On Lake Tekapo

On my dad’s side of the family, camping was a big deal. In fact, I referred to my paternal grandparents for years as Camping Grandma and Camping Grandpa. Camping took different forms for different generations. The honored ancestors traveled in style with a popup camper, and eventually they graduated to an RV. The indoor digs were especially great as it meant Grandma could make us animal-shaped pancakes! Dad’s style involved a canvas tent, sleeping bags, a cooler and the Coleman stove. We generally jumped into the car and headed out on the open road for a few weeks, staying in National Forests along the way. There was a LOT of driving on these trips. I’ve seen pretty much most of the National Parks and Forests in the western United States, as a result. Played all the car games invented. Created some new ones with my brother. Oh, and had some colossal car fights with said sibling, followed by the Angry Hand seeking retribution and silence. You know what I’m talking about if the phrase “Don’t make me stop this car” strikes fear into your heart. The good times included getting to try ALL the sodas made by Cragmont. We always had two of each flavor, and this was the only time we got to have most of them. And I especially remember my mom keeping me entertained at some forest campground, by showing me how to make “fairy circles” out of flowers and stones. Chuck has been expanding my repertoire of camping experiences. We’ve been snow camping, on a cross-country ski trip around the rim of Crater Lake. (Did you know that you don’t need a flashlight to go pee, when you’re snow camping? At least, not if the moon’s out. The snow is bright enough.) We did some “free camping” around Scotland, although NOT on the island of Iona. There is NO camping on Iona. It took us until almost midnight to figure out where to sleep when we didn’t believe the tourist office on that one. And now, we’ve experience Kiwi camping.

Sunrise at Hahei Beach

Kiwi camping is… well, posh. Now, to be fair, I don’t mean those hardy New Zealanders who are following in Sir Ed‘s lofty footsteps. There are some hardcore campers here, as there are anywhere that mountain climbers and adrenaline junkies congregate. No, I’m talking about family camping at the local holiday park. We discovered this phenomenon a year or so ago, when we decided on a whim to go out to the Coromandel Peninsula for a few days after New Year’s. This is a finger of land that sticks up east of Auckland. During holiday weekends and summer vacations, the Big City empties out as family vehicles queue on their way to Coromandel beaches. Little did we know that we were lucky just to get a camping spot, at this time of year. We booked a space at the Hahei Holiday Resort, an impressive low-cost lodging mecca which features not only slots for tents and room for RVs, but also a vast assortment of cottages, cabins, villas and even a backpackers (that’s Kiwi for “youth hostel”). Not to mention that it is a literal hop-skip-and-a-jump from the white-sand Hahei Beach

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Kiwi Camping

As we pulled in, we noticed that the camp sites resembled enormous parking spaces. Yes, they were all in rows, so you’d be within easy distance of your neighbor. More noticeable were the tents. Or should I say canvas palaces? Imagine those old canvas tents with hollow metal poles and peaked tops, which I associate with car camping of my childhood. Back in the early 1980s, our family tent was beige and green and perhaps 9 feet by 12 feet. Now, triple or quadruple that. Add a room-sized awning and perhaps a separate canopy (in Kiwi: a marquee) for eating under. Don’t forget a stove, a small TV, lawn chairs, picnic tables, and a full complement of pots and pans from home. Oh, and possibly a gas-run fridge. Yes, some people bring REFRIGERATORS to go camping. Funny thing? There are shared kitchens which have their own fridges and electric stoves onsite. So, I guess it just didn’t do to walk all the way over there for another beer? To be fair, these are the families that plan to be there for two weeks minimum. Unlike the inland American tradition of the family roadtrip, many New Zealanders look forward to the holidays so they can go to the beach and relax for sun-soaked days on end. Bouts of sunbathing, socialising, and barbecues are interrupted every few days for a trip “into town” for provisions. (Invariably, this means that the grocery stores in these places are packed with sun-dazed holidaymakers, wandering around distractedly.) Not that the holiday park is in the bush. Just that villages like Hahei swell to 10 times their size when the vacation crowd is around.

Gemstone Bay

As we pulled in, our well-established neighbors to the left were asking our right-hand neighbors whether they wanted some help setting up their mid-sized tent and outbuildings. That father veritably snarled his negative response. So, when we started pulling out our gear, the jocular gentleman joked that he and his buddies were going to just sit back and watch us get set up. Chuck told me to go read a book, when I offered to help. Five minutes later, the tent was up. The beer-happy neighbor asked Chuck whether our two person pup-tent was where the dog was sleeping? Where was the rest of the gear? Chuck almost got the book thrown at him, when he responded with a similar jest about who WAS sleeping in the tent. Families come back to the same place for years, even decades. We learned about this tradition from these Hahei neighbors. We were invited over for a beer and ended up partaking in an evening feast for at least 10 family, friends and neighbors. This family had been coming to the same place for the last 18 years, usually getting the same exact campsite. They book the spot a year in advance and know almost all their neighbors. We got our spot because someone left early. They couldn’t believe that we were only staying one night. After all, they were there for about three weeks of the summer + Christmas holiday. I began to understand what Kiwis mean when they say they’re “going to the beach” for Christmas. They definitely mean more than a BBQ on the sand. It’s more like going to camp, except the whole family comes along. I suspect my Bulgarian and Romanian friends will be able to relate, with their August holidays on the Black Sea. Indeed, there is a long tradition of New Zealanders repairing to the seaside for a relaxing time. They even have a special Kiwi term for the family cabin — it’s call a bach. And it’s Kiwi as meat pies.

Hot Water Beach

Our trip to the Coromandel almost converted me to this style of sedentary seaside vacation. We visited nearby Hot Water Beach, where you dig your own hottub when the tide is low enough that thermal springs seep up through the sands. That time, the tide was starting to come in, so we didn’t get to build a tub, but we were able to sit in the warm sand and feel the water, while our legs were being buffeted by the cool surf. Chuck was okay with this because he had just stepped into a sink hole where the hot water was bubbling straight up to the surface. He got in up to his knee, which meant the water was SUPER hot down there near his foot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him move so fast! He jumped out of there and ran out to the cold surf to cool off. He was lucky not to be scalded. On another trip, I did get to both sunbathe and soak simultaneously. A friend from the Northwest was exultant at being able to work on his tan in mid-March! Hahei Beach itself is a wonderful place to walk on the gentle white-sand beach, either day or night. Chuck and I noticed triboluminescent sea creatures fluorescing in the surf under a starry sky. And I’ve also witnessed a stupendous sunrise on that beach. Up the road is Te-Whanganui-a-Hei Marine Reserve, which features white stone cliffs and aquamarine waters. Several bays feature limpid waters, making snorkeling a popular pasttime. It’s both mesmerizing and eerie to swim through waving forests of seaweed, staring at fish and sea snails and sea anenomes. It felt like coming out of a dream whenever I raised put my head above water.

Fiordland National Park

Since our little jaunt to Coromandel, we’ve discovered that holiday parks are indeed the way to go. Especially if you’re living on a budget and really just need a place to crash. If a sleeping bag isn’t your style, the cabins can be cozy, too. Nevertheless, we have not been converted to the luxury of Kiwi camping nor to the settled home-away-from-home holiday. There’s just too much to see and too many experiences to have, for me to want to stay in one place every vacation. Indeed, isn’t the point of camping to get away from so-called civilization? Perhaps my favorite memory from New Zealand will be camping in Fiordland National Park on a tumultous rainy night, with thunder echoing up and down the hundreds of glacier-etched canyons around us. The glow of the lupins at dusk, the pounding of nearby waterfalls, the sound of rain on the silver beech trees, and the sense of easy satisfaction from having a warm meal and dry clothes on. These are what camping offers best. Nevertheless, our camping Kiwi neighbors have taught me that nothing beats a healthy, home-cooked meal eaten outside at a picnic table in beautiful surroundings. Because, when the weather is nice in New Zealand, you don’t really need fancy digs. You just need the great Kiwi outdoors.

Come along to the Coromandel: NZ – Coromandel by jocuteca.

I’ve arranged the photos in sets so that you can take your tour in short jaunts. The journey starts at the tip of the tail. Cape Rēinga is the very tippy-top of New Zealand. In Māori, it is known as Te Rerenga Wairua or the “leaping-off place.” Māori believe that this is where their souls migrate when they die. The souls follow the coastline to this spot, where they climb down the roots of an 800-year old pōhutukawa tree and continue onward to Hawaiiki. Interestingly, Hawaiiki is the name of both the ancestal island homeland of the Māori and the underworld. This interesting ambiguity makes me think of stories about Hy-Brasil and Atlantis. The Cape is also home to the northernmost lighthouse in New Zealand. Plus, you can see and hear two oceans crashing into one another – the Tasman Sea and the Pacific Ocean. This is truly an awesome experience. Visit the tail at NZ – Cape Reinga by jocuteca.

The voyage continues southward to Ninety-Mile Beach, an incredibly flat beach that can be driven on, but only at low tide. This is because the beach inclines so gradually that the tides move out hundreds and hundreds of feet. You can walk into the surf a long, long way without getting your shorts wet! Ninety-Mile Beach is actually only 55 miles long, making it closer to Ninety-Kilometer Beach. Which would be more appropriate now that Kiwis are on the metric system. But not nearly as poetic. It is backed by extensive sand-dunes, which has sparked the hobby of sandboarding. Most of these photos are by friend Dave, since my camera was not cooperating. Go Dave! Take a walk on the beach at NZ – 90 Mile Beach by jocuteca.

