How Green Was My Valley?

Akaroa Harbor

* A Shyness That Is Criminally Vulgar

I am a self-avowed “bird nerd” and one of the varieties I missed on my last visit to Aotearoa was the Little Blue Penguin. I knew some nested around Akaroa Harbor so the NPR and I headed out that way (with me driving in typical geriatric fashion).

On the way we stopped at a hilltop restaurant where we met a nice Frenchman who referred to us as “girls.”

The NPR and I went outside to take in the view of the harbor and hills and we stayed out until the Frenchman opened the door and said, “Girls, ze pizza eez redee!”

When I revisit this scene in my mind the Frenchman is wearing a little beret and has a curly mustache. Also his words are modified to say, “Girls! Zee pizza, she is ready! Haw haw, baguette!”

Because my memory thrives on stereotypes.

Akaroa was the sight of the only French colony in New Zealand. This fact prompted the British to quickly draft an agreement with the Maori before the Fleur de Lis lovers could further horn in and Gaullify everything.

Today one sees the Tricolor all over town and many of the streets and buildings have French names.

Everywhere I went people told me it was the wrong season to spot the penguins. Quelle dommage!

I bought a sandwich on a pier and tasted some delicious fish I had never heard of before.

As I was walking back down the pier I passed three guys speaking Spanish.

“Oye!” I shouted after them.

All three of them turned toward me in unison.

I asked where they were from. Two were from Spain (meh) but the one in the middle was from the D.F.

I have never been happier to see a Chilango in all my life.

I told him NZ was a perfect country in almost all aspects except for the fact that it was lacking Mexicans. (Because of this I have gone into tacos al pastor withdrawal.)

It was fantastic to see one of my gente adoptada down here at the world’s end.

By about 3p.m. the NPR had morphed into a cranky pants and she insisted that we go home.

There is a small town called Tai Tapu on the way back and I decided to pop into some of the shops there.

In one of them I met a nice girl my age.

I ended up telling her about my misadventure in the Famous Grouse (the one with the jug of coke, Stud Magazine and the “forever alone” seat in the corner). It turns out she and some of her friends had been in one night as well and they were also ignored.

I felt a little better knowing it wasn’t just me.

She said she and a few friends were going out to Christchurch later that night and that I could come along if I liked.

I accepted immediately and promised to change out of the oversized sweatshirt and dirty jeans I was wearing (I call this look “doctoral candidate casual”).

In my excitement, I ended up driving all the way to the bar with the back windshield wiper going. There was no rain- I’m still just confused between the turn signal and the wiper handles which are on reverse sides in this country.

I arrived early and ended up sharing a table with two women who were very friendly. They left a little after A1 and her friend A2 arrived.

We got some drinks and I remarked that there were a lot of handsome guys around.

That’s when I got a bit of bad news.

“Kiwi boys are all shy and if you want one, you have to make the first move,” A1 said.

“The good news is that the women call all the shots,” A2 added.

“Hello celibacy,” I thought.

I looked around again and noticed all the men were standing in protective groups with their mates.Sometimes they would cast a wistful glance at a girl but if she turned toward them their eyes quickly fell toward their shoes.

We bar hopped to a few other locations and at one point, we passed a group of guys. One of them walked toward us and said, “Do you know about the Regular Show?”

“I do!” I answered thinking of Mordecai and the strange bubble-headed character.

Nerd bait had been laid out and I had taken it.

A1 linked her arm through mine and whispered, “Don’t engage” in my ear. She shook her head slowly and insinuated that we didn’t want those sorts of guys talking to us.

At the next bar A1 became reflective over her gin and juice and told me that her older brother still lived at home with their mum and was extremely co-dependent on her.

“She actually still blow dries his hair,” she told an incredulous-looking pair of listeners. “My mum came home one day to find him with a girl in his room and she said to me, ‘that girl had the nerve to rub around on his chest hair as if it was hers!’”

The hilarity of this was amplified by the way she mimicked her mother’s voice and the fact that the Kiwi way of saying “chest hair” sounds like “chist hiyah.”

Apparently, her mum was also pissed because her son’s hair was all messed up because she had just blow-dried for him that morning.

“I think there’s a movie in there somewhere,” I told her.

A bunch of A1’s guy friends met up with us later and one of them seemed to take a shine to me.

He called me Little Red Riding Hood in reference to the bright red coat I was wearing.

I didn’t know his name so I referred to him as “white shirt guy.”

