Running of the Sheep

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.

Enquiring Kiwis Want to Know

In my last year at university, I took an independent study with an amazing, down-to-earth Anthropology professor. Near the end of the term, Professor H. looked at me across his desk and gave me perhaps the most practical advice a young Anthro student can get. He told me, “Now, you need to go there and sit around in coffeehouses and talk to real people.”

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!

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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.

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

Approaching Mount Doom

We live on an island of volcanos. The biggest lake in New Zealand – Lake Taupo – is actually the water-filled caldera of a mega-volcano. (Only five exist in the world.) Auckland itself contains over 50 cones. Rangitoto Island in the harbour blew itself into existence less than 700 years ago. But that’s nothing.

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.

Pies! Pies! Pies!

I was browsing the local post shop one day, when I noticed a box labeled Kiwi Homesick Pack. “What would New Zealanders send their friends abroad?” I asked myself. A tiny pair of gumboots? A silver fern frond? A rugby ball? I should have guessed… It was all food. Weet-bix, Jaffas, Marmite, chocolate fish, even Watties tomato sauce. Nostalgia is strongest in our tastebuds. Why should it be any different in New Zealand?

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.

Lanterns Ablaze

I just finished volunteering for 5 days for the Auckland Lantern Festival. I thought folks might appreciate seeing some photos of this great event.

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

A Land Without Pinkulas

“That,” said Kate solemnly, “is a pinkula.” It was sometime in the early 1990s, and my friend Kate and I were walking along the Burke-Gilman Trail in Seattle. Knowing she has a green thumb, I’d pestered Kate to identify a flower along the path. And then a plant. And another flower. For some reason, she didn’t think this game was as much fun as I did. Possibly because she knew I was going to forget one name as soon as she said the next one. Now, however, we’d come across a small pink flower whose name would become infamous in our friendship vocabulary. Because, you see, it seems that every flower and plant on the rest of the walk was a pinkula. Even the blue ones! Now, whenever I don’t know what a plant is really called, which is most of the time, it is officially dubbed a pinkula. Until now…

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.

Kilted Kiwis

Chuck has a colleague at the university from Belarus. Andrej is an enthusiastic folk musician, which is why I contacted him to find out about local cultural events in Auckland. I missed the dance party he told me about a few months ago, so I was determined to attend this one-day festival.

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.

Clan standard

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.

Sailing the South Pacific

It was the perfect evening. Good friends, blue skies, cold cider, interesting conversation, minimal bruises, not much shouting…

You see, I’m learning two languages in New Zealand: Māori and sailing. Yachting has its own vocabulary and style of communication. Mostly shouting, that is. At least, that’s what it feels like when you’re first learning and don’t understand the words yet.

Māori war canoe in Bay of Islands

There’s halyards and sheets, starboard and port, leeward and windward, gennakers and spinnakers and genoas, and my personal favorite, the vang. You have to figure out quickly why “coming about” means you could soon have a bruise on your head or what to do when everyone’s yelling about a “lazy sheet.” And in the world of the sea, everything is relative to the wind. For instance, I’m still struggling with the concept that make a right-angle turn has two words for it – tacking and jibing – depending on how the boat is changing relative to the prevailing gusts. That’s like trying to give someone driving directions relative to the nearest mountain – if the mountain liked to jump around a lot and change locations.

Why is a girl from land-locked desert highlands suddenly struck with sailing? You’d think I would have already picked it up in Seattle, if I was so keen, wouldn’t you? My only real explanation is that, well, it’s just what people DO in Auckland. Here in the City of Sails, there are approximately 135,000 yachts and launches – that’s 1 boat for every 10 people in a city of 1.3 million people. Keep in mind that a sailboat generally needs more than one person to take it out, and that means LOTS of opportunities to get onto a boat.

50 cent coin

Sailing is in the psyche, here in the “Land of the Long White Cloud.” After all, that’s how everyone got here up until the 20th century. Don’t let the image of a slim Māori war canoe fool you. They didn’t paddle all the way here from their Polynesian homeland. They flew before the winds in a double-hulled voyaging canoe, balancing on the high seas with sails and an outrigger. The first European ship to land here, Captain Cook’s HMS Endeavor, is memorialized on the 50-cent coin. Even air travelers are reminded that good winds matter here, when they drive past giant white metal sails at Auckland International Airport.