The majestic kauri tree is native to the northern third of the North Island. In earlier times, Northland was covered with majestic kauri forests. Now, your best chance to see these kings of the New Zealand forest  is in one of several conservation parks. I’ve been to a number of these places, and it is always an awe-inspiring experience. Funny thing is, I just last week noticed that there is a kauri in the park down the street from our house! Kauri are among the most ancient trees in the world. They grow to great heights, towering over the other greenery in the surrounding bush. Their long, branchless trunks of hard wood made them attractive for the masts on European sailing ships. As a result, kauri forests were decimated through heavy logging from the 1820s onward. Fossilized kauri resin was also valuable resource for making varnishes in the 19th century. Large populations of Dalmatians (people from the coast of Croatia) immigrated to dig the kauri gum from the ground. Today, kauri are a protected species that may not be harvested. You will find plenty of kauri woodwork, however, as crafters are allowed to use fallen kauri that’s been preserved in peat swamps for up to 45,000 years. See the living trees at NZ – Kauri Forests by jocuteca.

One of the most beautiful places in New Zealand is the Bay of Islands. Located on the east coast of Northland, this tourist mecca is home to the oldest European settlements in New Zealand. The modern backpacker haven of Paihia sits across a lovely bay from the first permanent Kiwi capital of Russell. Although it’s hard to believe it of this quaint town today, but Russell used to be considered a hellhole and den of iniquity. No wonder, then, that the Māori signed the founding Treaty of Waitangi near here, in a bid to get the Queen to control her subjects. I’m entertained by Russell’s Māori name, Kororareka, which means “tasty little blue penguin.” Nowadays, the Bay is home to some of the best sailors in the world. And I’d argue that it also hosts some of the most gorgeous sunsets. See Paihia and Russell at NZ – Bay of Islands by jocuteca.

Also in the Bay of Islands, Waitangi is a small town famous as the spot where the British signed their first agreement with the Māori on 29 January 1840. The Treaty of Waitangi is the founding document of the country, despite being mostly ignored by the  government for the next 140 years. Since the 1980s, the treaty has re-emerged in importance. In fact, some Māori iwi (essentially, tribes) have even had lands restored to them as a collective body. In this sense, New Zealand is taking some pretty progressive moves in acknowledging indigenous rights. It doesn’t hurt that the treaty, or Te Tiriti o Waitangi, was originally written and signed in the Māori language. Yes, even by the British representative. Most of the photos are from the Waitangi Treaty Grounds, where I attended the 2009 Waitangi Day celebrations. See the treaty grounds, waka, and lots of great Māori carvings at NZ – Waitangi by jocuteca.

Kawakawa is a charming little town just inland from the Bay of Islands.  The main street is a nice place to shop for souvenirs and watch the vintage steam train “Gabriel” chug by. But really, the biggest tourist attraction is the public restroom. Clearly, famous Austrian artist Friedensreich Hundertwasser loved the little place, as he made this his second home. And when the town needed to update the rundown public facilities, he volunteered to design and help construct them. We had to make a pilgrimage there for my mother, who is a huge Hundertwasser fan. Now, I stop in Kawakawa to use the loo whenever I’m nearby. Not only are they immaculately clean, the Kawakawa toilets are covered floor to ceiling with colorful tiles, glass bottles, found metal objects and a tree growing through the roof. You have to be on the lookout for tourists with cameras when you’re trying to use the actual commode, though! Visit New Zealand’s best bathroom at NZ – Kawakawa & Hundertwasser by jocuteca.

I mentioned the small town of Waipu earlier as the home of 1,000 highland Scots. Outside the town of Waipu is a playground of weathered rocks and limestone caves. The rock maze near the carpark may be the best place I’ve ever seen for playing hide ‘n’ seek or making up adventures. The caves are shallow but mesmerizing. Susan and I climbed into the back of one and sat long enough to see a few glowworms hanging around on the ceiling. Play amongst the rocks at NZ – Waipu Caves by jocuteca.

A few days after I arrived in New Zealand, Chuck took me on a quick overnight trip up north. We spent a chilly night in a rental van on the east coast and woke early to watch sunrise on Pakiri Beach. On another visit with guests, we discovered that this is an excellent breeding ground for numerous shore birds, including the very rare NZ fairy tern. We were fortunate to see two or three out of the 50 still extant. I was enchanted enough to drag poor Chuck back to Pakiri a month later, in hopes of seeing them hatch a newborn chick. Alas, we were too early. But we enjoyed the funny little NZ dotterels and peeping oystercatchers, who were close enough to see. Wake up with the sun at NZ – Pakiri Beach by jocuteca.

Whenever we head north, we do our best to stop at Goat Island Marine Reserve. The island itself is one of numerous Goat Islands around the English-speaking world — places where goats were put on islands because they could live on anything and could provide food for shipwrecked sailors. This is not only a conservation area but also a great place to go snorkeling! The waters are so clear sometimes that you can see the fish by standing on the volcanic rock formations and peering downwards. We’ve passed many hours swimming with the sociable blue snapper and diving for sea urchin shells. One visit also scared the daylights out of me, when we realized that we had entered the low-tide waters quite near a testy stingray. Peering at him through the water, we noticed that his tail went up whenever the tides pushed us too close. Only on a latter trip did we notice that the pōhutukawa trees onshore are home to a colony of karuhiruhi, or pied shags. Swim with the fishes at NZ – Goat Island Reserve by jocuteca.

If you want the best fish and chips on the North Island, there’s only one place to go: Leigh. Leigh is a sweet little town an hour or so north of Auckland. It’s only a few kilometers from Goat Island Marine Reserve, which means we have the perfect excuse to take lunch at Leigh Fish and Chips. On our first trip, we drove down the street for a dinner with a view. Who needs a fancy restaurant? A crew of red-billed gulls and a friendly dog did their best to partake in the toothsome meal. Stop for a snack at NZ – Leigh by jocuteca.

With all our jaunts north, I am surprised that I never discovered Tawharanui Regional Park until recently. This amazing coastal mainland sanctuary is rife with native birds and plants. The beaches are pleasant, and I understand that it’s another good snorkeling spot. We spent a great afternoon here with my dad and stepmom exploring sea-carved caves, wandering the beach, and watching tuis and bellbirds drink harakeke nectar. I definitely need to get back there again. Discover Tawharanui at NZ – Tawharanui Park by jocuteca.

In order to reach Leigh, Goat Island and Tawharanui, you have to turn off Highway 1 and drive through the bucolic Rodney countryside. You leave the beaten track in the small town of Warkworth and pass through the village of Matakana. I was reminded that I wasn’t in the city anymore, when I spotted a hand-lettered sign telling me “Your now on Matakana time.” I suppose it’s a good characterization of the speed of life in this region of vineyards, farmlands, and white-sand beaches. Leave the city behind at NZ – Matakana by jocuteca.

You couldn’t be blamed for missing a visit to little Puhoi. After all, you have to turn off the main highway and all you’ll see immediately is a little white church, a library open 4 hours a week, a pub/hotel, and the Bohemian Museum. Settled by German-speaking Bohemians in 1863, Puhoi is named after the lazy stream that flows through town.  Little did these new immigrants know that the inland parcels of countryside they’d signed up for was covered with native forest and required days in Māori canoes to reach. They survived and managed to transform the area into a bucolic countryside, now famous for excellent cheeses. The center of activity is the Puhoi bar and hotel, a prime example of the enduring tradition of Kiwi inns as the rural drinking establishments. This particular destination is popular with motorcyclists, who fill the biergarten-like outdoor tables on sunny days. Drink a pint in Puhoi at NZ – Puhoi by jocuteca.

Considering my new birdwatching addiction, I knew I had to do the day trip to Tiritiri Matangi. This is one of many offshore islands in New Zealand that have been turned into native bird sanctuaries. The opportunity came on a beautiful sunny day with my good friend Susan. We wandered the island, in search of takahē, saddlebacks, stitchbirds and the elusive kōkako. Raucous kākāriki (NZ parakeets) and talkative tuis led the constant bird chorus. And I was ecstatic to spy a little blue penguin swimming in the bay! I watched plenty of saddlebacks rustling in the underbrush and takahē brazenly parading around the Tiritiri lighthouse. Not to mention a bevy of chattering youngsters of the species Homo sapiens hogging the birdcall exhibit in the visitors center. But I never caught sight of the blue-wattled, warbling kōkako. I may have to stay overnight on Tiri to experience this. To make up for my disappointment, Susan and I had an excellent time leaning on the strong winds and trying not to fall on our faces, while on the ferry ride back. Wander around Tiri at NZ – Tiritiri Matangi by jocuteca.

Susan and I had an hour to kill before braving Auckland traffic after our island adventure, so we decided to check out nearby Shakespear Park. We took a quick jaunt into the bush but spent most of the time hanging out with a friendly bunch of long-legged pukeko. These flightless smaller cousins of the takahē showed off their black and blue plumage and skinny red legs, in the hopes of dancing their way into our lunch sacks. Snack with the pukeko at NZ – Shakespear Park by jocuteca.

And this concludes our tour of the Tail of the Fish. We’re pleased that you could join us on this jaunt and invite you back for further travels with Jocuteca Tours. Our next trip will be either to rural Taranaki, home of Annette and the Patea Māori Club, or to every Kiwi’s favorite city, Auckland. Stay tuned!

What red-tiled rooves are to European villages, corrugated iron is to New Zealand. It’s more than a building material. It’s a symbol of identity. Houses in swanky Auckland neighborhoods are as likely to sport corrugated iron rooves as the rural cowshed is. And recently, it has even become a popular material for artists.

