Of Crusaders and Hedgehogs

"KAHN-A-BREE!" apparently, is the correct thing to shout when you're watching the Christchurch Crusaders (from the "state" of Canterbury) win a rugby match. Unfortunately, I did not have that privelage. Instead, we watched our Crusaders get royally trounced by the Wellington Hurricanes.


On the bright side, I went to my first rugby match, and really only the second pro-sports game I've ever been to (in the fifth grade we went on an awful field trip to see the Brewers play). I liked it! I think I have the potential to become a rugby hooligan. I don't fully understand it, but Gordon and Sue love rugby and they're helping me quite a bit. I already know that it is a thousand times cooler than football, not just because they don't wear pads, but because the game doesn't stop every five minutes. In rugby, people pile on eachother and--get this--keep going! It's pretty great. The half-time entertainment involved the local harley club doing a lap around the green and the Crusader cheerleaders doing a less than impressive pom and dance routine--it was more endearing than anything.

Before the rugby game, we wandered into town and managed to find a really cool little cafe called "The Honey Pot Pizza Bar" where I had good pasta for the first time in a very long while--and not on toast for brekkie. Just around the corner we found a little alley with all sorts of cool art and really funky little shops. I bought a lime green pseudo leather coin purse with a neo-primitive semi-art deco modern pukeko (a kind of rail, often confused with a Takahea) on it. That probably doesn't mean anything to any of you, but just know that I like it and was excited to find it.






We also found an antique store called Chaos Collectibles. While I don't need, can't afford, or have the ability to transport most anything from the store, it was the coolest, most visually stimulating place that I've ever seen. Canoes hanging from the ceiling along with sundry light fixtures, a giant wooden flamingo, drawers upon drawers of type for printing presses, window panes, mirrors, bottles, jars, signs, door frames, a giant swiss army knife--it was like a convention of grandma's attics had a contest, and this was the result.








We made it back to the bus exchange from the rugby match just seconds before my bus left. Walking home from the bus stop, I was startled to see something biggish and loaf-shaped moving just off the sidewalk. I stopped and my first thought was, "What a goofy looking raccoon," closely followed by "CAMERA!" I was right next to a real-life, vicious, wild hedgehog! Fortunately, they are slow, bulky, and not vicious at all, so I was able to get a few pictures of it. I know that they're invasive and can do some significant damage, but if I had to wish for any non-native to invade Wisconsin, I would pick a hedgehog. They're pretty great. I made it back to tell Sue and Gordon about my encounter--they laughed and thought it was endearing that I was so excited. Fair enough.