We danced within close proximity of each other and he bumped into me once or twice. I think this is what passes for “intense physical contact” in the NZ nightclub setting.

I asked him what he did for a living and he said he kept the city safe and clean.

“So, you’re Batman,” I said.

One of his friends was dancing near us and he had tiny girl wrapped around him. At one point her tongue was in his ear.

“He’s probably going to rock her world for a full two-and-half-minutes later tonight,” I said to him.

I was wrong though, a few minutes later the girl had disappeared and his friend retreated back into the safety of his male pod.

I excused myself at one point and went off to reapply my lip gloss in the ladies room. When I came back, white shirt guy was chatting up some other girl. Apparently, any bit of warm estrogen would do—And to think I was actually moved when he said, “Tell me more about your thesis.”

I danced with A1 and A2 for a bit and noticed an older man of a solid farm working build making his way toward me.

“No, nope, no!” A1 said swinging me around and putting herself between us. The farmer shrugged and lumbered off toward the bar.

White shirt seemed to rediscover my existence when our group left the club for another venue.

I walked down the sidewalk with him and his luckless friend on either side of me and they said something snarky about the way I spoke English.

“Well I was told you Kiwis speak English too but I’ve heard no evidence of it,” I snapped back.

At this point, a few of our group wandered off while everyone else decided we needed to catch some taxis and go to a casino.

I quietly told one of the A2 that I had a car but I guess this fact escaped the larger group.

After waiting a bit longer for a cab that never came, I mentioned my car again.

“Well why didn’t you say!?” they all exclaimed.

The back seat of my borrowed car is meant to comfortably seat three adults.

We crammed in four.

The experience caused a brief flare-up of homophobic tension which was only quieted after I threatened to put someone in the trunk.

White shirt sat next to me so he could give me directions.

“Make a lift,” he said.

“I think you want me to make a left,” I answered.

“Yis,” he said.

Christchurch is a bit of a mess after the earthquake of 2011. I had to wind my way through some precarious one way-streets with a heavy construction presence and this was made all the more challenging by the fact that one of the guys started calling me “a Canadian” and another one pulled the head rest off the passenger’s seat.

“You broke it good, eh?” white shirt said.

“I feel like we’re more connected when we talk now,” his mate replied thoughtfully.

White shirt turned back toward me then and, after a moment, he reached out and stuck his finger in my ear.

“What the hell was that!” I yelled.

“It’s called a wet willy only I didn’t lick my finger,” he said proudly.

I dropped the group at the casino and announced that I was going home.

White shirt tried to get me to come in but I said I couldn’t. He asked if I needed help getting home and I said I didn’t. He said I was a bit of a “hard case” and I said I had no idea what that meant.

As soon as I got home I pulled out the Kiwi phrasebook my school gave me.

Hard case: A tough but likeable person; an eccentric person

To recap; my experiences with the opposite sex in this country have involved  one guy insisting that I run my fingers over his crooked clavicle (last year) and another sticking his finger in my ear.

I was telling my neighbor about this and she said she would get on the internet and research the gesture to see if it was some new thing the kids were doing nowadays.

“Tell me what you find,” I said, “I might be betrothed now and not even know it.”

*Title taken from The Smiths song, “How Soon Is Now?” 

A Breakthrough

I asked one of the instructors from my university why it was so hard to make friends with people in town. He said that most of the people in this country get to know each other in grade school and then they stay friends for life.

I figured I was screwed.

In the U.S. it has become rare to stay in one place for your whole life so this sort of friend-making method isn’t common.

I went to see a doctor at the school’s clinic because I felt like I was having some adjustment issues. I ended up telling her about my small town non-romance and which she found highly entertaining. The lady who runs the local hardware store has become somewhat of a confidant and she had a similar reaction. “That is so small town,” she said.

My male PhD supervisor had an even more eloquent response and declared most Kiwi males to be “emotionally constipated.”

I’ve been getting into some DIY projects around the house to keep myself busy.

I put together a night stand a few days ago and I went to a city hardware store to buy some paint for a bookshelf on Monday.

I was surprised when a man there glanced toward my feet and said, “Those are some pretty flash gummies.”

It took me a minute to figure out that he was talking about my purple and black gum boots. 

At the register the girl ringing me up asked me what part of the U.S. I was from and told me she had visited Massachusetts last year.

I was feeling so happy at being spoken to that I marched confidently down the sidewalk toward my house and decided to speak to a neighbor who was digging around under some shrubbery.