I was surprised to find wavy metal evoked such an emotional response. After all, my associations are with barns and shacks, with industrial buildings and South African slums. Probably that says as much about my own privileged background as about the material. But it’s just never been a common building material where I’ve lived, from Seattle to Bulgaria. Bricks, adobe, wood, stucco, steel but not iron.

Corrugated iron is a practical material. It is weatherproof, lightweight, portable, reusable and inexpensive. This made it attractive to gold miners and settlers in 19^th century New Zealand. They needed to put something up quickly to shelter from the changeable weather on these small islands. Transporting it from England or carrying it up a mountain was more sensible than moving much heavier roofing tiles. And it lasts for decades, which probably accounts for its ubiquitous appearance in New Zealand architecture.

Introduced to New Zealand in the 1850s, the ridged metal was already being manufactured here by 1864. The first Parliament building sported a corrugated iron roof. Backyard sheds, tramping shelters, shepherd’s shacks and even theatres have been so constructed. And it’s been a part of the Kiwi landscape every since.

In many ways, corrugated iron holds an exalted status because of its link to New Zealand’s rural and hardscrabble past. Kiwis speak proudly of “Kiwi ingenuity.” This signifies the ability to make do with the scant materials available, here at the ends of the earth. I imagine settler-era New Zealand as a whole country of MacGyvers, fashioning fences from firewood and No. 8 wire or building houses of wood and corrugated iron. (Of course, the Māori were the original MacGyvers here, as they didn’t have any steamer ships bringing them products from their homeland. They made their homes from fern tree trunks and their clothes from local plants.) This is all part of a common conviction that to be Kiwi is to be solidly down-to-earth and determinedly egalitarian.

This romance with crinkly galvanized metal is symptomatic of the struggle to figure out a unique Kiwi identity in a new era. Rural life still plays a major role in both the New Zealand economy and imagination. The fortunes of the dairy industry are national news, as are developments in fishing rights. Wine production provides both a valuable export and a tourist activity. Wool exports are dropping, but sheep still significantly outnumber people. This is a country whose tourist attractions include Sheepworld and the Agrodome.

Despite this, the majority of Kiwis are urbanites these days. New Zealanders are facing the reality that rural work doesn’t pay well anymore. Once, New Zealand could boast a better standard of living than Australia because of its fruitful farms and sheep stations, fisheries and wood products. But that isn’t keeping the country in the “First World” club so much anymore. Urban Kiwis proudly wear t-shirts displaying kiwiana like gumboots, No. 8 wire and Swanndris. But they don’t really use these things. It’s a schizophrenic form of nostalgia, but not any worse than American city slickers walking around in cowboy boots and hats.

Corrugated iron is one of those kiwiana that still get used. Or perhaps I should say, it’s being used again. A sort of renaissance started in the 1970s, after several decades of trying out tiles and other roofing materials. Te Ara Encyclopedia of New Zealand comments, “In the 1990s, [corrugated iron] reappeared as a cladding material, as part of a local architectural style based on functionalism and nostalgia.” Nowadays, most of the Victorian-era houses in the swanky suburb of Ponsonby sport wavy rooves, as do many homes in other neighborhoods. You can get your roofing in a plethora of colors, too. Some people even match their roof color to the house!

But the best part of this modern mania is the artwork. In recent decades, NZ artists of all types have declared independence from European hegemony in decorative forms. They’re looking for a distinctive Kiwi style, in large part by using local materials and motifs. Including corrugated iron. From front yards to galleries, everyone’s using it. As canvas for paintings, in yard art, on huge metal sculptures, as storefront signs. The town of Tīrau really needs to give itself the moniker, “Corrugated Iron Capital of the World” for the amazing undulating signs all along its business district. Indeed, other towns have rendered their town identity in huge and corrugated glory, as in Otorohanga’s giant rippling kiwi and Taihape’s enormous crinkly gumboot.

The source of New Zealanders’ love for this modest material still eludes. Does the mania for corrugated iron come from its resemblance to the corduroy countryside? “This is a corrugated country,” Chuck said on a drive one day. But perhaps the romance with the waves is simpler than my anthropological brain would allow. Maybe it just all starts with falling asleep to that pounding, pattering rhythm of rain on a cold tin roof.

See corrugated art and architecture at: NZ – Corrugated Country by jocuteca.

Running of the Sheep

Let’s just get it out of the way. Yes, there are 40 million sheep in New Zealand. And only 4 million people. That works out to 10 sheep per person. When you get your permanent residency, they send you a letter telling you that you can now call yourself a Kiwi and answer most questions with an emphatic “mmm.” And the shepherd shows up the next day with your sheep. You better have a big backyard all worked out, or those woolly quadrupeds are going to get mighty hungry.

Sheep on the ferry

Actually, I have no idea how there are so many sheep here. I do know how they transport them from island to island. They go on the Cook Strait ferry, of course! Riding on a triple or quadruple-decker truck. It’s quite a sight to look down on the lower deck and see a rectangle of woolly backs peeking out the top of an 18-wheeler. If you’re on the cheap ferry (because you’re taking a car and it’s bloody expensive), you want to sit in the front of the boat, so you don’t have to smell the sheep or listen to their sheepdog telling them endlessly to stop baaing and SETTLE DOWN!

Romanian shepherds

It’s possible that I first became fascinated with shepherding when I was Little Bo Peep for Halloween in the third grade. Or, possibly, when I read about classical Paris herding sheep on the hills above Troy. Perhaps, it started when I read the melancholy Romanian ballad Miorița (The Little Ewe) in college. Or when I imagined some bored shepherdess inventing flutes and bagpipes in the mountains of Scotland or Bulgaria. I suspect that classic Hungarian folk dance ensemble piece where a boy and a girl cover their heads with a huge shepherd’s cloak to smooch might have something to do with it, too. And then, I keep moving to countries that are just chock-a-block with the walking woolly sweaters.

It’s not the sheep, you see. I’m interested in the lives that people build around sheep herding. And the music they create. And the clothes they wear. While everyone else is taking photos of the sheep, I’m trying to get that shot of the bemused Turkish or Romanian shepherd.

Not that the sheep aren’t nice to look at, too. I think those of us who’ve never had to actually take care of them – and who grew up with perfectly white sheep in our picture books – can’t help but coo over the things. Every New Zealander can tell you about being stuck behind foreign drivers trying to get that perfect picture of Kiwi’s wool and mutton industry on the hoof. (It doesn’t help that most of the roads are one-lane each way.) I’ve taken my share of those pics, too.

Stuffed ram

But I go beyond that. In Romania, I made a point of going to the Măsuratul Laptelui (or Measuring of the Milk) event in the Banat region. In the early spring, the sheep owners get together with the shepherds before they take the combined flocks off to the mountains for the summer. The sheep are milked and the milk is measured, to establish what proportion of the whole comes from each farmer’s herd. That way, the shepherds and the owners can agree on how much sheep cheese should go to each household at the end of the season. I tried my hands at milking and chatted with the shepherds and owners. And I got to try fresh sheep cheese. Yum! The whole time I was milking, I was convinced someone was going to squirt me as a joke. But that would have been a waste of the milk, eh?

Sheep Art

I’ve even had a shepherd ask me to marry him. It’s pretty surreal to be sitting in a Romanian train station at midnight, talking to two nice but grubby guys in their funny Sibiu shepherd hats. Especially when one of them tells you that you look young and sturdy and ought to marry him because his wife died and he could use someone like you to help out. I have to give the man credit. He was the only person in Eastern Europe who asked me to marry him that didn’t just want a visa to the USA. I liked that he inhabited his own world so comfortably. I winked and told him I’d think about it.

Grazing

In New Zealand, I knew I had to go to see a sheep shearing competition as soon as I read about the Golden Shears in Witi Ihimaera’s novel Bulibasha. His descriptions of the excitement in the shearing shed and the grace of the shearers enchanted me. In one passage, he describes the wool handlers throwing the fleeces so that they unfurl in the air and float down perfectly onto the wool tables. This I had to see!

I missed the Golden Shears in Masterton  in March, but I managed to make it to the New Zealand Shearing Championships a few weekends ago. The event takes place every April in Te Kuiti, the self-proclaimed Shearing Capital of the World. I suppose this is fair, since local son David Fagan is the only five-time world champion shearer.

On the last day of the New Zealand Shearing Championships, the small inland town celebrates its sheep-ishness with the Great New Zealand Muster. The highpoint of the daytime festival is when several thousand sheep run down the main street of Te Kuiti. Having heard of the fantastic Trailing of the Sheep in Idaho, I wanted to see the Kiwi version.

Kiwi National Costume?

We got to town several hours before sheep o’clock, so we wandered around the local festival. I didn’t know whether to expect a huge undertaking or a small-town celebration. It was more of the latter, but that fit Te Kuiti perfectly. We did our best to ignore the endless, repetitive bleating of the MCs being broadcast up and down the street. (Why does every small NZ event have some guy blathering ad nauseum?) Besides, the street entertainers were more interesting. A threesome clad in traditional rural Kiwi costume – gumboots, black singlets, floppy hats and short shorts – performed humorous boot-slapping and sheep-wrangling dances. The Te Kuiti & Districts Highland Pipe Band, also in gumboots, parted the crowds on their way down Rora Street. Further down the way, Chuck said, “Hey, look the Peruvian panpipe guys have gone Native American,” and I turned around to see a duo dressed in Plains Indian regalia and playing floaty flute music. I still don’t know what that was about or where the were from. (See the video and let me know what’s going on!)

Peruvian or Plains?