South Island Reflection--the lovers, the dreamers, and me

Samantha Russell
Southern Alps Reflection
February, 2009


Though it only has roughly the same land area as Wisconsin, I have seen that the landscape of New Zealand’s south island is far more diverse. From ocean beaches to alpine areas and even to agricultural fields and urban areas, there is a lot to the south island.
Agriculture plays a huge part of everything that New Zealand is. I have read varying figures regarding the people to sheep ratio in New Zealand, with one stating that there are about 45 million sheep and roughly 4 million people. While countless acres of native forest have been cleared to make way for these wool-y bovines, New Zealand’s often harsh landscape and climate make this a very practical animal to farm on a large scale.
We had an opportunity to visit a New Zealand Sheep farm. I was surprised by the sheer number of sheep that a family-owned operation owned and even more surprised at how efficiently each individual sheep could be shorn. However, I was curious about the impact of our visit—was this truly a typical kiwi farm, or some stereotyped ideal put on for us tourists? Either way did our dollars help to preserve individually owned farms in New Zealand, or were we helping to support a new kind of corporate farming? If we were, is there anything wrong with that? For now, I have been unable to answer these.
Based on information presented in Dr. Fletcher’s lecture and that our South Island bus driver shared, despite New Zealand’s sheep, dairy is an even bigger industry in New Zealand. Especially on the South Island. While I’ve noticed that much of the milk is refrigerated in New Zealand (whereas in Australia, a big shockingly, it was not) I was a bit disappointed to hear that it is still reconstituted from a powdered milk product. However, this makes sense as the majority of milk is exported and helps to feed China, and a prolonged shelf life is most definitely a bonus, however disgusting the idea of rebuilt milk may sound.
While driving near Lake Tekapo and Lake Pukaki on the way to Mount Cook, I realized that happy cows do not come from California, and, sorry, they don’t come from Wisconsin either, they come from New Zealand. Though I wasn’t looking for them, I did not see any of the long, low barns typical of factory farms, nor did I see many cows all crowded together in one small field—however practical that may be. I saw a few cows, set out to graze—grass fed cows-- along the most fantastic gorgeous turquoise blue lakes I have ever seen set against a back drop of rolling hills and mountains.
As we traveled south towards Queensland, the farming scenery slowly shifted from being sheep dominated to being vineyard dominated. While I like to think of myself as a Jeffersonian Democrat who loves nothing more than to “venerate the plow,” we were told about a kind of disturbing process in which grapes are protected from early frosts. Helicopters are employed, or, more recently wind turbines, to engage and, in the wee hours of the morning, disturb the air flow so that the frost cannot settle. While this protects the grapes, natural rhythms in and around the vineyards are then disrupted. However, I suppose that since many of the critters and flora around the vineyards are considered introduced and are therefore undesirable, this may not be as horrible as it may seem.
Moving away from the world of agriculture, something less familiar to me as a Wisconsinite was the rugged beauty of mountain terrain in the south island. The Southern Alps have made providing a grid-like highway system in New Zealand nearly impossible and highly dangerous. At one point, as we traveled to Milford Sound, there were signs prohibiting stopping at certain times of the year because the risk of avalanche was too high. In order to create a pass underneath the Southern Alps, many lives were lost due to avalanches. While it still takes seemingly forever to drive anywhere on the South Island because of winding, zig-zaggy roads, the main roads are well maintained and solid.
While the mountains were filthy with introduced European flora (and fauna), they didn’t take away from the feeling of smallness when I stood in the mountains and looked around. There has been much discussion about the rugged individualism of the people of New Zealand, and I can’t help but wonder if that idea comes from living in and around such harshly beautiful behemoths.
In that same vein, I took notice of a tree of a high rugged individuality—the beech tree. The beech that I saw is native to New Zealand and dominated the alpine landscape. Additionally, while touring more alpine terrain, we were introduced to the Kea. Kea are a highly intelligent alpine parrot who, when bored, are known to destroy cars and can even kill and eat parts of weak sheep.
One thing that New Zealand has more in common with Wisconsin, though, is a rich glacial history. While at Mount Cook, we had the opportunity to see and experience the Tasman Glacier via boat. I was again reminded of how small I am as we made our way around the immense and fairly ancient chunks of ice.
Less foreign to us were the urban environments we explored. Though nowhere will be as large as Sydney, where there are more people in that little space than there are in this entire country, a city is still a city. Right off, we were able to enjoy what Christchurch had to offer, especially in the way of Hagley Park. Because we arrived so close to Waitangi Day, we were able to enjoy a variety of free entertainment in the park. One event, Sparks in the Park, was a stunning display of pageantry and national pride, and provided a fine introduction to how New Zealanders view themselves. It began with the Christchurch Symphony playing rather majestic music, interspersed with images of the All Blacks on the video screens. We were also treated to a jousting match, which I’m finding has no place whatsoever in New Zealand culture, but it fit with the general theme of pageantry. The production then moved on to a troupe performing a montage of Broadway musicals (mostly American) that most of the 2,000+ people in the crowd were able to sing a long with, and the show finally ended with the symphony playing the William Tell Overture accompanied with well timed fire works. This event leads me to surmise then, that New Zealand is an arts-loving nation, not too concerned about which country “owns” the art, as much as enjoying celebrating the art works, and coming together as a community to see a great show.
While in Christchurch, I did take note of the wildlife situation as well. There weren’t squirrels or raccoons or any other city mammals that I am used to, but there were some heart-breakingly familiar birds—English House Sparrows, Rock Doves, Mallards, Starlings, and Blackbirds seemed to be the only birds I saw. Then, I started to notice more and more birds. The gulls were of completely different species than we find in our parking lots and Great Lake beaches, though they still fulfilled the role of flying garbage can. I began to listen around as well, and have heard more birdcalls than I know what to do with. Christchurch, though overrun with invasive birds, has still managed to maintain a healthy population of non-European, if not native, birds. Unfortunately though, I have noticed that there doesn’t seem to be any thought that leaving the pet cats outside could cause any harm. I have asked my host-family about it, and was actually told that it’s a good thing—they eat the birds that way. While perhaps she was referring to the awful starlings that plague our yard, it almost seems like a backwards way of thinking.
Queenstown is a town built for the fast, adventurous, and dangerous, and run by the young, for the young—you can tell by the fact that you can get a good burger at 4:45 am. Adventure and nature have become inseparable here, with the focus being on adventure. I was able to enjoy a morning on the Shotover River on a raft and was able to see first hand the infestation of rabbits and goats in New Zealand. I was also able to enjoy the awesome, angular, harsh rock valley that defines the Shotover while being sure that my life was about to end at any second. I was also awed by the Nevis valley, as I whizzed into it at about 60mph, bounced a bit, and whizzed deeper. The adventures that Queenstown has grown famous for wouldn’t be nearly so spectacular, popular, or fun without the special nature that surrounds the area.
An important aspect of the urban landscape that I’ve noticed is that you can never feel that you are in a forest of concrete and steel. There are big parks to enjoy a green commons in, as well as being able to see “not city” surrounding you—especially the hills in Christchurch.
Overall, something has struck me though, is that in order to preserve this fantastic diversity, New Zealand has turned to tourism. Tourism lends a tangible value to the landscape and allows communities to, in essence, work with the land rather than exploiting it. Though I didn’t discuss it, many animals are seen as a resource, rather than competition or something to be harvested. The people within all of these environs, have, after a turbulent past, found ways to eek out a living without existing in direct competition with the surrounding environment.