Yes, the most popular sport to watch in New Zealand is rugby.  But Aucklanders’ favorite sport to DO is sailing. Not surprising, then, that I showed up and was signed up for a local yacht club before we even moved into our apartment. We have our all-around sportsman fellow American, Bryon, to thank for introducing us to the Richmond Yacht Club. Lest you hear “yacht club” and think we’re walking around in summer whites and tut-tutting with a bunch of wealthy boat-owners, you have to understand two things. First, “yacht” really just means “sailboat.” Even better, the word comes from the Norwegian word jaght meaning“fast pirate ship.” I love that! Second, RYC draws a pretty down-to-earth, even somewhat blue-collar crowd. We know boat owners who are firemen and builders and university professors, but no corporate moguls or trust-fund heirs. Hell, there isn’t even a dress code for the post-race prize givings!

Tall ships at Auckland Anniversary Day Regatta

Didn’t I mention that most of our sailing is races? Ah, well now perhaps you understand some of the shouting. And the bruising. We got started with RYC’s Friday Night Special race series, where they let rank beginners (i.e. me) onto a succession of different yachts over the course of 8 evening races. The first thing you learn is how not to get hit in the head – or knocked overboard – by the boom.

For you beginners, the mainsail is attached to the mast going upwards and the boom going parallel to the boat’s deck. “Coming about” is when the boat is turning sufficiently for the mainsail to change from one side of the boat to the other. The boom is that huge metal rod going over your head very quickly. DUCK! Oh, and scramble to the other side of the boat while you’re doing this!  Since you’re not very important ‘cause you don’t know anything, you generally don’t get to do this in the recessed cockpit where you can just bend down a bit. You have to climb over the top of the cabin, banging yourself on every metal bit sticking out. And you’re on a keeled boat that tends to, well, keel over at 45 degrees to the water, so you need to do this at the right time so you don’t end up trying to climb up the boat to the high side. And try not to sit on any of the lines or get in the way too much, eh? That’s the first day.

Cooling my heels on the Coastal

It gets better. Really! For instance, we newbies get to spend plenty of time relaxing on the rail with our legs hanging off the boat where one can admire the view, chat with fellow sailors, wave at or taunt other boats, and listen to the experienced crew discuss strategy. If we get bored, we can admire all the bad sailing puns in the boat names: Prawn Broker, Knighthawk, Xtsea, Deep Throttle, Aquaholic …

The best part, though, is when you actually start knowing what you’re doing. Even the shouting becomes kinda fun then. The first time I started to feel that way was on the 2009 Coastal Classic in late October. The Coastal is a long-distance sailing race that starts in Auckland’s Waitemata Harbour and terminates at Russell in the Bay of Islands. We were lucky to get invited onto Peppermint Planet, owned by brothers’-in-law Rodney and Peter. Realistically, I think Chuck was invited and I somehow managed to tag along.

We showed up on the dock to discover that Peppermint Planet had no less than eight crewmembers. This seemed like a lot of bodies for the number of jobs aboard. As one of the least experienced, I was pretty sure I was destined to be “rail meat”, i.e. ballast that does what you tell it to. I was feeling a bit blue, since I was hoping to do something useful and learn more. Chuck spoke up and volunteered me to run the keys, which meant learning a whole new set of skills. I was thrilled!

The keys w/ Auckland skyline

Little did I know that I was signing up to be the eye of the shouting storm. Rodney and Bryon quickly explained which lines went through the keys, how they worked and what problems to watch out for. I should point out that there are no “ropes” on a sailboat. Every line has a special name. Woohoo! More vocabulary! I eventually worked out that most of the keys control lines that go up and down. Phew! Means I don’t have to think about the sheets, which pull the headsail back and forth horizontally. That doesn’t stop me from starting every time someone says to do something with the sheets, fervently searching the keys to find that they’re not listed and finally remembering they’re not my problem.

Peppermint Planet

You’ve probably heard that old adage that describes flying as “hours of boredom interrupted by moments of stark terror.” That pretty aptly describes running the keys. You’ve not really needed much of the time. But when it’s time to change the headsail, to take better advantage of the winds you’re getting, it’s panic time. There’s lots of shouting and gesturing coming from several people at once. Often, you can’t hear them as their voices get lost in the wind. Oh, and apparently everyone on the boat has a slightly different term for the SAME damned line! Who knew that “uphaul” was the same thing as “toppers,” which is marked as “topping lift” on the key itself? And there’s an outhaul and a downhaul to remember, too. Yeah, it all makes sense when you sit down and work out what everything does. But during all the shouting and boat tipping and hauling on lines, that all goes out the window.