Meanwhile, the fire service demonstrated what happens when you leave your cooking oil heating on the stove unattended. There’s a whole TV campaign about this right now. I guess folks aren’t attending to their fry-ups as they should. Chuck drooled over the ‘cheap as’ sausage sizzle, in vain hopes of a spicy brat in Kiwiland. I browsed the crafts stalls, wondering why every small NZ festival has someone selling ceramic koru (fern fronds). Another vendor sold carvings made out of real fern tree trunks, which I figure is New Zealand’s version of chainsaw sculpture.

Farmer & Rancher?

The local merchants had their wares out onto the sidewalks, offering sales, and their windows were bedecked with sheep scenarios. The best part was the signs. Every shop “changed” its name for the day by hanging up plywood signs with sheep puns. The Four Square grocery became “Footrot Dairy,” a hairdresser was “The Clip and Dip Shed”, Blokes clothing shop was “Studs ‘n’ Ewe.”  My favorite was the computer store: Rams N Roms 4 Ewe.

Sheepish signs

And then came the sheep. Except, they weren’t sure they wanted to. With several thousand bipeds fenced in (out?) on both sides of the street, the herd started tentatively down Rora Street. The few at the front must have realized, “Aaa! I don’t want to be in the front! I want to follow someone else! Where am I going?” These are sheep, after all. Someone must have gotten some dogs behind them, as they finally rallied and ran down towards us. I found the movement of the galloping herd mesmerizing. Like a woolly wave crashing towards us.

Woolly Waves

And then, they circled. And circled. And circled. And jumped up on each other’s backs to see what was going on in this hot, woolly crowd. They were penned in about halfway down the street, you see. This was a great opportunity for the MCs to blather more and for us to watch some sheep shearing. They used a fascinating hand-crank contraption to run the shear blades, which gave the audience a chance to see their national Lotto guy trying to go fast enough for the champion shearer on the stand.

Finally, the sheep were herded through a narrow opening and up over a ramp, so they could be counted. There was a prize for guessing the right number, so most people were frozen in frenzied counting. (There were 1079.) We skipped that and ran around to see the sheep come scrambling down the ramp into a leaping, gamboling, scampering single-file line running down the street. It was so joyful that I wanted to join them!

NZ Shears

After a singularly uninspired dinner, we wandered down a few blocks to see the finals of the New Zealand Shearing Championships. The Waitomo Community Cultural Arts Center stage was transformed into a shearing shed, with six stands for competitors. There was something both corny and wonderful about the event. On the one hand, things started off with a fog machine and flashing concert lighting, accented by big announcer voices and that corporate-sounding music that absolutely must have squealing guitars and a driving beat. One of the MCs was a local celebrity whom I’d never heard of – musician and weekly Lotto presenter, Russell Harrison. To be fair, Russell was funny and clever and a good singer. He was paired awkwardly with a local presenter sporting a bowtie and tossing off occasional awkward jokes. The show was interspersed with musical interludes that were nicely presented but drew heavily on an oldies repertoire that has long since become haggard. (Especially if you are frustrated that most NZ radio hasn’t quite made it out of the 1980s. Sigh.)

Te Kuiti

On the other hand, the shearing and wool-handling competitions themselves were intense and riveting. And the play-by-play announcers were mesmerizing. And funny. They referred to one of the shearers as the Pocket Rocket. I think they were referring to the fact that he was a slight man.

Each match starts with six shearers lunging through the gate for a sheep, dragging it backwards and wedging it between his legs. Yank, and the hand-piece starts. Blink, and the belly and left flank are wool-less. The shearer leans the head back gently and clears a path under the neck and over the forehead. Wool keeps dropping in a steady stream, as the sheep is rolled over and around. The hand-piece flies up over the last flank and the naked ungulate slips through the shearer’s legs back to safety. That’s a 41-second buzz cut for you.

Why did I wear wool today?

The shearers veritably danced with the bewildered quadrupeds. I imagine the sheep just don’t know what hit them. On the other hand, it’s probably ideal to be sheared by these world-class workers, as it’s over fast and you’re less likely to be nicked. During the event, I kept having to remind myself that these (mostly) guys know how to do this so well because this is what they do day in and day out when it’s shearing season. Take 40 million sheep and multiply by 41 seconds each…

The evening consisted of six events, including the Circuit Final, the Open Woolhandling Final and the overall Shearing Final. All the competitors were from New Zealand, except the two-against-two contest between Wales and New Zealand teams. (New Zealand won.) In everything except the wool handling there was at least one member of the extended Fagan family. The announcers played the crowd, encouraging them to get loud and proud for these local Te Kuiti favorites.

Shearer statue

In some ways, my favorite event was the wool handling final. All the competitors except one were women, and we got to see how these athletic ladies collected and sorted the wool as it dropped from the fleece. This work is key to getting the best money for your wool, as the “fleecos” have to separate the different grades that come from the same sheep. It turns out that the merino wool sticks together best, so that the wool handlers could gather the whole fleece up in their arms and run off with it. We saw this during the circuit final, when competitors shear five merinos, five ewes, and five lambs. The wool handling final was only Romneys, though, so I didn’t get to see that wonderful fleece toss I’d been imagining. But they did end the contest with shaking the huge piles of wool to mix the long and short hairs. There’s something about that cascade of curly locks flying around that’s strangely satisfying.

And indeed, local son David Fagan won the North Island Shearer of the Year again for the 17^th time, at the age of 48. He’s off to Wales for the Golden Shears and Wool Handling championships in July. Anyone know someone I can stay with in Llanelwedd?

See video of the Muster at: Sheep! – Running of the Sheep by jocuteca.

See video of the NZ Shears: at Sheep! – NZ Shears by jocuteca.

More still photos from both events at: NZ – Sheep! at Te Kuiti Muster by jocuteca.

In my youthful vigor, I enthused about how interesting it would be to see what I’d studied in action. Professor Harrell stayed practical – he wished me well in my experiences but reminded me to be patient. “Realize, with most people you meet,” he said, “you are going to have the same conversations over and over and over.” I would quickly get bored of these, he warned. “You’ll find that most people ask you the same five questions.”

Most fun sign ever

It didn’t take me long to find out what he was talking about. Wherever I’ve lived the “five question rule” stands. Of course, the number five is arbitrary, but the repetitiveness of the questions is not. In Romania, people asked bemusedly, “Why are you living here?” In other words, why was an American girl living in their country voluntarily, when so many young Romanians wanted to leave and make money in America? Scots wanted to know what I thought of George W. Bush, as he was starting Iraq War II at the time. Americans invariably ask, “So, what do you do?” as soon as they meet you. It’s hard to accept that your job defines you in the US, when you’re under-employed, barely making rent and trying to follow your passion.

Of course, the questions are determined by how the locals perceive you. In New Zealand, I am a young white American woman. In many people’s eyes, that means I’m probably a tourist. Or on a working holiday for a year. Kiwi folks know all sorts of things about me – or think they do – as soon as I open my mouth. Until then, I could be a Pākeha New Zealander, a German backpacker, or an English immigrant. As soon as I open my mouth, however, I am clearly from somewhere in North America. The questions begin…

How are you enjoying your holiday?

L&P is World Famous

This is the first question I get asked at café counters or in shops. British folks get the benefit of the doubt that they might be living in New Zealand. Europeans might be on a yearlong working holiday. But Americans flummox people, perhaps because we don’t visit New Zealand in large numbers. And very few Americans come here to live.

Personally, I hate this question because I’m sick of being treated like a perennial tourist. I live here. It’s particularly irritating to get asked this for the fifth time by the same person in my own neighborhood. I hear it less and less now, as I find ways to head the conversation off into more interesting avenues.

Just what it should

When this question is asked politely at the counter, you are not supposed to take this as an opportunity to really discuss your experiences. This is polite conversation, akin to “How are you?” The expected response is to give a short, positive answer and then go away. When visiting American friends have launched enthusiastically into a conversation about their experiences, bemused café workers have smiled indulgently and wrapped up the conversation as soon as possible. Retail workers in New Zealand just don’t banter as freely as in the US. I really missed that when I first got here. Luckily, I think I’ve finally retooled so that I can banter in proper Kiwi style these days. Or perhaps I’m just finding friendlier people outside my neighborhood…

How do you like New Zealand?

Once I’ve made it clear that I live in New Zealand, my impressions of the place are still front and center. What do you think of our country? There is an expected range of possible answers to this. They range from, “I’m having a great time” to “You live in a beautiful country” to “I love it here.” I am not expected to point out things like the Internet service is tortoise-slow, houses have no insulation, or Auckland’s bus system stinks. I’ve learned to avoid getting into too much detail about my mixed impressions of the country, unless I’m talking to someone who’s lived abroad or is really asking for more.

100% Sheep

To be fair, New Zealand is a gorgeous place to live. And people here are determined to take advantage of that. Most folks get 4-5 weeks of vacation a year. Everyone seems to stop work at 5:30pm sharp, and folks guard their evening and weekend time assiduously as personal time. Can you imagine a place where your supervisor checks in to make sure you’re using your holiday allotment? The workaholic American lifestyle just received a bemused “why?” from most Kiwis.

But I think that the positive expectations exist because New Zealand has a case of Small Country Syndrome. Successful Kiwis abroad are described proudly as “punching above their weight.” There’s a passion for quoting per capita statistics that make NZ look good or talking about something that really “put New Zealand on the map.” You can’t blame Kiwis for the latter, as New Zealand literally gets left off numerous world maps because of its remote location. The rhetoric about Auckland is always that it needs to become more competitive with world-class cities like Sydney, New York or London. On snarky Kiwianarama, local bloggers point out that Kiwis need constant positive identity reinforcement “because, deep down, most Kiwis have a niggling fear that it might actually be a bit shit.”