“Hello!” I said brightly.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, making the universal startled gesture of a hand across the chest.

I introduced myself and we spoke about the fact that are kids are in the same grade. She was very nice and said we should go do some lawn bowling sometime after downing a few beers. I said that sounded great.

The next day I went to a gas station and asked the young fellow working there to help me figure out the pump. I was a little disgusted with myself for acting so helpless but he was very friendly and smiled at me whenever I looked at him. His fingers brushed mine when he was showing me how to use the pump and I saw that they were black with oil and grease. I thanked him for his help and he grinned and said “sweet as.”

Yesterday I was walking to the library when I heard a nearby construction worker singing. He had a lovely voice and when I looked at him he said, “Morning!” in a cheery voice. The greeting made my day.

I feel like I’ve been nursing a serious case of hurt feelings and was teetering dangerously close to pitching a hissy fit in which I stamped my foot and yelled, “Why don’t any of you like me?!”at some public venue.

I’m glad it never came to that. I’ve gained renewed hope in the mate-finding process.

No Luck with Non-Avians

After a failed attempt to get mates at the pub and the complete reticence of the local workmen to acknowledge my presence, I decided to seek company from the birds.

New Zealand is a bird lover’s paradise, filled with a host of peculiar specimens who do things contrary to expectations. There are penguins that can’t abide the cold and cheeky parrots living in the snow covered mountains. The kiwi is an adorable, flightless puffball so iconic that the people of this land have taken its name to refer to themselves.

A good place to see some of these birds is the Willowbank Preserve in Christchurch.

I bought season passes for myself and the NPR and we took a tour one frosty morning last week.

The kiwi is a nocturnal creature whose numbers have been threatened due to predation by such introduced animals as the stoat. In response, NZ launched a program called Operation Nest Egg (ONE) where eggs are taken from the wild and chicks are raised in safe surroundings until they are large enough to fend for themselves.

The kiwi house at Willowbank has about four kiwi pairs in large enclosures designed to look like their forest homes. The house is dimly lit but the first thing the eyes pick up on is the steady pace of a kiwi hunting for food. When one comes close, you can hear a snuffling sounds as they clear the nostrils located at the end of their long beaks.

The NPR was amused by them for about 10 minutes and then her attention span ran out. She was further scandalized when I reached over the fence to touch one of the kiwis that was snuffling around by my feet.

I made contact with its fur-like feathers suddenly which startled both me and the kiwi. It took off toward the nearest tree and I leaped backwards with a small shriek.

I wish I could describe the look the NPR gave me then, but the light was dim. Suffice it to say, I could feel her disapproval radiating in my general direction.

I decided to return to the preserve without her so I could spend more time observing avian behaviors. Many people tire quickly upon hearing my rapturous tales of bird encounters so I’ve accepted a certain need to go out alone and keep things to myself.

I went to Willowbank earlier this week and found that they were selling bags of farmyard feed for cheap. I had also tucked some organic carrots into my purse which I purchased from the little farmer’s market down the street from my house.

I spent a long time watching one of the kiwi snuffle around before heading to the Kea enclosure. Kea are the world’s only alpine parrots and they are extremely playful and insatiably curious. Like many native NZ birds, they have no fear of humans.

I took out a carrot and laid it on a rail next to a Kea who began to nibble on it immediately, getting carrot pieces stuck to his face in the process. I sat on a sun-warmed bench and was approached by another bird who pressed his head against my boot before hopping up on the bench beside me and pressing his head against my purse. I pulled out a carrot and put it on the bench. He threw it on the ground and raised himself to full height so he could peer into the bag. I pulled out another carrot and he threw that one on the ground as well. He gently grabbed the side of my purse and attempted to pull it open until I gave him another carrot. He took it in his mouth and fluttered off to play with it and take a few nips.

I fed the rest of the carrots to the Clydesdale in the farmyard and wondered over to an enclosure where a frisky young otter came out a made little mewing noises at me and two women with small children.

I saw a charming fantail, pet some of the tame eels in the pond and watched the tui drink nectar from a bowl.

I left the park with an enormous sense of well being.

I recently bought a book called, “An Extraordinary Land: Discoveries and Mysteries from Wild New Zealand.” I spent one evening reading all about the Kakapo and its “booming bowl.”

One of the passages particularly warmed my heart’s cockles:

“This butter-yellow kakapo was people friendly, so a hide was set up to observe him. But the kakapo decided the hide was there for amusement and would take a break from booming to use the roof as a slide and a jungle gym. He then began to use the space below the floorboards as a booming bowl.”

