I was sick as a dog last night. The kind of sick that if you get it once every few years you start to gain a reputation as “the guy who’s sick all the time.” Luckily there were three figure skaters in residence at the hostel with me, one who’s writing a dissertation on opossum vaginal mucus secretion. As can be expected from someone who would write a thesis on such a topic, she took care of me well and made me some nice cranberry juice and eggs. But with every ying, there’s a yang, and the upside to this little predicament is the ability to slow down for a day and catch up on this long overdue journal.
I’m in a remote corner of southeast NZ, called the Catlins, at a farm overlooking upwards of 200 sheep. NZ has lots of sheep. I mean lots. Like 9 for every person. I’d think it’s more with all the sheep here. There’s only half a dozen of us and 200 sheep. But no squirrels. It’s odd walking through the forest and not seeing squirrels. There are little birds that hop around, but no squirrels. Unlike its neighbor Australian killer beasts, NZ animals are tragically shy. Except the little blue penguins. They’re the smallest in the world, about the size of your foot. They make an awful racket and can roost right up in towns and parking lots. No ice, just concrete and noisy penguins. NZ is in fact quite different from Australia in many ways I didn’t quite realize at first. While Ozzies are proud and rambunctious, Kiwis are perpetually self-loathing. There’s a chronic case of cultural self-depreciation. I suppose it stems from the fact (as I so often here) that they’re “just a little country with only 4 million people.” Why is food so expensive? Just a little country. Why don’t you recycle? Just a little country. But they do have the genius to mix kiwis and habaneros for an awesome hot sauce. What more do you need?
I’ve noticed a number of funny cultural oddities here. On the surface, the culture seems very similar to America. But what they call sherbet has nothing to do with fruity ice cream. It’s Pixie Stix dust that you dip licorice into. And “candy floss” means “cotton candy.” The most common weather description is “fine.” And “supper” means not dinner but savouries (mini meat pies) and tea. Where Americans learn to play the recorder as the easy instrument, Kiwis learn the ukulele. That’s right, the Hawaiian ukulele. And NZ still has video stores. There’s no Netflix or Redbox, so it’s $5 rentals all the way. And there are very few chain coffee shops. Instead of a Starbucks on one corner and a Dunkin Dounuts on the other they have independent coffee shops that also sell cakes and meat pies. And outside every one is a sign advertising the brand of coffee they brew. It’s like ice cream shops at home. You go in and find they’re serving Hersheys of Ede’s ice cream. It’s an independent shop that sells branded food. Same with coffee here. Speaking of ice cream, I ate some and did not add to my reputation as “the guy who’s always sick” recently. This is a marvelous improvement. So long lactose intolerance, it’s been real. Unfortunately, they don’t eat ice cream in cones here too much. It’s all about popsicles. And despite the fact that the average fish n’ chips portion in NZ has tripled over the past few years, all-you-can-eat buffets have remained scarce. I found one last week and treated myself to the necessary gorging that Thanksgiving requires. It was heavenly. I swore I’d never eat ramen noodles again. Then they were on sale for 50 cents. After the buffet, I could physically feel the bulge in my stomach. I miss that bulge. In NZ, wealthy city residents give gifts of clock towers and phone booths. Clocks are still popular gifts. Our class gave one to Etown as a graduation gift. Phone booths, especially big beautiful stone ones, have fallen out of favor though. These particular ones were gifted to the city of Christchurch by Mr. Edmonds, the baking powder magnate who started the cookbook that has become the best-selling book in NZ history…and yet impossible to find in stores! It was near this phone booth that I met my first real live hooker. I wanted the city life, but I forgot that along with culture, theatre, and the arts comes questions like, “would you like to have sex for money?” She was amazingly polite about it. I said no. Kiwis in general are incredibly polite. They always say please and cheers (thank you is uncommon). Even the rowdy drunks who came into my work, were immaculately polite when they ordered. See how much they have to be proud of?