Shearing Capital

This national pumping-up reaches absurd proportions when you notice how many small towns promote themselves as the _____________ Capitol of the World. That may be true of the places that are Green-lipped Mussel Capitol or Shearing Capitol of the world. But really, the world probably hasn’t really checked. Of course, I may be missing that subtle self-deprecating Kiwi sense of humor that leads to the beloved Kiwi soda – L&P – being advertised as “World Famous in New Zealand!”

Where are you from?

This one is common pretty much everywhere. But there is a particular reason for asking it this way. What’s really often being asked is, “What part of North America are you from?” or “Are you Canadian or American?” Most New Zealanders can immediately tell that I sound like people in American movies and TV. But most can’t tell the difference between Canucks and Yanks by accent. So they ask this perhaps in acknowledgment of how much it stinks to be asked if they’re from the bigger, louder, wealthier and more famous neighboring country. So, they give the Canadians a break by not just assuming they’re Americans. I gotta respect that.

Americans check "Other"

Occasionally, I get someone who’s mildly irritated that I say “the United States” as (s)he’s already made that assumption and is delving for more specific information. Answering “New Mexico” brings most people up short. Yep, Kiwis don’t know where it is any better than New Yorkers do. I told one Kiwi that asking me if that was “like Texas” is the same as asking him if New Zealand was “like Australia.” For those of you who don’t get it, refer back to that bit about bigger, louder neighbors…

This question is actually an institutionalized part of traveling within NZ. Most tourism businesses have to ask where you’re from for some kind of survey. All our Americans friends in town get a real kick out of saying “Auckland” and watching people’s eyebrows wiggle as they try to reconcile the American accent with that answer.

What brought you to New Zealand?

Ok, so I’m an American living in Auckland. Once that’s sorted, I’m still a cipher. Why the heck did I pick little, ends-of-the-earth New Zealand to live in? There are so few Americans living here that people really get curious about us. I wonder sometimes whether British folks or – on the other end of the assumption spectrum – Asian immigrants get asked this question as well. After all, people from England or Scotland might have met and married a Pākeha Kiwi working abroad in the Old Country. Or they could be joining family down here. Of course, Asians come here for college education, and Pacific Islanders arrive for the economic opportunities and to join the rest of their extended family living in South Auckland. Such are the stereotypes.

Deactivated by NZ?

Kiwis have a less virulent strain of that British mania for taking the piss out of Americans. We are famous for over-consuming, being violent, hating national health care, polluting the environment, having nuclear weapons, and creating American Idol. But probably our biggest sin is not knowing where New Zealand is. And not knowing anything about it, beyond sheep, hobbits, and Flight of the Conchords. Not that anyone would actually say that, but the frustration is there. We’re that cocky older brother with a job and a nice car who gets all the good toys but won’t introduce his little bro to his friends. If we were any closer geographically, we’d be Australia. (A real t-shirt slogan: “I support two teams: New Zealand and whoever is playing Australia.”)

Australia's scary...

Sometimes this makes me want to be able to answer this question with something like, “Bro! New Zealand has the best ___________ industry in the world, and so of course I came here to get a chance at that piece of the pie.” But that’s hardly true. I came for my partner’s job doing scientific research. I can’t find work here in my field, and I’m frustrated. But I am spending a good bit of time trying to learn all about New Zealand history, literature, cultures, food, flora, fauna and more. So, I hope I’m doing my part to acknowledge our bros from Down Under. No, not that Down Under! The other one with all the great birds and fern trees and the All Blacks!

Do you want to stay here for good?

NZ flag

Some people will ask how long I’m here for, but the implication is the same. It’s as if New Zealanders want to get to the bottom of things – are you someone worth knowing, or are you going to disappear in a few months? American friend Amy S. jokes that people want to know “am I worth getting to know or am I just here to bungee jump and pretend I’m a hobbit and swim with the dolphins before heading back to the land of massive consumption.”

This may be a result of having 4 million tourists a year in a country of 4 million. That’s gotta give someone a sense that their country is pretty amazing. Or it may be that most Kiwis don’t move around much, so they stick with the same lifelong friends. Perhaps it’s a response to the waves of immigrants from the Pacific Islands and Asia, clamoring to get residency. Possibly, folks are just looking for reinforcement that foreigners want to move here despite the fact that thousands of Kiwis emigrate for better work opportunities to Australia each year. American friend Sara points out that it may be the reverse – people are assuming we’re going back home because things are better there. The jury’s still out…

Giant Gumboot!

For awhile, I had a chip on my shoulder that this question was part of the same self-satisfied attitude that has Kiwis calling their country God’s Own Country or Godzone. I’ve never been in a country that spent so much time talking itself up. I mean, being American, I’ve heard plenty of citizens beating their chests and politicians spouting patriotic platitudes. But the “New Zealand message” is just constant, in a low-key and insistent way.  I’ve met a number of people who seemed to think that of course I wanted to immigrate here. Can’t imagine why I wouldn’t! But it’s really an issue of where you’re at home, isn’t it? It’s fantastic that so many Kiwis love the place they call home! But when it feels like I must agree in order not to offend, I get wary. Years of study about nationalism have made me impatient with unreflective back patting in any country. And my work with refugees here reminds me that this can be a forbidding and lonely place for some.

Obviously, my reactions have been colored by my own struggles with learning to be at home in this beautiful but foreign country. Indeed it can be taxing to be polite but honest, especially when I’m homesick and in my second year of not being able to find skilled work. I attended an interview skills seminar last week. In a room full of skilled migrants from 6 continents, I got the distinct impression that none of us felt welcome in this job market where our foreign references mean little and lack of “New Zealand experience” is used as a way to exclude.

NZ equation

In actual fact, we don’t know exactly how long we will be here. The possibility that we haven’t got it all planned out seems to flummox people. I find that mildly entertaining, although I don’t know what to take from it. Were we planning to stay for good, the job situation might seem less oppressive. Or it might give us a reason to change our minds and go. But don’t worry, my friends Stateside – we do plan to come back home. And be positively infuriating about how awesome New Zealand is!

—

I’ve reached my allotment of Five Questions. But really, there are a number of other things that people want to know. People are curious how long we’ve been here. As in the USA, they ask me what I do and mean what’s my job. That’s probably my least favorite question, of course. Folks want to know where we’ve visited in New Zealand. Folks follow this up with recommendations of other places to see, sometimes including places they’ve never seen themselves.

Obama's influence?

Politically interested folks ask what we think of Obama and why Americans are so opposed to national health care. American friends who are here permanently get asked how often they’ll go back home to visit and what their families think of them living so far away. One friend, who is here for a year, was asked if she missed home. I’ve never been asked that question, and I wish someone would. What a great start to a conversation about what home means! I may have to borrow that one myself. Perhaps the best question is what our friend Bryon from Utah got asked, “How many wives have you got?” I think the guy was joking…

I asked my Kiwi friend Kellie what questions she was asked when she got back from over a decade living in the UK. She said people asked her “Did you miss New Zealand?” and “Are you glad to be back?” and “What are you doing now?” There was very little interest in where she’d been or what she’d been doing. “It’s all about the future,” she says. In a way, I suppose that is very practical. And there’s something to be said for being content with what you have. But I can’t escape the feeling that there is something about New Zealand’s physical isolation that makes the population very inward looking. Perhaps there’s a national case of “arrogance with a low self-esteem problem.” In a way, I suspect that the questions Kiwis are asking me are also part of asking themselves what it means to be New Zealanders.

Honesty Box

As Professor H. wanted me to see, it’s not just what the five questions are. It’s not how you answer them or how you direct the conversation to avoid having them asked. It’s what those questions tell you about the people who ask them and what  your answers tell you about yourself.

—

Get more insight from fun signs around New Zealand at: NZ – Fun Signs by jocuteca.

There are three active volcanoes in the center of the North Island. The most recent eruption was Mount Ruapehu in 2007, and the Kiwis were so blasé about that one that they kept the ski-hill open during the event. Being active volcanoes doesn’t stop people from climbing them, either. Visiting friend Susan and I took a walk between the other two — Ngauruhoe and Tongariro — last Saturday.

The Tongariro Alpine Crossing is touted as New Zealand’s best one-day hike. Indeed, it was the most populous hike I’ve ever experienced, feeling at times like a pilgrimage. The path climbs up the Mangatepopo Valley to the saddle between the Tongariro and Ngauruhoe peaks. Mount Ngauruhoe is the most recognizable face of Mount Doom in Lord of the Rings, although scenes were also shot on Ruapehu’s slopes.

It was a lovely hike that began shrouded in mists, continued through gusty winds, and wound down through a beech forest. You’ll be pleased to know that Mount Doom behaved itself. Cheers for that, Frodo.

The photos tell the story at: NZ – Tongariro Crossing by jocuteca.

A book about iconic Kiwi cuisine starts this way, “For many years we New Zealanders, in our self-deprecating way, insisted that there was no real ‘New Zealand cuisine’, that our food simply belonged to the country or ethnic group from which it came.” Indeed, sometimes it feels like Kiwi-land is just a chip off the ol’ British block – plenty of fish ‘n’ chip shops, sausage rolls, pickled vegetables and Christmas puddings. This illusion disappears when you walk into the local fish ‘n’ chip shop.