What I’m saying is that it was AWESOME! I mattered! I was doing something that actually affected the boat! And, I could spend some time in the cockpit, where the under-boom scrambling was less painful. The bruises on top of my bruises breathed a sigh of momentary relief. And I was learning the whys behind all the words and shouting. Very cool.

Rodney aboard Peppermint Planet

It was a thrill to get to know the crew better, too. We were an international mix of people of quite varied experience. Our nimble Kiwi skipper Rodney kept us in good form, only occasionally doing his angry Rumplestiltskin impression when we’d really mucked something up. Sailing queen “Skiff” originally from Portsmouth, England, kept the headsails trimmed – and showed how great it is to have some clear female communication onboard. One of three professional sailmakers onboard, Brendan remained almost imperturbable running the mainsail. Charlie from Rarotonga saved me from being the newest person aboard, as this was his 3rd time on a sailboat. He spent the entire time grinning ear-to-ear or grinding on a winch whenever Skiff yelled, “Trim, Charlie!” When not working the bow, slim eighteen-year old Jay told us about his experiences growing up on sailboats in Spain and the Bay of Islands, while our buddy Bryon put up with Rodney’s jibes about being better ballast than the rest of us because of his large frame.

The race was lovely. The sun was shining the whole time, and we had a lovely wind pushing us up the coast most of the way. Most boats were flying their spinnakers, which made the start line a many-hued rainbow of colorful kites. The weather was so spectacularly beautiful that some crazy kiteboarder was racing right behind the record-setting winner, Alfa Romeo. He made it 261kms, only giving up when the wind gave out near Russell. We made our own record, finishing in 14 hours 7 minutes.

Sunset at Bay of Islands

So, I’m learning to understand and even speak this new language, bit by bit. Sailing isn’t exactly a democracy, but there are often multiple voices putting their oars in on what oughta happen next or, more often, “what the heck happened there when everything went to custard?” It’s been fantastic to finally understand what all the chatter is about. And Rodney’s let us know that we’re now “expected” on the more hardcore Wednesday night race series.

I’m finding myself part of a community I never expected to join. Last night, Peter showed me how to pack the spinnaker properly. As we started, I thought he asked me, “Do you have a clue?” After a heartbeat, I realized he was talking about the lower corners of the sail. And as I grabbed the clew, I realized that I felt like the answer to the question I thought I heard was finally “yes.”

See what it looks like at: Coastal Classic 09 by jocuteca

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New Zealand is for the Birds

One of the first things you notice about New Zealand is that the birds are LOUD, the flowers are fantastic, and the trees are out of a Dr. Seuss book. One of the next things you notice is that you’ve become obsessed with the birds, trees and flowers of New Zealand.

Before leaving the States, a family friend told me in detail about bird safaris and aviary life she saw on her trip to NZ. I just figured she was an amateur ornithologist. Nope. Something about this place does that to you.

Kea posing in front of the Rob Roy Glacier

Bird-mania strikes fast and deep. And it’s not just me. Really! Chuck can imitate the tweet-tweet-crash of the tuis in our backyard almost perfectly. Great mimics who can live in cities, they sound like they’re interpreting car accidents around town. When we met a kea on a hike to Rob Roy Glacier, we snapped at least 15 photos of the mischievious mountain parrot. All our visitors go home with photographs full of tuis, pukekos and even seagulls.

My mom became particularly obsessed with kiwi while visiting. Of course, in her presence, the flightless, dowdy signature birds of NZ were pretty rowdy. During her first kiwi encounter, the elder and bigger female chased her younger “boy toy” mercilessly around the enclosure, poking him in the bum. See how you’d like a 4-inch beak jab of surprise, and you can imagine how high he jumped! These nocturnal and generally shy guys put on a performance every time she went to the zoo or an enclosure. Don’t know what kind of vibes she was putting out, but it sure made the female kiwis get frisky. I think she was encouraging them. The birds are already fascinating, but it adds a whole different dimension when your mom is standing next to you and chanting, “Go on! Poke him in the butt!!” I think we managed to get her out of the country before she bought every fuzzy kiwi trinket, but only just. Total take-home count: 30 kiwis.