Sumner Beach

Sunday, like the Sunday of the Barbeque, was sunny, bright, and delightful. In short, it would have been a downright sin to stay inside and study all day--that's what evenings are for!

Lauren and I set out for the beach, about half an hour away by bus. We weren't quite sure where we were going, or where to get off of the bus, so we followed the other young-ish people on the bus who had towels and beach bags. Our suspicions were correct, and they led us directly to the beach.

Sumner Beach is reasonably sheltered, and has cool little caves to explore and lots of rocks to climb on. It is also right in town, and we were able to enjoy some beach food--hot dogs and sprite. Sprite here tastes different, and upon further investigation, we found that it is due to a lot less to no corn syrup. I chose the "American" hotdog, under the advice of the stand worker, and found that I have never had a less foreign tasting hotdog. Don't get me wrong, it was fantastic, but it was more like a sausage, it had pepper on it, and sweet peppers, along with onions, relish, mustard, ketchup--excuse me, tomato sauce--and was on a small loaf of bread that was split rather than a bun as we know them. I wish that there were more American hotdogs in the States.

We passed the day laying in the sun, reading, occasinally wading, and making up stories about the gulls that we saw. Beaches are wonderful things. If there were a pro-beach politcal party, I would be the first on that bandwagon.

Come on Shore and We'll Kill and Eat You All

Come on Shore is a book written by an American woman, who while studying in Australia, fell in love with a Maori man on a visit to the Auckland area. The story is written semi-autobiographically and tastefully sprinkled with historical accounts. It is kind of like she's making sense of the blending of cultures by writing this book, and it's very focused on her understanding so forth. Though I have no authority to comment on its accuracy, I think it's, at the very least, an entertaining as well as historically informative account of one woman's life.