While Kiwis are addicted to deep-fried battered fish and thick-cut spuds like their northern cousins, they get to use some truly fabulous finned catches. There’s little of your North Atlantic cod or haddock on the menu. Instead, you get battered fish with vowel-ladden Māori names, like hoki, tarakihi, and kuparu. Or you could have lemonfish, which is actually a rig shark. If you’re lucky, it’s whitebait season and you can try a mess of translucent inanga fry cooked whole into fritters. Don’t forget to order tartar sauce, as it costs extra. And you will have to learn to pronounce it “fush ‘n’ chups,” to truly fit in with locals.

New Zealand seafood is fantastic. Different locales are famous for particular catches. The tiny town of Havelock advertises itself as the “green-lipped mussel capital of the world.” Kaikoura’s name literally means “rock lobster food” in Māori. Bluff oysters are named for the town where they’re most abundant. Even non-native fish claim their own towns. Turangi is famous for brown trout, and little Rakaia hosts their own salmon fishing competition. We suspect that our friend Ryan settled his family on a dairy farm there because of the nearby angling opportunities. Indeed, his homemade fry-up – made with a rig shark caught by son Alex – has been one of our fish supper highlights.

I’ve even learned to steam green-lipped mussels at home, with white wine or a spicy chorizo sauce. This is a fantastic deal. You can feed four on ~ $5.00 NZD worth of the emerald-and-black shellfish. It’s even cheaper if you catch your own, which many folks do. It isn’t a pier if someone isn’t fishing or diving off it. The freshest mouthful I’ve ever had was a raw oyster that took three bites to finish. It was handed to me straight from the sea by a Māori family fishing on the pier where we were fueling up our friend’s sailboat. It wasn’t quite to my taste, but I still look forward to tasting some other Māori delicacies, like pāua, pipis and kina. I do miss that icon of the Pacific Northwest: salmon. A friend at the National Institute of Water & Atmospheric Research (NIWA) tells me that New Zealand salmon is some of the most sustainably farmed fish in the world. Still, it just can’t hold a candle flavor-wise to wild Alaskan salmon.

Pacific NW folk aren’t alone in their passion for a particular local food. Wherever they go, New Mexicans bond with other New Mexicans by reminiscing about when they last had green chilé. Bulgarians abroad make their own yoghurt and sausage, to simulate the flavors of home. Only people from Philadelphia (Philadelphians? Philly-pinos?) know what constitutes a real Philly cheese steak. What do many Kiwis miss most when overseas? Pies, pies, pies!

First, they’ve everywhere. Every bakery and gas station sells hot pies with flaky pastry crusts, the perfect size for your hand and your breakfast. No fruit in these pies, though. They’re strictly savoury. You’ll find steak and cheese, bacon and egg, and even Indian butter chicken pies. You want an apple pie? Better go to McDonald’s because those are American as. (Don’t even ask about pumpkin pie. All Kiwis think that’s weird and won’t try it. After all, pumpkin is for roasting or putting in lasagne, right?) Pies are so much a part of the psyche that a recent YouTube phenomenon revolves around a Kiwi delinquent “going for a pie” and the cop who reminds him that those pies are HOT. Don’t forget the t-shirt!

Kiwi mate John points out that the best pies in New Zealand are made by Asians nowadays. Whether or not this is true, it seems like most bakeries are owned or operated by recent Chinese and Southeast Asian immigrants. Still, the fare is pretty Pākeha. In addition to pies, you have sausage rolls and neenish tarts, lamingtons and slices, Chelsea buns and muffins. Brownies are always called American brownies. Midwesterners will recognize slices as bars, although these almost always have a pastry base. My favorite is the ginger slice. On the other hand, I have a particular horror of the lolly cakes, a dark malt crumb bar luridly studded with pink, yellow and green candy. I admit, I haven’t tried them.

Bakeries are the fast way to get your daytime Kiwi food fix. If you have a bit more time, you go to a café. It seems like there are as many cafés in Auckland as pubs in Edinburgh – at least 2-3 per block. And they all appear to serve some variant of the same menu. Breakfast is often the most important meal, with emphasis on bacon or egg-laden dishes. Eggs benedict, fried mushrooms, pancakes, waffles, smoked salmon bagels and fried potatoes are also common. The first meal I had in New Zealand was pancakes piled high with thick bacon and baked bananas, all slathered with maple syrup. Yes, the syrup was on the meat, too. Kiwis have a unique fascination with combining sweet and meat. How else to explain that chutney comes with everything or that pizzas with apricot sauce are common? (Yuck.) That said, the pancake concoction is delicious.

Lunch offerings might be more varied, ranging from simple grilled sandwiches to roast vegetable salads, pasta dishes to Asian-style stir-fry. But much of that is beside the point. Because, really, the café is there for the caffeine. New Zealand café culture is relatively recent. It emerged in the early 1990s with the increasing popularity of coffee drinks like cappuccino. Tea may still reign at home and work, but coffee is the chic drink.

One of my favorite parts about traveling is finding out about local coffee culture. In Turkey and the Balkans, your java is cooked until foamy in a long-handled pot and served up hot, sweet and black in a demitasse cup. The Ethiopians and Eritreans start with the green beans and cook them in a pan until black. Watching an Ethiopian lady pour the coffee for visitors is a special treat. In Vienna, my mom became addicted to the ubiquitous coffee drink, the mélange. And no, you don’t really get cinnamon in coffee in Vienna. It’s only in the cinnamon rolls, called zimtschnecke (cinnamon snails). In the rainy northwestern United States, you get your espresso-based coffee drink at the counter, mere seconds after you order. The steam hiss of the espresso machine, efficient ballet of making the perfect cup, and teasing banter with the barista are part of the experience.

Hey Seattleites! Ever watched Frasier and wondered where that mythical café is that actually brings your coffee to your table? In New Zealand, that café is every café. The speed at which you get your caffeine injection is less of a big deal for your laidback Kiwis. So, you always order your cup of joe at the counter and retire to your table with an order number. Yes, even when it’s take-away.

And don’t make the mistake of thinking you know your lattes from your Americanos in the Antipodes. Folks from the middle of the USA, you’re going to get blank looks when you ask for “just a regular coffee.” The key terms to know here are flat white, short black and long black. A short black is basically an espresso shot, and a long black is an Americano where you put the water in first. A flat white is basically a latte without as much foam that’s 50 cents cheaper. I may have started an international coffee incident with that description. But I haven’t met a barista yet who can explain the difference to fit my philistine understanding. It’s good, though!

Dinner is where the real variety is. As the country is becoming more urban and ethnically diverse, Kiwi restauranteurs are trying to create a distinct New Zealand culinary identity – with sometimes hilarious, sometimes delectable results. Presentation can be fantastic. Haute cuisine and café food alike can arrive in a decoratively arrange tower of deliciousness. That can mean that your baked chicken arrives on top of kumara mash, topped with a bacon-wrapped banana.

One success story is the NZ-style hamburger. Who would have thought you could combine hamburger, bacon, egg, pickled beets, avocado, mango and aioli? They’re so big and juicy that you need two hands and a plate to eat one properly. Or at least, a doofer. At our favorite burger joint, you can get kumara fries with aioli dipping sauce, too. YUM!!

“Ethnic” food abounds in the larger cities. I haven’t had bad Indian or Thai food yet, although a Wellington friend insists they need more decent Thai there. (Immigration NZ agrees, as Thai Chef is listed as an “essential skill” in demand.) Kebab shops, run by Turks and Iranians, are popular and ubiquitous. And yes, they feature my favorite questionable meat product: Donner kebabs. It’s all in the spelling… Chinese restaurants abound, as do Asian-themed food courts with surprisingly fresh food. There’s even a dim sum stand in one food court, where you can order al a carte!

You’d think we eat out all the time, but that’s not the case. It’s really quite expensive to go out. That’s probably why there’s still a strong tradition of potlucks and barbecues, to supplement the commercial takeaways and sausage sizzles. If you’re asked to “bring a plate,” don’t make the same mistake a young Chinese immigrant did by providing your own cutlery. That’s just Kiwi-speak for potluck.

And of course, having tea is still a big part of the culture, in the private sphere. You’ll be welcomed with a cup of tea, even when you visit a place of business. You may be expected to get it yourself, but the point is that it’s proffered. If you’re lucky, this will include some lovely Kiwi biscuits. Be sure to dunk them, though, as you’ll break your teeth if you don’t. (American cookies are identifiable because they’re soft, I’ve been told.) And teatime is serious business, so don’t expect office workers to come to your aid when the kettle is on. Our Māori class always ends with tea and biscuits, and there’s an obligatory tea break even when I work in the Refugee Services warehouse on Fridays.

Tea is so key that it’s part of the meal schedule – when people ask you what you’re having for “your tea,” they mean “what’s for dinner?” (I’d argue that this comes from working-class British habits.) Kids have both morning tea and lunch breaks at school. And, according to my American mom friend Amy, “true Kiwi parents provide their children breakfast, morning tea, lunch, afternoon tea and dinner on the weekends!  The teas are established meals!”

At home is also where you’ll find the older styles of Kiwi cooking. New Zealand is still primarily an agricultural country, with an economy dependent on exporting dairy, fruit, fish, meat and wood products. In fact, the milk industry is so important that convenience stores are called “dairies.” In many ways, Kiwis are a meat and potatoes people. Pākeha Kiwis have made their own adaptations to traditional English recipes, such as replacing the Christmas goose with a leg of mutton or lamb roast (photo) (since Christmas is springtime here). Māori Kiwis have contributed the delectable sweet potato called kumara, which they brought over in their wakas. Supplement that with pickled veggies, roasted pumpkin, kiwifruit, and cream-based desserts, and you’re having a proper kai.