Church here has also been a learning experience. The evangelical church as I know it at home by all accounts does not exist here. It’s mainline or charismatic with no middle ground. I had my second experience of stumbling into a Pentecostal church in Christchurch. I got to see “the laying on of hands” first hand. We’re talking about televangelist style here. It seems odd to me, but in a way, I completely understand the psychology behind it. Think about the power of touch. Every study on human development talks about its importance, especially as children. Yet we live in a culture that thanks to the proliferation of inappropriate touching, has backlashed so strongly that physical contact is completely absent from most of our lives. Why do girls go back to guys who continue to mistreat them? Perhaps it’s the power of the physical touch that outshines the pain of the emotional abuse. So imagine going to church and being completely overwhelmed by the feeling that someone genuinely cares for you. Combine this intensity with the power of touch and you have a situation that can be so emotionally overpowering that it causes you to fall on the floor shaking when the preacher touches you. The power of God, the power of love, the power of touch, the power of the mind. One or all of the above, it makes for an interesting scene. I didn’t go back though. A common theme in the churches I’ve been to is a strident bashing of other churches that aren’t as “full of the spirit.” The end goal seems to be not lovejoypeacepatiencekindnessgoodnessfaithfulnessgentlenessandselfcontrol, but being loud. During one worship song, the place erupted and people were literally dancing and moshing and going nuts in the front of the sanctuary. It was passionate and exciting and fun, but was it thoughtful? The Salvation Army has awesome churches here. They run thrift stores of course and may or may not ring bells at Christmas, but here they’re an actual denomination, and an awesome one at that. People wear uniforms to church and music is provided by a full brass band. Totally unique. I’ve been most impressed with the Anglican church though. The big cathedral downtown blew my mind with a “Blessing of the Animals” service, which is a yearly event at all Anglican churches here. The pastor dressed up as a teddy bear and the message was given by the national head of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, dressed as a cat, who talked about the love for animals tought by St. Francis of Assisi. Attendees were encouraged to bring animals into the Cathedral with them, so the place was filled with dogs, a horse, and a rat. They emphasized that the Biblical privilege of “dominion” over animals, means not using them for our selfish desires but compassion and caring for them. It was brilliant and one of the most unique and thoughtful things I’ve seen in a long time. I went to another church that is considered a “high” church, as in they’re almost Catholic. I loved it. This is a marked departure from my high school days, but it’s been a steady progression helped along by the growing desire to go deeper in my faith than the seeker-oriented nature of many evangelical churches. The building was gorgeous, they had incense (which is awesome at the time but always gives me a headache afterwards), candles (which need to become a bigger part of my life), and a meaningful and challenging message. And tradition. I probably sound like an old man, but I’ve realized how much I enjoy tradition. I missed Thanksgiving this year. It was hard, because every year we do the same thing in my family for Thanksgiving. And departure from that feels unfulfilling. This church service made me reflect on what may have been my ultimate take-home lesson from my trip to Israel and the key to why I believe it’s such an important pilgrimage for every Christian to make. When in Israel as a part of the religious community there, you begin to grasp the enormity of the Christian faith and the enormity of world spirituality. It connects you to the larger church in a way that returning missionaries from Africa never did for me. You realize that Christianity is bigger than your individual congregation. It’s bigger than your denomination. It’s bigger than your country. And it’s bigger than your era, your point in history. God just can’t be boxed. And also, for anyone who has the fortune to outlive me, please please get a group of bagpipers to play “Amazing Grace” at my funeral. It almost moves me to tears every time I hear it.
Christchurch was an interesting place to be for a few months. It’s a bizarre place, really. Most buildings in NZ look exactly the same because they all have the exact same awnings and signs. Variations of architecture are virtually nonexistent (which made places like the Victorian city of Oamaru even more incredible). Christchurch, however, was a bit disjointed. It really solidified in my mind the importance of good architecture in creating a “feel” and sense of place. A place like New Haven, CT, exudes a certain type of character because it has a cohesive architectural style. Even new buildings are built with sensitivity to the older ones. They didn’t do that in Christchurch, they just tore down old buildings and put new ones up. What results is this hodgepodge of randomness that lacks any defining features. It also seemed to lack the thriving underground and arts culture that cities tend to lend to their residents. Maybe it’s part and parcel with the underachieving mentality of most Kiwis, but people just didn’t seem to get fired up about much of anything. There were a lot of goths though!
