek. Dum. No travel partner barrier. The city of Dunedin was founded by Scottish settlers. The name Dunedin is Celtic for Edinburgh. Why do people have the need to bring home with them? I ask this after having spent the afternoon wandering around the Otago Museum, not learning about the natural history and culture of the South Island but dawdling in a traveling exhibition on Sir Edmund Hillary and reminiscing about a past trip to Nepal. When in unfamiliar territory we’re drawn to the familiar. It takes a lot of energy to be constantly absorbing new experiences. Outside the museum was a peaceful green park with a few old trees and flowering bushes. I had just gotten done wishing for a bench to sit down on when I spotted three. Choosing one that wasn’t next to a trash bin I set my backpack down and began to inspect the flowering bushes in more detail. Earlier I’d noticed a particular flower that seemed to be more common than most in Dunedin, a definite contender for “flower of Dunedin”.  Near the beginning of the Hillary exhibit were pictures and descriptions of 20 different species of wildflowers in Nepal. I’ve always had a soft spot for rhododendrons (sentimental value stemming back to West Virginia, no pun intended), and these are prominent in Nepal as well. As I looked more closely at the museum pictures I realized that the flower I’d noticed on a Dunedin street corner was probably also a rhododendron. No merit badges in plant id for me. The museum exhibit was a celebration of Hillary and his mountaineering and life accomplishments. While the photos and background are all from the far reaches of the world, Hillary himself, an ex-beekeeper from New Zealand, has become an icon and representative for the country. A characteristic of Sir Hillary (who introduces himself as Ed Hillary in an exhibit slide show) is humility. A quote on a wall under his photo says “We did not reach the summit because we conquered Everest, Everest let us..”. Earlier I wrote the Australians had a gift for not taking themselves too seriously. I’ve been reading a bit of New Zealand news media today and the style is a lot more casual than I’m used to. It’s still professional, just a more casual style. I asked the friendly woman at the bookstore which paper I should buy and she suggested The New Zealand Herald which comes out of Auckland so I think I’m getting a fair representation of Kiwi news. US politics still gets a fair bit of mention and I think the New Zealanders are a little more free in their criticism of Bush and his cabinet (than formal news media in Australia), though there is an attempt at seeing the upside of the situation. back to top Three Nurses Nov. 20-ish, 2004     Last night my excellent friend Marcus and I were perched at an Irish pub in Christchurch, listening to a mediocre band who labeled themselves as Irish. To my left was an American girl, next to Marcus was a guy from Holland, and teetering a bit to my right was a highly intoxicated man of unknown origin. Marcus, being Scottish, was wearing a Scottish rugby shirt and was approached by three very friendly Scottish nurses who were working temporarily in Christchurch. I ended up speaking to one who’d been in Christchurch for a year; she was initially only moderately enthusiastic about it, and then felt bad and proceeding to praise New Zealand a whole lot. She encouraged us to check out ‘the strip’ which supposedly was a gathering of bars playing techno, house and eighties music further into town. We made a half-hearted attempt to find ‘the strip’ after bailing on the mediocre “Irish’ band but only succeeded in finding sporadic groups of people, obviously on the move, but all moving in different directions. So we gave up.     My main motivation would really have been to relocate the three nurses. It occurred to me that that was the first non-tourism based social invitation/suggestion we’d received since beginning our road trip around the South Island. And it wasn’t even from a New Zealander! I am stuck in a polycarbonate-enclosed, non-gritty, tour-book derived version of New Zealand and I’m not learning anything. It’s looking pretty grim. It isn’t good at all. I, am a tourist.     I’ve been here for two weeks and have indulged in taking over 400 digital photographs. I have had one real conversation with New Zealanders. One. And that was with people in my field, and it was about research. Something is severely wrong with that ratio. The photographs are gorgeous; New Zealand is a calendar country. I’ve seen it, breathed it, smelled it, but I don’t feel like I’ve really been here. There’s a difference between brushing your hand along the tops of grass blades and sinking your fingers into the soil of a place. I want to get my hands dirty.     