If you’re lucky, someone will provide that quintessential kiwiana dessert – the pavlova. This is a soft meringue cake topped with whipped cream and fruits like strawberries and kiwifruit. It’s light and lovely, when done well. There is also an ongoing classic culinary battle with Australia over who invented it. We know it was named for ballerina Anna Pavlova, but beyond that Kiwis and Aussies can’t decide whose symbol it should be. Other iconic Kiwi foods cause similar battles, such as Anzac biscuits, but none are so emotionally charged as the Great Pavlova Debate.

In fact, food is a major component of the national preoccupation with identifying “kiwiana” – what Te Ara Encyclopedia of New Zealand describes best as “quirky things that contribute to a sense of nationhood.” Some kiwiana is really relevant to understanding New Zealand history and identity. Things like gumboots or No. 8 wire, sheep or paua shells. Even the Māori traditional style of cooking over heated rocks in a pit oven – called hāngi – tells you something about living in this land.

But many beloved kiwiana are more about a trip to the dairy for biscuits and candy. Chocolate fish, hokey pokey ice cream, Pineapple Lumps, Jaffas, Jelly Tip, Tim Tams and L&P soda all contribute to a sense of Kiwi identity and a major sweet tooth. But there may be more here than rots the tooth. These items date from early to mid-20th century, when New Zealand’s economy was highly regulated. Local manufacture was encouraged, such that Kiwis created their own brands for many items rather than importing them. When markets opened up, these tastes of home and dairy faced challenges. In a sense, kiwiana may be an attempt to redefine NZ identity as part of becoming more cosmopolitan.

Or it could just be about what’s familiar. After all, why else would I visit 5 stores to find aniseed to make New Mexican biscochito cookies for Christmas? Or have friends carry steelcut oats from the US? Or lament the complete lack of dill pickles in New Zealand? As 12-year old American girl Pascal said to me last week, “Guess what I had today? Goldfish AND Reeces! There’s an American store. My mom won’t tell me where it is, or else I’d probably go there everyday.” Boy, is she gonna miss pies when she gets back home.

Whet your appetite visually at: NZ – Food by jocuteca.

In China, the Lantern Festival is celebrated on the fifteenth day of the first month in the lunar year in the Chinese calendar. The Auckland Lantern Festival in Albert Park closes two weeks of Chinese New Year celebrations in town. It featured the eponymous lanterns, performers from China, lots of great Asian food, martial arts, and fireworks under a full moon.

The event is a chance to learn more about Chinese culture and traditions. It’s also a good reminder that Chinese people make up over 2% of the population, making them the largest non-European, non-Polynesian population in the country.

Lantern Festival photos: NZ – Auckland Lantern Festival by jocuteca

An Ent

The first hint that New Zealand was a land without pinkulas was my first week here, when Chuck took me to Albert Park. It was a month or so after I got my leg cast off, so I was groaning and complaining as we climbed a steep path to the hilltop park. At the top, my breath was taken away once more. By the Ents. Yes, Lord of the Rings fanatics, the Ents live in Auckland. Not the ones in the movie, admittedly. (Those probably live at Weta Workshops in Wellington.) But these beautiful buttress roots sure look like they’re ready to rise from the ground and go for a deliberative walk. And their twisty, perfect-climbing-tree limbs seem ready to reach out for an errant hobbit wandering by.

Thus began my plant obsession. It took me 14 months to finally figure out what these majestic giants were. When my dad visited, he insisted that their leaves looked like figs. We tried to find labels for them in botanical gardens and parks. But I finally found the answer closer to home – I looked up Albert Park on the Internet. Yep, Dad, they’re Moreton Bay figs (Ficus macrophylla) from Queensland, Australia.

Tree Fern

The irony is that New Zealand doesn’t really need to import fancy fantastic plants from their trans-Tasman cousins. This is home to a crazy diversity of unique trees, ferns and flowering plants. When you tramp through the bush, dwarfed by gigantic ferns and Dr. Seussian trees, you sense why British naturalist David Bellamy called them Dinosaur Forests. No wonder Peter Jackson filmed King Kong here! When Aotearoa split from the ancient continent of Gondwana, it took Jurassic era trees, birds and lizards with it. (Mammals weren’t widespread yet, so the only native mammal here is a bat.) New Zealand’s geographic isolation meant 80% of the greenery here is found nowhere else in the world.

Harakeke flower stalks

When the Māori arrived between 800-1000 years ago, they found a rainy land covered in greenery. Understandably, the Māori honored the trees and plants from which they clothed themselves, built homes, carved waka (canoes), and healed themselves. Without the leafy harakeke with which they made into clothing, they would have been some very cold Polynesians indeed! Low-slung houses were made from trunks of the towering tree ferns, while various trees from the hardwood-podocarp forests were useful for waka and carvings of gods and ancestors.

Kauri trees

This veneration extended to naming and sanctifying ancient trees. One of the most important Māori deities is Tāne Mahuta, god of forests and birds. In Māori cosmology, Tāne Mahuta is the child of Ranginui (sky father) and Papatuanuku (earth mother). To bring light into the world, he broke the primordial embrace of his parents thus allowing life to flourish. His powerful name has also been given to a 1250-year old kauri tree in the Waipoua Forest in the north. This “Lord of the Forest” is the largest of its kind living, at 51.5m high and 13.8m around. Another kauri in the same forest, Te Matua Ngahere or “Father of the Forest”, is believed to be the oldest kauri on earth at 2000 years old.

Taketakerau is the name of a giant puriri tree outside Opotiki on the Bay of Plenty. This 2000-year old tree was used by the Upokorehe hapu (subtribe) as a sacred storage place for the bones of their venerated dead. This sacred site meant death to any unwelcomed visitors, although I wonder whether by the atua (ancestral gods) or at the hands of the hapu? When the tree was damaged by a storm, the tapu (sacred status) was removed and it can now be visited by non-Māori without breaking any ritual prohibitions.

Pōhutukawa tree

Perhaps the most famous sacred tree is Te Aroha. Located at the very top of New Zealand at Cape Reinga, this pōhutukawa tree is where Māori believe dead spirits fly to after they die. They climb down the 800-year old roots of Te Aroha and continue their journey on to Hawaiki – which refers both to the afterlife and the Māori homeland.

Trees still have symbolic significance to both Māori and Pākeha in modern times. One Tree Hill is one of the most visible high spots in Auckland. Formerly home to a Māori fortified village pa and then an early European pioneer’s farm, the volcanic cone is important to both communities. Its Māori name Maungakiekie refers to the kiekie vine and another name for it describes a solitary tōtara tree.

Toetoe grass

But there’s no tree on One Tree Hill. The native tree was chopped down by a white settler in 1853. It was replaced with a non-indigenous Monterey pine, which was attacked by Māori activists in 1994 and again in 1999. It had to be cut down in 2000, after a severe storm damaged it irreparably. Nobody can decide what kind of tree to plant in its place. Should it be a native tree or a European one? This has been complicated by a Treaty of Waitangi claim on the land by several native Māori tribes. Only a few weeks ago, the decision was made to transfer ownership of this and 10 other Auckland volcanic cones to local Māori iwi.  We may get a tree yet.

Native silver beech

European settlers didn’t just cut down the one tree. They cleared thousands of acres of them. From the mid-19th century onwards, New Zealand’s forests were felled to build houses and ships, thereby making way for the agricultural and livestock industries that still dominate the economy. There’s a reason large swaths of New Zealand remind visitors of the rolling hills England or gorse-covered Scotland. It makes me wonder what kind of spiritual effect the bush-clearing must have had on the Māori – as the visible manifestation of Tāne Mahuta fell at the hands of the same peoples who brought Jesus to replace him in their minds.

Kowhai flowers

Perhaps it was the Kiwi love of being outdoors that finally led locals to understand that endemic plants and wildlife were dying out. Native bush reserves now exist all around the country and efforts are being made to slow the impact of invasive species on local plants and animals. One-third of the country is owned by the state – and now also by Māori iwi – as parks or reserves. The most popular tourist activities these days involve admiring the unique birdlife, plant life and geology of the country. Interestingly, this development is happening at the same time that New Zealanders are trying to find a unique, multi-ethnic identity, as they distance themselves from their imperial past. Amazing endemics like kauri, pōhutukawa, harakeke and kowhai have become New Zealand icons.

The most iconic of New Zealand plants is the towering silver fern called ponga. For weeks, I saw silver fern images on rugby uniforms, souvenirs, flags and logos. In fact, this overabundance of Kiwi symbols really got up my nostrils for a few months. It seemed like a team of marketers and tour operators had taken over the country, turning it into one big advertisement and draining these symbols of their power.

A koru (Furled fern frond)

I even misunderstood what the silver fern was. Someone had told me that Māori used them for way-finding at night. I saw a dried-out, graying fern leaf on the forest floor on a short bush walk and concluded the silver ferns were dead leaves laid out to point the way. This weird idea ended the first time someone flipped over a living ponga leaf. Ooohhhh! Shiny green leaf flipped to reveal a fantastic silvery underside. There’s something almost magical in seeing this the first time. I understood that what makes good marketing to foreigners also grasps at a very elemental connection Kiwis have with their land.

This reverence is nowhere stronger than with the awesome kauri trees. These are like the redwood forests of New Zealand. And they are similarly rare and cherished. Thousands of people now go to the forests of Northland to visit Tāne Mahuta and his relatives. For non-Māori, this is a recent development, however. While Māori saw these giant trees as rulers of the forest, Europeans saw the strong, straight trunks as ideal ships’ masts.