Amazon is much better at singing the book's praises:

http://www.amazon.com/Come-Shore-Will-Kill-Eat/dp/1596911263/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1235465851&sr=8-1

I've even managed to turn it into a school project!

Samantha Russell
Article Review
March, 2009


I read two reviews for Christina Thompson’s book Come on Shore and We Will Kill and Eat You All. Thompson is an American woman who studied in Australia, and, while visiting New Zealand met her husband. She wrote the book as sort of a memoir and as a way to explain New Zealand’s history of colonization. While both reviews seemed critical of the book, one was written by a New Zealander and published in the New Zealand Listener, while the other review was written by an American and published in the New York Times.
Paula Morris’ article, “Lost in Translation,” published in the New Zealand Listener, is by far the more extensive and in depth review and even includes an interview with Christina Thompson. Morris’s main criticisms are with the book are that Thompson portrays Seven (her husband)’s experience as typical of all Maori, whereas, apparently, it is only typical of a disappearing rural population and completely eliminates all mention of the middle-class Maori professionals; that Thompson portrays New Zealand coffee as being rather un palatable; and hat in the discussion of Seven’s integration into East-coast American suburbia, referring to him as a “Natural Gentleman” is belittling and patronizing—doesn’t Thompson know that many Maori play tennis..
Thompson defends her description of her husband’s life as being rural by saying that she’s never been to Auckland and that she hasn’t been to New Zealand in more than ten years; things have changed. Thompson does concede that it is “probably, maybe a flaw in the book,” but goes on to remind the reader that she is not meaning to sound like the authority on New Zealand, rather just attempting to relate her story. She also goes on to lament that, “…this is the book that will introduce many overseas readers to Maori, especially given the limited enthusiasm among publishers in London and New York for books by and about New Zealanders.” Thompson deflects Morris’ argument about Seven’s adjustment to Boston-life with similar points. This turns Morris to go off on what seems to be an ill informed rant about the white man keeping all indigenous people from being published, though does make the point from an American Indian writer Sherman Alexie that “If non-Indians stop writing about us, they’ll have to publish us instead.” Though, that point is really neither here nor there.
Morris’ next point is nothing if not petty. In her book, Thompson describes New Zealand coffee as a, “dusty, cocoa-colored powder, mixed with sugar, milk, and boiling water.” Morris questions whether or not Thompson even had a New Zealander read her manuscript, and didn’t Thompson know that even in the 1980’s (while Thompson was in New Zealand) that that wasn’t New Zealand’s only experience of coffee? This is where I must step in to defend Thompson from Morris. Even in 2009, my only experience of New Zealand coffee even after extensive research has been that of something similar to Thompson’s brown sludge with a bit of sugar on top.
Though Alison McCulloch’s New York Times article is less lengthy and less critical, McCulloch seems to take issue again with how Thompson refers to her husband’s adjustment to life in the greater Boston area. McCulloch’s point, however is that because of how ubiquitous American culture is, Seven should have no reason to feel out of place in an American city. However, the Americans’ reaction to him is quite reasonable, as Maori are not nearly as ubiquitous. Morris, I am sure, would take issue with this, especially as she wrote, “I think there are more of us out and about than Thompson realizes; maybe we just don’t look the part.” Apparently, more than McCulloch realizes as well.
Both articles, however, agree that Thompson’s take on her experiences as an anthropological, “contact encounter” proves to be a stretch. Though, Morris goes on to say that, “The idea of describing a marriage in the 1980s between an American and a Maori as a ‘contact encounter’ feels not only dated but absurd.” Thompson defended this with reminding Morris that the story is about her, not New Zealand, and I would like to add that while Morris may be of Maori descent and colonizer-colonized marriages may be nothing new to her, I would think that the majority of American’s would find a marriage to a Maori person as being quite novel, unique, and wouldn’t find the description as a contact encounter as being at all out of place. McCulloch says nothing to put me in my place there, but instead complains of Thompson’s description as being a “tenuous link between the memoir part of her book…and the history part.” So, the American is merely criticizing a literary technique rather than attempting to start a third world war.
In reading these articles, I felt my hackles raising as the book, that I originally didn’t have any strong feelings either way, was picked apart. I think that my reactions to the criticisms ended up being more about defending a fellow country-woman, rather than determining if either of the criticisms, especially Morris’, had merit.