And have I mentioned that Kiwis (the people, not the birds) are fascinated by their birds too? The whole country is mental about feathered creatures. The money is covered with images of birds – adorable half-moon kiwis on the one dollar coin, the tubby hoiho or yellow-eyed penguin on the fiver, the endangered blue duck called whio on the $10. Artwork from high-end shops to tourist stalls alike is plastered with fantails or takahe, tuis and kakapo.

"Skiwi" crossing

A Kiwi buddy didn’t know what I was talking about when I said the whole country was bird mad. That is, until she thought about it and admitted that even she has a fantail bird tattoo on her shoulder. One street performer in Christchurch is called “Birdbrain” and has a haircut like a yellow-eyed penguin. (You ain’t seen good busking crowd control until you see a usually-reserved crowd of New Zealanders bowing and chanting “penguin, penguin” every time the tram goes by.)

Kiwis are on everything. EVERYTHING! From fridge magnets to the University of Auckland logo. This obsession can go a little far sometimes. For example, the flightless kiwi is the symbol of the Royal New Zealand Airforce. Ok, think about that for a second…

There is a reason for this avian bird fever. Before the Māori arrived in New Zealand around 800 years ago, the only land mammals in Aotearoa were bats. Without any milk-drinking furry predators, birds in NZ evolved in all sorts of crazy and wonderful directions. The kiwi, pukeko, takahe and other flightless birds didn’t have to worry about flying away from rats, possums or dogs until humans brought them along.

The largest birds in modern times lived here – the moa – wingless landbirds that make Big Bird look normal-sized. At 4 to 12 feet and 55 to 315 lbs, the moa must have seemed like lunch on two legs to the Māori. Like numerous other endemic birds, the moa are now extinct – perhaps another reason to be bird manic.

Bird sanctuaries are set up on offshore islands, where it’s possible to kill off their mammalian predators. Apparently, they do poison food drops to kill off the rats, which works because the birds just ignore the the stuff. Well, most everyone except the pukeko. Luckily, these chubby dudes are as numerous as they are dim, so it’s still working out. At least, I hope that’s true, since I think pukeko are pretty cool.

Tauhou aka Silvereye

The feathered fiends all over New Zealand have figured out that they’re popular. Everything with a beak in this country is a beggar. Not just your usual”mine-mine-mine” seagulls, but practically everybody. Kea are famous for trying to eat hikers’ lunches or peeling the rubber windshield wipers off cars. A fantail gave us a lunchtime show in hopes of a little culinary gratuity. A silvereye got near enough for a close-up photo, in hopes of some crumbs.

I suppose my own bird fascination can be blamed on the fact that one of the first books I read here was Witi Ihimaera’s Sky Dancer. Ihimaera is hailed as the first major Māori novelist, most famous abroad for writing the story and movie script for Whale Rider. His books are fascinating and insightful, giving me a much-needed Māori insight into this land. Reminds me a bit of reading Bless Me, Ultima by Rudolfo Anaya while growing up Anglo in New Mexico. It’s surprising how oblivious one community can be living right next to another. Anyways…

Sky Dancer follows stroppy teenager Skylark and her ditzy mom, whose vacation at a remote coastal town turns fantastic when two old Māori women

Beach sentinels?

appear. Skylark emerges as a central player in a prophesized epic rematch between the land birds and the sea birds. The sea birds are the bad guys, driven by inordinate greed and thereby threatening the natural balance of things. You get a sense of how important birds are in a traditional Māori worldview. After all, one of the key Māori deities is Tāne-mahuta, god of forests and birds. The birds in the book have such personalities that it makes you want to know what they look and act like in reality. It’s that much sadder to realize that some of these feathered heroes are already extinct.

Yep, so I guess I’m a bird fancier for now. There’s a bird calendar in the bathroom. A stylized kiwi drawing sits on the mantelpiece (thanks, Cindy!). Our key rack has red and blue pukeko on it. I haven’t got my birdwatcher logbook yet, but I’m just waiting for it to go on sale at the bookstore…

Check out some of the locals at: http://www.nzbirds.com/birds/gallery.html