The kauri’s resinous gum was also a major industry. It was chipped from trees and branches, as well as dug from the ground, to make varnishes and linoleum. In fact, Te Ara Encyclopedia of New Zealand notes that Auckland was largely built on the gum industry. My Croatian friends out there will be interested to know that many of these hard-working gumdiggers were Dalmatians.

800-year old kauri

With less than seven-percent of these forests still standing, cutting kauri trees has now become illegal. You will still find many woodcrafters turning out lovely kauri-wood bowls, however. This is legal, as they are using ancient kauri wood. In the peat swamps of Northland lie submerged kauri trees that fell due to natural cataclysmic storms over the years. Some of the wood is carbon-dated at 45,000 years old.

It isn’t just the majestic kauri and gigantic ferns that have turned me into Plant Girl. New Zealand is a gardener’s paradise. Botanical gardens exist in most major cities. Christchurch is called the Garden City of New Zealand for its famous botanical collections and annual Festival of Flowers. Walking through its gardens with my mom was like visiting the greenhouses of my youth, where my brother and I combated boredom by poking the Sensitive Plant and playing with gift shop toys. But this time, I liked it. And I realized how many plants I recognized from those trips and from my dad’s gardening habit.

Bird of paradise

I simply can’t get over the profusion of flowers that are blooming year round. Non-native species give the endemic breeds a run for their money here. The hibiscus plant outside our door has blooms on it year-round. The bird of paradise, that my dad coaxed to bloom as a potted plant in our New Mexico greenhouse, grows in bushes that are taller than I am. Calla lilies grow wild in the backyard. Plants that are shrubs elsewhere become trees here. It’s as Dad and Sandy said when the visited, “Everything is bigger in New Zealand!”

Pōhutukawa flowers

I have never seen so many red flowering trees in my life. The first to catch my eye were the appropriately-named red Australian immigrants: the flame tree and the bottlebrush. But December brought the native reds out. The pōhutukawa trees, that seem to edge every beach in the country, exploded in a profusion or red puffballs. Hence, their English nickname of the New Zealand Christmas Tree. The 600-year old volcano in the bay from Auckland, Rangitoto, looks orange from the simultaneous blooming of every pōhutukawa on the island.

Pōhuts, as my Kiwi friend Annette calls them, might be my favorite tree. These hardy trees love the volcanic soil of the North Island. You can find them hanging out over salt water, checking out the view and making your photographs more colorful. And some of them have flying roots that they send down from their branches. The huge root bundles of a tree near our library had me weirded out for awhile, until I figured out what they were for and that they were being trimmed to keep them from rooting. The northern rata, a pōhut cousin, germinates in the crowns of mature trees and send their roots down around the trunks to the ground. Eventually, they strangle the host tree and take its place. I know it’s kinda rude, but it’s also pretty damned cool.

Cabbage trees

And I haven’t even told you about the Truffula Trees. They’re called Cabbage Trees – or tī rakau if you’re Māori – but I know the Lorax is lurking around the stand of them in my backyard. You’ll just have to look at my photos to see that I’m right. Don’t miss the pictures of the hedgehog tree down the street! Somebody has got to tell me what that thing is. Or else, I’m claiming it’s where the adorable spiny mammals come from.

So, I’m not finding nearly as many pinkulas around as I used to. I drag Chuck to botanical gardens and get irritated when they don’t label things. But how can I resist? After all, a walk in the woods is more interesting when you’re tramping through Jurassic Park.

Visit my endemic green friends at: NZ – Native plants by jocuteca.

And lovely newcomers at: NZ – Non-native plants by jocuteca.

Andrej

That’s how I ended up at the 34th Auckland Highland Games & Gathering on Saturday. You see, Andrej is a Scottish piper. Word is, he and his brother piped their sister down the aisle at her wedding back home in Belarus. They disrupted the other marriages happening that day at the registry office, as brides skipped out to get their photos taken with the men in plaid skirts. We often hear the skirling of Highland pipes coming from the nearby Auckland Domain and wonder if it’s him practicing.

As a former British colony, New Zealand has plenty of claims to Scottishness. The village of Waipu in Northland was settled by 1000 Gaelic-speaking Highlanders fleeing the Highland Clearances, by way of Nova Scotia. At the other end of the country lies the Edinburgh of the South, Dunedin, named in Scottish Gaelic after that northern capitol. The founders sought to emulate the layout of downtown Edinburgh, so you’ll find Hanover Street, Moray Place,  and Dundas Street here, too. Reportedly, the Southlanders from places like Dunedin and Invercargill bear remnants of the Scottish rolled ‘r’ in their speech, although I haven’t heard evidence of this yet.

One of New Zealand’s most famous folk heroes is Scotsman James ‘Jock’ McKenzie. This highland shepherd is famed for driving 1,000 stolen sheep alone across the wilds of the South Island in 1855. McKenzie’s Scottish collie is as famous as he is, whose skills at mustering sheep are legendary. What is known is that the man and his dog Friday (really, that’s his name!)  led the entire flock over mountain passes undiscovered by non-Māori settlers. When apprehended, McKenzie was able to escape, fleeing 100 miles south to Lyttelton before he was caught. Alas, man’s best friend turned informer, cheerfully identifying his master when brought into court. Jock’s explorations were acknowledged belatedly, giving his name to the region of South Canterbury he roved – Mackenzie Country.

On a side note, I heard just this evening from my Māori teacher’s husband that there’s been much intermarriage between Scots and Māori. He reckons that most of the common Scottish family names are well-represented among the local tangata whēnua (“people of the land”).

I’ve now attended Highland games in the USA, New Zealand and Scotland. One thing that immediately became apparent at this one was that the New Zealand version leans more towards the US style than the Scottish. The Auckland Highland Games had the character of a diaspora population’s focus on culture and identity, with sporting events on equal footing with bagpipe competitions and clan tents.

In Scotland, the Highland games revolve around athletic competitions.  Everything else is secondary, although it’s admittedly pretty hard to sideline a bagpipe band that much. At the games I attended in Glenrothes, Fife, the audience sat around the margins of a track field, watching everything from the traditional caber toss to bicycle races. The Highland dance and bagpipe competitions were squirreled away elsewhere in the area and took some work to locate. And I don’t remember any clan tents encouraging fairgoers to find out where their ancestors came from. Because people in Scotland already know that they’re Scottish. And they know – which apparently lots of Americans and New Zealanders don’t – that not all Scots are Highlanders or belong to a clan.

At this Games, there wasn’t much chance you’d forget where you were, as the grounds resounded with the constant skirling of the Phìob Mhòr, the big Highland pipes. I can’t count how many times I heard Scotland the Brave. Auckland mayor John Banks missed his cue to officially open the games but stood to review a record 10 pipe bands marching in tight formation. I saw Andrej’s Otahuhu & Districts Pipe Band in the lineup, but missed their call in the marching band competition.

Adorably-dressed girls competed in the Highland Fling and Sword Dance, as they do at every Highland games in the world, watched by intent judges and doting mothers. I chatted with some friendly Scottish country dancers who attempted to recruit me and pointed out that the scene in Auckland is less stodgy than what I found in Edinburgh. Clearly, the community is welcoming, as they were able to stage a demonstration with over 72 people!

A Sisyphean Task

The NZ ‘s Strongest Man competition saw some hefty guys carrying two 100kg pipes across field and moving five rocks weighing from 95-155 kgs onto large barrels. I was sad to miss the caber toss, as it isn’t often you get to see men attempting to flip a phone pole end over end. I also missed the parade of the West Highland terriers, but you could see the little white pooches all over the place.

Eventgoers joined in Scottish country dancing and tossing the sheaf (not tossing the sheep, as a few people misheard). I swear the MC had exactly the same accent as Sean Connery,* which added extra flavor to the announcements asking more ladies to sign up for the haggis hurling contest!

Taste o' the Haggis?

It wouldn’t be fully Scottish without a recitation of Robbie Burns’ Ode to the Haggis. And we got to taste the infamous delicacy, too! I heard some gasping when the Polish guy next to me in the tasting line referred to it as Irish food. We got that cleared up before he got into too much trouble, but I refused to tell him what was in this honored Scottish food until he tried it. Man, that was some good haggis, even without neeps and tatties on the side. It made me miss a good plate of it at The Last Drop in the Grassmarket in Edinburgh. The Polish fellow and his French friends liked it, too. Even after I told them it was meat, onions, and oatmeal cooked inside a sheep’s stomach.

Kilted kiwi

Part of the fun of attending the games was looking for particularly Kiwi touches. Of course, you could get a flat white at the coffee tent and the NZ flag flew next to the Cross of St. Andrew. And the New Zealand’s Strongest Man competition was a real crowd pleaser. But it was enjoyable trying to spot more subtle NZ flair. Like the tent selling jandals (Kiwi for “flip-flops”) and beach towels designed to look like kilts. Or the camaraderie between the kilt-clad Master of Ceremonies and a muscle-bound Polynesian, sharing a cigarette break. A personal favorite was the mascot of the Scottish country dancers from Waitakere – a kiwi bird dressed in full tartan regalia.

It was time to go when the weather got a little too “Scottish,” as James Bond’s voice double called it. Even the pipe bands garbed in their clever raingear weren’t enough to keep me there. No problem, as Amazing Grace and Flower of Scotland will be ringing in my ears for days.

More photos at: Auckland Highland Games by jocuteca.

Short video clip at: Auckland Highland Games 2009 on YouTube.

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* I was tempted to ask him whether he was also from Fountainbridge, Edinburgh, a place I strongly associate with the malty scent of the now-defunct McEwan’s brewery.