Samantha Russell
Book Review
March, 2009


I read Christina Thompson’s book, Come on Shore and We Will Kill and Eat You All. Thompson wrote this book partially as a memoir about how she, as an American student studying in Australia, accidentally managed to find love on New Zealand’s North Island—an “unlikely love story.” The other aspect of this book deals with colonial history in New Zealand and early explorer/Maori interactions. Thompson attempts to treat her interactions with her husband and her husband’s family as contact encounters, which help to ease the transition between Thompson’s life and the historical events that she is so passionate about. In the very end of her book, Thompson makes the point that part of the reason she created this book was to help her three children come to terms and have an understanding of how their ancestors interacted, for better or for worse. Whether intentional or not, Thompson seems to make a point that Maori are much more laid back and easy going than their counterparts of European descent. Thompson also makes the point that her interactions with her husband and her husband’s family have historic precedent that may be shaping their present interactions. Another unintentional point that Thompson may have shown is that New Zealand is not the Indigenous Persons’ Utopia, that it may like to view itself as; there has been plenty of slights against the Maori and a great deal of racism and discrepancies in the quality of life between the colonized and the colonizers.
Thompson’s point about Maori being very laid back resides mostly in her descriptions of her husband. After hanging out with Seven’s family for several days and Thompson had to head back to Australia, and, what I am assuming are other untold events, Seven arrives in Australia to live with Thompson with not much more than a duffel bag of clothes. Though Thompson is concerned about him finding work, he isn’t and eventually finds work as a bicycle messenger or some such. Thompson is impressed with his ability to find work and make friends wherever he goes. This goes on as they move to Hawaii, back to Australia, and, finally, to the United States. However, she does not paint the Maori as being entirely inclusive or, perhaps overtly friendly. After meeting Seven, she visits his hometown and stays with his parents, who though hospitable, aren’t overly welcoming. She lives in the village for a short time and bonds with only one woman, Miri, who is old and patient and helps to explain the way the world works where they’re staying.
Thompson and her families experience in moving to the Boston area serve to show that their actions have historical precedents. Thompson presents the case of Omai, the first Polynesian that most folk from London had ever seen. Omai behaved very “well” and some commented that perhaps he was from another royal court. Thompson also mentioned that he was quite the lady charmer. Seven, in the same vein, was received as a bit of an oddity when he and Thompson moved to New England, but he soon had charmed the whole town, despite being the first Maori man that most, if not all, of the people in the town, including Thompson’s parents, met. Thompson also likens meeting Seven and his family to Abel Tasman’s first adventures into New Zealand, though, they ended much less violently. Though Thompson’s ancestors did not directly colonize New Zealand, she gains credibility from the colonizing perspective by explaining how her families wealth was acquired—namely by exploiting American Indians of the Mid-West; a separate parallel that serves to add another aspect of history to her book.
Before coming to New Zealand, I had a perception that New Zealanders were the good sort of colonizers. They didn’t attempt to wipe out entire races of people—like the early American settlers or even the Australians did. They were the colony that got it right, and struck a harmony with the colonized. I also kind of got the picture that it was incredibly passé to be racist against Maori in New Zealand and that everything was well and good—keep in mind this was before I saw “Once Were Warriors.” Thompson demonstrates through interspersing historical events throughout her story that this is most certainly not the case. Maori regularly lost their lives due to the misunderstanding of the Europeans. She even goes on to describe a picture she has of a man who has collected the heads of Maori, and the industry that was born of possessing such a rarity. She makes a point to mention that even now, the Maori life expectancy is far lower than that of a non-Maori as well as potentially inadequate access to quality medical care.
As demonstrated by the two reviews I read and address in the accompanying paper, there are several points that could be considered contentions. However, they mostly seem to stem from insecurities from New Zealanders about being viewed by the outside world.