And as always, everything’s a learning experience. I saw incredible compassion in Christchurch when I was waiting to cross the street. There was a lady on the other side who seemed to be crying and wailing inconsolably. Having become more of a jaded cityfolk than I’m happy to admit, I just thought she was a little loony. It’s sad that my first thought was to think ill of her. Another young lady took the time to stop and talk to her and it turned out she was upset because she had checked her bank account at the ATM and realized money was missing. It was touching and humbling to see someone with genuine compassion that I myself did not have. I did redeem myself once though. I had a suitor of sorts, a strange situation by all accounts. As with most travelers I meet, she was younger and was strangely interested in me. But she had a boyfriend. Though she clearly didn’t care too much for this poor boy back home, I couldn’t let anything happen. I’ve been on the other side of that raw deal and it’s not a fate I would dole out to even the most heinous of criminals. It’s an incredibly liberating feeling of freedom and power to make a difficult decision to do the right thing. It’s a wonder we don’t do it more often. I also met a genuinely homeless guy at a church in the cool old city of Dunedin, home of the chocolate factory. He spent much of his time at the church and amazed me with his knowledge of the Bible. The service was about hospitality that day. Me oh my, where would I be on this journey without the hospitality and kindness of strangers? The number of times I’ve been shown unwarranted generosity is incredible. Part of the difficulty of being “poor” and traveling around is that I don’t have the means to serve others. I’m always in a hurry, I’m always low on money, I’m always in a position where I’m the foreigner, the one being served. It’s lovely to always feel so welcome, but I look longingly for the day when I can pass it forward to others. It needs to become a habit. I can do it now, I’m just so used to being the recipient that I forget. Living alone for so long makes you selfish in a way I’m not fond of. I had a coupon for 25% off at a café the other day. It was 25% off the whole order. I was chatting with some nice young ladies in line and then proceeded to use my 25% off coupon all by my lonesome. What an incredible opportunity this was to show some unexpected kindness to someone else by saying, “hey let’s share this coupon and we’ll all get 25% off.” Everyone wins. But the thought didn’t even cross my mind until after it was too late. A similar thing happened when I finished work early at the hostel one day. I could have used that time to help the other cleaner who was still working, but I really wanted to get to the free concert they were having for the city. I was so caught up in my own agenda that I missed an opportunity to be a true example of Christ’s love for people. Chalk it up to stress, but that’s a cop out. It’s hard to build a habit, a character of always doing the unselfish thing, especially when it’s hard and requires genuine sacrifice. But if we all keep at it and don’t give up, we’ll have a lot of smiles to show for it. When I return to the old United States I hope to get into the swing of a master’s program focusing on architectural history, historic preservation, or something of that ilk. Why? Because I believe so passionately in the power of a sense of place to create genuine community among people. It creates lives that are consciously intertwined in one another. So the next time I helped, because I know my life is intertwined with everyone else’s.
I did something this week that was maybe the most incredible thing I’ve done yet in NZ, and yet it felt a bit sacrilegious, disloyal. I toured the Cadbury’s factory. Sorry Hershey’s, you’ll always be number one, but I need some time apart. Part of it is that I am absolutely enthralled with corporate history, with how little mom and pop places become multinational conglomerates, with how they market themselves over time, with package design, with product choices, with how different products are offered to different markets, with how they structure themselves. I may be stridently anti-capitalist, but I was a Comm major for a reason. I love this stuff. And even better if it’s chocolate. The company was started by a Quaker in Birmingham, England, who began with “drinking chocolate.” It was years before it became available as a bar. I had my first drinking chocolate as part of the tour. I was expecting hot cocoa. No sir, this was rich thick milky chocolate. Like fondue but not as runny and snobby. Just like beautiful melted chocolate. It was unbelievable. The tour not only took you into the factory but we saw one ton of chocolate fall down a silo as a waterfall and got 6 pieces of chocolate for free. Better than Hershey’s no doubt, but also not free, and with a more paltry gift shop. It was quite informative too. They source their sugar from Australia instead of the Caribbean and their cocoa from Africa and Malaysia instead of Latin America. This alone can give the chocolate a different taste. And I didn’t realize how much Big Chocolate (Mars, Cadbury, Hershey, Nestle) has borrowed from one another. Cadbury makes Buttons that are just like Hershey Kisses. And when Herhsey introduced the exciting new Take 5 a few years ago? It was copied from a failed Cadbury product. In America, Hershey makes Cadbury chocolate, but it’s only crème eggs around Easter. There is an actual branch of Cadbury in the US, but they make gum and mints, not chocolate. And KitKat is not an original Hershey’s either. It was made by an independent chocolatier in England who sold the US right to Hershey is the ‘70s. In the ‘80s Nestle bought the company so they now make KitKat the world over…except the US. And nobody else uses peanut butter but Hershey’s. That alone might make them the best in my book! And they’re the only the only major player to just do candy. All the other guys make dog food too. Yuck.
But spending $50 on chocolate hasn’t been the only big to-do of the past few months. As a result of the earthquake, we got all kinds of freebies in Christchurch. The NZ Symphony Orchestra gave a free show and I went with my Japanese roommate who had never been to such a concert. She loved it and said she’d go in Japan. Nothing like turning someone on to the joys of culture! The same night I went out to da club and cemented in my mind that I am officially too old for the club scene. The punk scene of my high school days faded out a few years back when I realized I was the only person at Warped Tour without a black shirt, tattoos, and glow bracelets, and now the bass beat of my college years is fading as well. May you rest in peace gyrating hotties, the Rat Pack is calling my name. The biggest adventure was a hike I was doing along a mountainous ridge on the peninsula south of Christchurch. I lost the trail somehow and found myself face to face with a barbed wire fence. I get lost quite often and quite enjoy it as part of the fun. But hopping barbed wire was a new one. But I had no choice so over I went, unharmed, and landed in the middle of, you guessed it, a sheep pasture. I had no idea what was over the next ridge, but before I could find out there appeared on the horizon above me a mammoth specimen of sheepdom. A beast as regal and majestic as any lion, a ram the size of a football field silhouetted against the blue sky. And when I climbed the ridge I found the trail. This is the beauty of New Zealand.