At the moment I’m indulging in an example of supreme hospitality. A distant acquaintance has opened up his family’s second home to me, and they’re not even here. It’s a two-year old, stunning A-frame with a vaulted living room ceiling and two-storey windows looking out over Kaikoura Bay and the mountain range beyond. Maximizing in this luxury, I’m sitting in a very cushy chair with my feet up and a glass of New Zealand shiraz at my side. It’s the first time I’ve been alone in any building since September, and it’s wonderful. back to top Wellington Nov 23, 2004 Plucky. That’s what New Zealanders are. I’m sure the word has been used before for this exact same cause, but I’m in full agreement. My computer dictionary defines “plucky” as “showing courage and determination, especially in the face of difficulties or superior odds.”  The synonyms my computer thesaurus came up with were: brave, courageous, gutsy, and spirited. These reminded me of a Finnish word, “Sisu”, that my dad taught me at an early age. With much reverence he defined having “sisu” as having “grit.” I think of having grit as having determination, or I suppose “pluck”. Sisu is supposed to be a Finnish quality. The Finns are solemn people. The Kiwis are not solemn people. Therefore, they are “plucky.”  The meanings may be almost the same, but they are very different words don’t you think? I’ve been in New Zealand for 18 days. I’ve shot more than 400 digital pictures. And it wasn’t until the last two days that I began to get a feel for what the people of New Zealand are like, or what it might be like to live here. Yesterday I was picked up at the airport by a shuttle driver who was taking me to my hostel. “So where are you from?” he asked. “The United States.” I’ve actually stopped cringing when I answer that question. “What state?” “Minnesota.” Pause. “Is that a blue state or a red state?” “Blue state.” I said emphatically. There was an interim of me going off about blue states vs. red states. “Kind of like a game of chess isn’t it? “Ohio and Florida are the king and queen.” Another interim of my ranting. “Well, all the democrats that want to get out are welcome in New Zealand. We should advertise that in the US.” First of all, ever since the election I have been referring to the US as divided into blue states or red states, but I didn’t exactly expect a shuttle driver from Wellington to know the split of the states so exactly. My family and I had also been casually kicking around the idea of moving to New Zealand if W got re-elected, but to be blatantly invited by a native of New Zealand was almost disconcerting. Most countries are hesitant to welcome large waves of newcomers, and I would guess American newcomers might be especially worrying. But New Zealand is trying to recruit an educated, creative population. From what I have read it seems they are suffering from what is described as “brain drain” where a lot of the motivated young people are leaving for Australia, the States or Europe. I was reading an editorial tonight in a national New Zealand magazine written by Bruce Ansley. It was about a resident of Christchurch who had posted a sign alongside a road (where people routinely put up signs welcoming back people, or wishing happy birthday’s etc.) that read “American Shame: War Criminal Elected.” Now while I might agree with this statement, it’s a little harsh from an American tourist’s perspective, but hey, if that’s what the guy thinks, that’s what he thinks. The editorial went on to detail how an American part-time resident arrived and “tore down the sign.”  Unfortunately this particular American is the type I try to shield the rest of the world from; he said the sign was the work of “socialist, communist, scum.” Grrrreeeeat. And New Zealanders want Americans to move here? The rest of the piece describes the public’s reaction to this sequence of events which did include a public apology by Detrich where he declared that he was unaware of how the US was detested by nearly all Kiwis. Hmpf, we’ll see. This is exactly what I’d been looking for as a representation of the Kiwi attitude towards Americans: “’If Mr. Detrich [sign remover] cannot control himself and allow New Zealanders in their own country to express their opinions,’ wrote Lee Sarson of Somerfield, then he should go back to the US, ‘where his intolerance and narrow-mindedness seem to be the norm.’ For comfort’s sake, advised Darren A. Saunders of St. Albans, he should return to ‘Christofascist America’. W. Shaw of Templeton accused Detrich of Bushism: ‘If you don’t agree with someone, then silence them by violent means.’” And, of course, like everywhere else, there also seems to be a population of conservative-minded people. I’d like to think I could escape them, but they’re everywhere. Here are some more opinions to even things out: “’[He] has every right to exercise [free speech] by removing a maliciously motivated message in a public place,’ wrote Patrick Dunford of Aranui. ‘The person who put up that notice …committed an extreme breach of manners and is downright ignorant,’ opined Denie Lindley of Hoon Hay. “Being married to an American myself, I witness the one-sided, biased, bigoted opinions of New Zealanders towards American policy,’ declared M. Eisenhart of Christchurch Central. ‘Shame on Mr. Deitrich,’ charged RS Brown of Avonhead, ‘for apologizing to that bunch of whinging, angst-ridden Lefties.’” I was a little uncomfortable about the generalizations made about America from the first bunch of quotes, but given the regrettable actions of Mr. Detrich and the image of American as popularized by our own media, who can blame them? We have to be aware that this is what is perceived; this is the image we have to confront. To New Zealand’s great credit however, I haven’t encountered a single person who has categorized me. Every person who I’ve talked to has met me with the assumption that I may not be, though could be, a supporter of Bush. I’ve been categorized elsewhere, and it isn’t pleasant. The editorial was fair in distinguishing the behavior of some Americans from the would-be behavior of all Americans. Ansley writes [italics are mine]: “It is clear enough what Americans such as Detrich really think. They believe they are running a good war, that with God on their side they are winning the battle against Evil, and that anyone disagreeing with President George W. Bush and the actions of his government must by definition be anti-American. They seem astonished that anyone really thinks differently, despite the administration’s goals and methods. By the curious reasoning that many have come to fear, Detrich was not suppressing the right of free speech in someone else’s country. He was upholding it.” [last italics are Ansley’s]. Another article in the same magazine reported on an upcoming court decision in New Zealand about whether to allow Muslim women to wear a burqa while giving evidence in a case. The author, Nick Smith, was citing other cases where religion has encroached upon traditionally secular environments such as the courtroom. Pay attention to the second sentence: “A US case is about to begin, challenging a suburban school’s decision to place a sticker on science textbooks saying that evolution is ‘a theory, not a fact’. The US is a country now entangled by faith-based policy to such an extent that a US colonel leading the charge into Fallujah last week spoke frankly to media: ‘The enemy has got a face. He’s called Satan.’” I liked the use of “entangled.”  It acknowledges a struggle and not a wholesale endorsement of faith-based policy. We’re “entangled.” Now all we have to do is dis-entangle ourselves. I was wary, coming over to Australia and New Zealand with my American accent. Most people actually assume I’m Canadian, but I correct them. It’s always educational, sometimes uncomfortably so, to see your country through other countrymen’ eyes. And since we’re in a period when I am everything but proud of my nation’s policies I was a little worried. But I’m heartened, and strengthened, by the fact that the rest of the world hasn’t forsaken those Americans that disagree with their current administration. We’re not fighting a lonely battle, but fight we must.  I’ve made a point of certain words so far, words like “plucky” and “entangled.” I spent a majority of my time today in bookstores, six of them to be exact (would have been seven but one was closed). My guidebook made a passing mention of the increasing literary scene in New Zealand, and having a certain weakness for the written word and nothing pressing on my itinerary I found myself exploring this scene. And, wow. Wow. I’m sometimes depressed by bookstores, much like art galleries displaying mediocre-at-best paintings. If so many people are writing, why bother? If such garbage is popular, why bother? And then there are days like today when you pick up book after book and read something that makes you think “Yes! That’s it exactly!” Or “Wow! I never thought about it like that before.” Words that spark the passion in your own voice.  All of sudden all these people from New Zealand were talking to me from the pages in their books, the lines of their poems. These were the New Zealanders I’d been waiting to meet. I felt bouncy. After almost two hours in one particular store (Unity Bookstore for anyone visiting Wellington) I toted home four new friends. As an aside, at this particular store the woman behind the counter asked if I was a native (some sales promotion). When I replied in the negative, revealing my non-New Zealand-ness, she made some impressed comment on my selection of exclusively New Zealand authors (well duh). I asked about the location of Victoria University (the publisher for most of the books) and she went into great detail, instructed me to take bus 22 or 24 and actually walked me outside to point out the correct bus stop. How’s that for courtesy? I decided not to wander around campus and seek out the capital buildings instead. It was almost 5pm and I watched the exodus of people in dressed in snappy black head to the bus stops. Wellington is only a city of just over 200,000 people. It has that small-city friendliness. People are often running into one another and exchanging “it’s good to see you’s” and “wow, it’s been a while’s!”