Articles
http://www.listener.co.nz/issue/3563/features/11736/lost_in_translation.html

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/20/books/review/McCulloch-t.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=Come%20on%20shore%20and%20we%20will%20kill%20and%20eat%20you%20all&st=cse

To put New Zealand into perspective

Our first field biology lecture involved a great deal of fun facts aimed at helping to put our location into perspective.

The northern tip of New Zealand is about 700 miles south of "the tropics" at about 34.5 degrees latitude, so the same distance south of the equator as LA or Atlanta are north.

Auckland, on the North Island, is at about the same distance as Nashville, and has a population roughly equal to Milwaukee.

Wellington, the capital of NZ and also on the North Island is about the same distance as Gary, IN and has a population about the size of Madison.

Christchurch, where I am, is about the same distance as Wisconsin Dells and is also has a Madison-ish population.

Dunedin, at the south of the South Island, has a population roughly equal to Green Bay and is about the same distance from the equator as Eagle River.

Stewart Island, just off the south of the South Island, has a population about equal to Scandinavia or Bayfield and is about the same distance from the equator as the northern tip of the Apostle Islands.

New Zealand, in land, is about the size of Colorado, with the South island having about as much land as Wisconsin. The fartherst anyone can be from the ocean is about 70 miles, and has a total population of 4 million. About 3 million people live on the North Island, with the remaining 1 million on the South Island. Wisconsin has a population of about 5 million. Because I am living in a city, I don't really feel like there are fewer people here than there are anywhere else, nor did I when I was traveling around the island, but I did mostly hit the tourist hotspots. Oh! and Sydney to Christchurch is about the same distances as Stevens Point to Miami.

A Barbeque

Sue and Gordon are wonderful, kind people who have welcomed me into their home along with their dogs, gentle, lovable Tiger and scrappy, persistent Gus, and their older-than-dirt cat, Lucy who is held together by spider webs and a little bit of hope. I was excited when, on the way home from the Uni, Sue told me about the barbeque they were having on Sunday to celebrate Gordon's birthday.

After a cool, rainy Saturday spent catching up on my blog and offering to help with barbeque preparations, Sunday happened clear and quite warm.

Andria, being one of the few people I could contact before we all had our mobile and internet situations figured out, came over, and we met many of Sue and Gordon's friends as well as Sue's sister, mother, and best friend since primary school (not all the same people).

We enjoyed an afternoon of sitting outside and answering questions about American politics, grilled lamb, asking for an explanation of rugby, and general gaiety. The best part though, was trying paua (said pow-ah, and is, for all practical purposes, abalone) for the first time. It was served first to the "American Gehls" on a piece of buttered bread and looked green beneath the grill marks. With everyone watching for our reactions, we couldn't back out (not that we would have wanted to). We bit in and were not disappointed. It had almost the texture of a scallop, but was of a completely different flavor, not fishy at all, but still ocean-y. A wise desicion.

After all of the guests left and everything was cleaned up, we spent the evening watching "Little Miss Sunshine" on TV. It turns out that, in New Zealand, F-bombs are not edited out of movies. When I expressed a little bit of shock, I was told that nothing is edited and things can get quite vulgar and crass, but there doesn't seem to be much of a complaint.

The Last Kid Picked

We were all on edge about meeting our host families and re-assimilating to “home life.” As a result, we were generally crabby and in our own worlds. We arrived back at the University, tearfully said our goodbyes to Greg, the best bus driver ever, and went inside to figure out what the heck was going on.

We finally figured out our official classes; Environmental Policy, New Zealand Society and Culture, and Field Biology with Dr. J. Environmental Ethics will be a series of seminars in April, and there we are. Then we waited.