Work was good. Other than scrubbing bathrooms and making beds at the hostel, I found gainful employment at the only takeaway burrito joint in the city, started by Kiwis who had lived in Belize and San Francisco and were sick of fish n’ chips and meat pies. It’s been a hard sell here. Americans eat more Mexican food than anyone else, except possible Mexicans. Here, they like meat pies. But I learned to make guacamole, pico de gallo, and sour cream and how to roll a burrito without it falling all over the place (most of the time). We had some minor celebrities stop in including a few guys who were headed to bases in Antarctica for the southern summer and the band Fear Factor, who acted very much like they were from LA, and had opened for Metallica the night before. I had an eclectic group of coworkers, including a few Kiwis, a Cuban, a Chilean, and an Iranian. And of course the kiwi-flavored hotsauce.
I had the luck to play Pictionary with a group of Germans as well. I don’t think there are many Germans left in Germany, because at least every other person in NZ is German. Playing a language-based game with people who speak a different language was loads of fun. “Tape measure” was a hard one. I can draw it, but what if the German doesn’t know the English word for it. How would we know if we got it right? It was awesome. I went to a few movies too, from an Italian film fest to an old Fred & Ginger dance picture to a silent film with piano accompaniment…and a cartoon of course. Theatres here can be classy. They often serve wine and $5 coffeehouse style cakes instead of popcorn. I remember when popcorn used to be an essential part of my moviegoing experience. There were three parts to a movie: the popcorn, the previews, and the film itself. It wasn’t legit without all of them. I need to bring that back. Adrenalin Forest was awesome too. It was a high ropes course not for team building or self-discovery or anything like that. Just for fun. And it was high. High enough that the trees swayed in the wind. You’d climb a tree and then traverse your way across various sorts of ropes and swings and barrels up in the sky. There was one employee on the ground. You alone were in charge of making sure you were hooked onto your safety rope. There was an amazing sense of unbridled fun about it. There’s an amusement park in Pennsylvania, Idewild maybe, where attractions are built not around riding something, but experiencing things. Instead of lots of roller coasters, they had these massive ropes courses with nets and balls high up in the trees. It was physical challenge not based on competition but on fun, not to win or impress but just to play. I can’t think of anywhere else where unbridled play is so encouraged in our modern culture. We consume culture and we interact with it, but we never just play for the sake of play. This ropes course was so much fun! Almost as cool was the most incredible minigolf course ever. This was like the minigolf courses you see in cartoons but never in real life. No tropical/pirate/Western/dinosaur theme here. This was structured like a city, so holes were based on airports, mountains, downtowns, amusement parks, churches, wharfs, etc. They had all kinds of models and moving parts, including one where you hit your ball into a hole and it was carried to the top of a roller coaster and rolled down for 40 feet or so before being deposited. Another one had a gondola ride for your ball. And at the end you got a lollypop, even if you were 5 over par.
Christchurch has the biggest A&P show in NZ. A&P stands for agricultural and pastoral, and it means you’re going to a fair. It was very similar to our fairs. They sold “American-style hotdogs” (NZ hotdogs are fried hotdog on a stick, not a corndog with cornbread, just fried on a stick) and whitebait patties. I absolutely love fairs and trade shows. Something about the air of possibility, the feeling of potential permeating the whole thing. It’s such an exciting place to be, and you always come home with tons of reading material to think about all the wonderful things that could be a part of your future. It was different not being able to fully participate since I can’t buy anything as there’s nowhere to put it, I can’t vote so there’s not much to say to the political parties, I’ll never buy a car here, so no use sitting in one to get that new car smell. They give out less free stuff at NZ fairs though, and as with everything else in this strange land, the whole thing shut down by 5pm. After leaving the stable, slightly overworked life of Christchurch behind, I went to the amazing little town of Oamaru, built as a wool and grain harbor in the late 1800s and still maintaining an amazing collection of Victorian architecture owing to the fact that the town has been so poor for so long that no one bothered to tear down the old buildings. They had a big celebration where everyone dressed up in costumes, and which saw me with only the second mustache of my life. I never got the handlebar I was shooting for, but it was awesome to be around like-minded people nonetheless. I sat beside the pianist’s husband and lifetime resident of the little town during the silent film I saw and in discussing the changes the town has seen over time, was reminded why I travel – to meet real people living their lives in real ways. Many of the most incredible friends I meet in my travels aren’t my age at all. They’re my grandparents age. And they’re awesome. Chocolate, good architecture, and sheep. God save New Zealand.
- Jeremy