It seems as if most of my friends in this country are destined to be feathered. I could do worse.

The Awful Day

The *NPR and I were beginning to experience the early onset of cabin fever so I decided we needed a mini holiday. It was near noon when I made this declaration and we spent the next few minutes throwing items into a small suitcase.

There had been some nasty weather up north near my uncle’s place and I thought I would head up there to check things out at his property. The nearest town to his home is a place where I had some interesting experiences last year so I thought I would "pop by," as they say here.

The plan was to spend the night in the small town and drive over to Hanmer Springs the next day to soak in the hot springs.

Before leaving, I called the inn in the small town to see if we could get a room for the night. They were all booked but they referred me to the local Motor Camp.

I found my way onto Highway 1 which skirts the west side of Christchurch and passes the airport. I was driving along, feeling the spirit of adventure welling up when I suddenly caught sight of a policemen waving me to the side of the road. I pulled over and fished in my purse for my license.

“Do you know the speed limit?” he asked.

“No.” I said.

“How long have you been in the country?” he asked.

“One week,” I said.

“The speed limit is 60 and I clocked you doing 77,” he said. “Wait here.”

While he went back to his patrol car I cursed myself for not being able to cry on command. The NPR made some comment about my being “busted” and I realized that there was more to driving in New Zealand than just remembering to stay in the left lane.

The officer returned and handed me my ticket which carried a fine of $120. He also explained that 20 demerit points had been added to my license. Those will remain on my record for two years and if I accrue 100 points in the next two years my license will be suspended.

Ouch.

I’m glad I didn’t burst into tears. I probably would have been given an additional citation for trying to emotionally manipulate one of her majesty’s Royal Grouch Guards whose motto, I believe, is “We’re huffy because we care.”

I set off as a reformed character and drove as if I was 80-years old and suffering from an advanced case of cataracts. I could feel the other motorists exasperation behind me but I wasn’t about to acquire any more demerits against my good name- on that or any other day, thank you very much.

We drove through some very pretty countryside and arrived at Small Town X in the early afternoon. I pulled into the service station owned by a man named L. He didn’t recognize me until I said his name and asked how he was doing. I explained that I had returned to NZ to do a PhD in Maori Studies at Lincoln and he proceeded to say that was pretty worthless and so were most Maori. I was appalled but I tried to be polite.

Next he launched into some speech about this local boy that I had met the year before. I should explain; the boy in question was much younger than me, nice enough and the whole town tried to play match maker with us. Those few weeks were more awkward than my middle school years combined.

Nothing happened between us and he’s long gone from the town but that hasn’t stopped certain locals from inventing a story line.

It was clear that L saw me as some lovelorn spinster who was heartbroken and would likely never recover from her supposed jilting.

Small towns always seem cute and quaint to the casual observer on holiday but let me tell you that many of them are rotten to the core and brimming with small-minded, hateful individuals who thrive on scandalous gossip. It doesn’t matter what the reality of your relationship was with so-and-so, their soap opera-inspired imaginations will fill in details that suit their fancy. They’ll smile to your face and sneer as you walk away, hoping to God you fail in some way so they can talk about among themselves over drinks at the pub. Time is sluggish in small towns and things that happened a year ago will always seem “just like yesterday.”

I was relieved to get away from the garage.

“This is such a dick town,” the NPR said.

“I don’t like your language but you make a good point,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

We got in the car and headed south. I drove so slowly that several snails passed me and gave me the finger.

I questioned whether or not is was a good idea to come to NZ in the first place and then admitted to myself that blaming an entire country for the quirks of a few townsfolk and the surliness of one traffic cop was a bit unfair.

*NPR= non paying resident (how I refer to my daughter on this blog)

Mate-less

I’ve managed to acquire all the creature comforts I could want in my new house but something major is still missing from my life here: mates.

I need to make some new friends. Everyone I meet in town is friendly but none of them are really my friends.

Spending the last few weeks cooped up with the NPR has given me a sense of urgency in finding someone my own age to hang out with. I guess countlessly shouting “put on a damned pair of socks, do you want to die of pneumonia!?” has begun to wear me out and make me long for a companion I don’t have to mother all the time.

Last night I had the bright idea of going to the local pub known as “The Famous Grouse.” (How the grouse became famous is unknown, but most people go in for the drinks, not the history.)