Slowly at first, and then in droves we were picked up and whisked away to our new homes. By "we" I mean them. It finally came down to Heidi and me. We decided that the whole situation was like a farm advertising free kittens, and we simply weren't cute enough. We hoped that instead of being put into a sack and being thrown into a river, we'd just be given dorm rooms, and then her family came. Just Dr. J and I sitting in a room with the program coordinator and the home stay coordinator. I was nervous and wasn't much for conversation, so we all awkwardly tried to avoid looking at eachother. The seconds seemed like hours seemed like aeons and passed.

Finally, probably just a minute or two after Heidi left, a petite woman with a kind face and short hair came in and before we shook hands, Dr. J had left. We grabbed my stuff and off we were in a little white boxy car, sized somewhere between the Dae Woo and the aveo.

I really had, and still have, trouble grasping which side to get into a car on; I can do buses and other transportation, it's just the passenger cars. I imagine that I'll have even more trouble when I come back.

Moeraki Boulders

Yet another stop on the long ride home didn’t sound like much fun, but we were hungry and restless, so we didn’t stage a coup. We stopped at the Moeraki Boulders, which, for all practical purposes, is and looked like a tourist trap. But, it was pretty spectacular and the first beach (well, since Manly) that I’ve gotten to explore.

Lunch consisted of flounder, full, fresh flounder, and the examination of some kiwi meals—spaghetti on toast? Really? It turns out it is exactly what it says it is, and is a common breakfast. Spaghetti on toast. that we knew and they all spelled it in the way that we are acc.

After that, we hit the beach. The Moeraki Boulders are some pretty cool round boulders that are slowly working their way to the sea. We found all sorts of cool sea life, including chitons and sea stars, and two yet unidentified things, and a dead blue penguin. http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=62967&id=500764078&l=cbae7

As always, I was watching people and one of my favorite things was of an elderly couple trying to make the boulders look like the woman tossed a bocci ball. My guess it was for a lawn bowling club.

Penguins!

We were honored with a trip to a Yellow-eyed penguin preserve on our way home from Dunedin. It’s actually a privately owned facility that operates in harmony with a sheep farm. The farmer realized the wealth of biodiversity that having the penguins around offered, and has worked to help rebuild and maintain habitat for what our tour guide, Rhonda, called the world’s most endangered penguin (but I’m sure everyone says that about their penguin).

In order to observe the penguin without causing much of a disturbance a series of trench-like walkways and blinds were constructed that allowed us to get very close indeed. The really exciting part, though, was when our path was actually blocked by a pair of penguins, and we had to turn back for an alternate route. We were especially fortunate in that we were able to see penguin chicks as well. Birds aren’t good at being cute, but I think these guys manage to pull it off somehow. It was kind of surreal though to be dodging sheep and navigating around sheep poo in order to see penguins.

We were also able to see, and get quite close to, more fur seals. If you know Maggie Superstar (my dog), it is impossible not to see a resemblance between these great, slow and awkwardly moving masses, and Maggie relaxing in a spot of sunlight.

A penguin hospital is also run for penguins (as opposed to emus, as you may have been lead to believe) who have been damaged by people, or, the department of conservation removed several chicks this year because it appeared that they were not getting enough food from their parents, and they are now being raised here.

http://www.yellow-eyedpenguin.org.nz/

Dunedin

Dunedin is cold and rainy, comparatively speaking of course. I have heard that it was primarily settled by Scottish folk because it was so much like back home. It was designed to look like Edinburgh and had a very Euro-looking train station, more for tours from what I gather than as any actual infrastructure. It is also the home of Otago University and the Highlanders (a rugby team—I fall under the Crusaders as my team in Chch).