. It’s a city large enough to disappear in if you want to, or to be found if you want to. Despite its small size Wellington isn’t lacking in sophistication or cultural resources. Its museums are beautiful, impressive and mostly free. Both theater and dance seem to both be alive and well here, though I have yet to see much advertised for the music scene, classical or otherwise. I have been cultivating the opinion that cities located in inclement climates have more developed cultural resources than cities relaxing in more tropical climes. This of course comes from being raised in the frigid/sweltering, intellectually stimulating Twin Cities and then moving to trade wind-caressed, hypnotic Honolulu. The Twin Cities have only about 1 million people, but if you listen to National Public Radio the number of programs originating from Minneapolis and St. Paul are equal to or exceed the number of programs from cities 5 to 10 times their size. Stuff is happening there! Art, music, science, theater, comedy, community and discussion are alive and well there.  I’ve always held the Twin Cities as a sort of bar I measure every other metropolitan area against. It’s home #1 for me (I collect homes, but it’s the first.) When I’m in coffee shops or restaurants there I get the sense (from occasional eavesdropping) that I’d be interested in joining almost any of the conversations around me. People are talking about interesting things, and doing so in a down-to-earth, educated way. Minnesota is an agricultural society and maybe that’s what gives it its grounded-ness. I get the same sense from Wellington. The city is set in an agricultural atmosphere, giving it its grounding, but everyone around seems in tune with the world, opinionated in a non-overbearing, real way. And climate? I’m here in spring, but it’s windy as hell and quite chilly. I’m not sure what the temperature extremes are and even if they were reported in Celsius I’m still not good at converting it. Oh, wait, I asked the shuttle driver about summer and he said it gets up to 30 degrees Celsius. Ah, the Lonely Planet gives average temperatures and Wellington’s summer average is just over 20 degrees which puts it at 70 degrees Fahreheit and down to about 5 degrees Celsius which is about 40 Fahrenheit. Not too extreme, but the wind is nuts and there’s a lot of rainfall, about five inches during the month of June (winter). And finally, returning to pluckiness. New Zealand is a small but proud nation. They’re isolated from everything with the possible exception of Australia, but there are still  2,250 kilometers of ocean between the two countries. It has the history of being a progressive country. Women were given the right to vote 25 years before either Britain or the US. The Pakeha (white) population is trying to reconcile the past with the Maori people, who are trying not to lose their culture. This situation is reminiscent of Hawaii, and the US in general, but New Zealand has a document, a treaty, which at least legally seems to confer equality on both groups of people. It’s a better start than the pioneers in the US had. There is still a lot of tension, but things (land rights etc.) at least seem to be progressing, or under discussion. And of course, sports. Extreme sports, rugby, cricket, sailing. Regardless of the sport, Kiwis seem to throw themselves into it body, soul and bank account. It has been mentioned that New Zealand’s economy has dipped when the national rugby team, the All Blacks, are losing. Newspaper articles in the sports section criticize every play, every teammate. Decisions by the coach on which player to put in each match, or test, is discussed and critiqued.  My impression that Wellington has an educated, concerned population comes in part from short interactions with various people here, and from the different books I picked up and scanned today. Several dealt specifically with the issue of Creative arts in New Zealand and the importance of promoting them. A majority of the books there had been published by the Victoria University Press (in Wellington), or by the University of Otago Press (in Dunedin). Those books represent a lot of funding, and a lot of public support. The message that was coming across was one of great concern that New Zealand develop as a place where creativity is a part of their world, a necessity, not a luxury. I’d always associated scenic landscapes and adventurous attitudes with New Zealand; I hadn’t expected it to have such a creative climate. And this is what I mean by “plucky.” They are determined, and I don’t think anything is going to stand in their way.     back to top