When the NPR and I first arrived in town, we didn’t have beds in the new house so we rented a room at the Grouse. It was the NPR’s birthday so I bought her a slice of cake from the restaurant and, because she couldn’t find and candles, the proprietress stuck a little paper umbrella in the cake. When I went to the bar last night she made my day by saying, “Hello, Kelly!”

It’s nice to be remembered by name.

A young blond who looked no older than 16 asked what I was drinking. I told her I wanted a “Jack and Coke” and was a little confused when she brought me a small pitcher of coke and an empty glass. A few sips of the stuff made it clear that there was no alcohol involved. I didn’t want to hurt any feelings so I just took a seat on a sofa by the fire place and made several furtive glances around the pub.

In one corner was a table of older men in woolly sweaters. One of them was wearing his ‘winter shorts.’ At another were two middle aged men drinking beer and dropping the f-bomb a lot. At one of the other tables, a well-dressed man sat alone sipping his beer and playing with his cell phone. I didn’t have any portable electronic devices to give me the air of casual indifference so I went over to a table in the lobby and picked up a copy of the horse magazine called, “New Zealand Studs.”

I now know more than I could ever want about stallion bloodlines and frozen sperm.

After about two-and-a-half glasses of syrupy sweetness I decided to go in for some wine. “I need something with a little alcohol in it,” I told the lady at the bar.

“We’re not allowed to serve spirits in jugs,” she said.

“Ah, yes, well I think there was some confusion,” I said. “I asked for a ‘Jack and Coke’ and I think all I got was the coke. I’d like to try some wine now, I think.”

I saw the male bartender grin to himself as the lady told the girl who had served me of her mistake.

“I’m so sorry,” the girl said. “I thought you said ‘a jug of coke.’”

“That’s alright,” I said. “I did kind of wonder at getting that much Jack and Coke for only $6.50.”

I got the house Merlot from the second bartender who asked how my daughter had enjoyed her birthday.

It’s so nice to be remembered.

I went back to my quiet corner and resumed a half-hearted perusal of “New Zealand Studs.” (If the studs in question had been of the Homo sapiens variety, I would have been far more engaged.)

Not long after this, my PhD supervisor came through with her family and said hello. I felt rather sheepish at being discovered all alone next to a half-drunk jug of coke and partially hidden behind a horse breeding magazine, but she didn’t seem to notice.

I downed the rest of the Merlot in a rush and exited the bar without any new mates to speak of.

Tonight I’m going to the pub in Prebbelton as it is slightly larger than the Grouse and boasts a live DJ.

I’ll be going solo tonight without the aid of “New Zealand Studs” so wish me luck.

New Zealand: The Doctoral Candidate Years

I didn’t want to jinx the whole process but I’ve been jumping through hoops for the last year to get here and it finally happened. I am now in a PhD program at Lincoln University in New Zealand. I am doing comparative case studies between the Maori and Mapuche and I just met with my advisors today.

The NPR has been registered at the local high school where she will be sporting a “winter kilt” as part of her daily uniform.

We arrived here on her 15^th birthday and were greeted by snow flurries and icy rain. Since arriving, I’ve managed to locate the nearest Indian restaurant, join the local library, acclimate to driving on the wrong side of the road and familiarize myself with centigrade, kilometers and centimeters.

Yesterday the NPR and I got up close and personal with some lemurs at the local wildlife park. We saw some kiwis in their nocturnal house and I chased after some wallabies while the NPR laughed at my inability to coerce them into a photo op.

We have almost completely settled into our small house here in Lincoln Township and are just awaiting a wi-fi hook up. The house came with a sofa, desk and a couple of chairs. It smelled faintly of expired mouse when we moved in but that has been eradicated by several overzealous Glade air fresheners which take their scenting duties very seriously.

Several people have asked if I’m Canadian and I’ve since learned it’s because the Canadians become rather irate if someone mistakes them for American so people around here try to play it safe.

Although it’s really cold out, several men in town still wear shorts and show off their pasty legs. Everything else on them makes sense; sweaters, waterproof shoes with wool socks. I guess that’s how you prove your mettle as a Kiwi male.

They are laying down a new broadband line in town and I stepped out of the house one morning to find a bunch of blue-jumpered young men milling about in my yard. When I returned from running errands two of them were sprawled out in my grass while the rest were sipping on something hot from their thermoses. They don’t speak to me but as soon as I go into the house they become very lively in their conversations. I guess I’ll have to go to the local pub if I want to be spoken to.