Near the university, there was a FANTASTIC museum with a very big section highly reminiscent of Science North in Sudbury, ON (because I know you’ve all been there). Though this section was geared toward a younger crowd, I’m pretty sure we all spent the bulk of our time there. There was even a traveling exhibit showcasing all sorts of butterflies. One simply cannot be unhappy in a room full of butterflies. The rest of the museum was pretty great too, with exhibits celebrating all components of the natural world, the evolution of fashion in culture, Maori culture, Chinese culture, and other things I’m sure I didn’t see. My favorite part though, aside from butterflies, was that the public toilets had really crazy, gaudy seats. In the picture, whatever is in the toilet is not from me and it is not any sort of excrement, just so you know.

Dunedin is also the official home of the world's steepest street. We walked up it, and yes friends, it is a steep street. I don't remember any of the specific facts surrounding just how steep it is and, I don't know that my photos do it justice, but it is steep, and I would imagine inconvienent to live on. I can't imagine it in the winter when it is icy.

The hostel we stayed in was pretty neat. It was set up above a pool hall and had open air hallways between the rooms and to the bathrooms. Something got messed up, so there were only five girls in our room, plus Debbie a really nice traveler from Ireland. After vagabonding for a year, she was working on heading home. She was very tolerant of our copious complaints about each other, our program, and other petty things that after being together continuously for an extended period, become big deals.

For dinner I had venison pie and mashed potatoes, and afterwards, a good chunk of us went out and saw, “He’s just not that into you,” that movie with Jennifer Aniston, Julia Styles, and a couple other big names. I am not a romantic-comedy kind of gal, unless you count “Better off dead.” However, this movie wasn’t even close to being as horrible as I expected, and while I wouldn’t actually put forth the effort to recommend it, I would say don’t fret if you’re stuck watching it.

After Dunedin, it was time to work our way home. We managed to stop at Gore, the NZ capital of country music and home of a giant fish sculpture—we stopped elsewhere closer to Christchurch for another giant fish as well—I don’t have that picture uploaded though.

gets icy.

In search of a Takahe and glowworms.

Te Anau is where we headed off to after the Milford Sound cruise. On the way, our bus driver mentioned a cave tour that we could go on to see a glow worm colony. We shocked him, I think, by agreeing that it would be super cool. Dr. J got on board, and somehow the cost came from our budget--no extra expense to us, super bonus!

We quickly moved into our hostel--this time kind of a long house, again with all 6 girls in one room, and very oddly placed door knobs (chest height is just impractical), and boarded the bus to take a boat ride to another part of the lake. After being herded into smaller groups, our Quebecois guide, Sasha, gave us a short briefing (redundant, I know, but I've had really long briefings before, excruciatingly long) and to the cave we went--twisting, bending, crouching, and slipping. It was long the stuff of Maori legend, but in the late '40's I think, some guy noticed the water moving oddly, investigated, and rediscovered it. It has since been altered just so that one does not have to enter from below the water, and to put a tourist path in. After getting in, we were given some standard cave spiel--on the same line as Cave of the Mounds. There was a pretty spectacular waterfall inside that was explained, and then we reached the landing for the boat.

In order to see the glowworms, we had to board a small boat and be pulled along by our guide. Innumerable worms dotted the roof of the cave, much like stars seeming to extend forever into the cave. It lead me to want to make some comment on the longetivity (or lake thereof) of humans/humankind, but I'm just not that poetic. It was highly impressive.

Afterwards, we were subject to a couple of presentations explaning glowworms and offering some natural history of the area. What struck me was the discussion of Takeha. Takeha are a bird, a grass eating bird, kind of like a chicken, that were thought of as being fairly extinct until a population was discovered in the area. Longstory short, the area is now heavily protected and access is very restricted. But, Sasha told us, there were some resident Takeha (among other cool birds) at a wildlife center just down the road. Yay!

http://www.realjourneys.co.nz/Main/GlowwormCaves/

As we went to board the boat to leave, a helicopter flew over with what, after careful closeup inspection using the tourist camera, appeared to be dead elk, or big red deer, dangling below. Our bus driver told us that they were being flown into town for the restaraunts. It still surprises me when I see game on the menu--I love it.

After a dinner that, sadly, did not consist of fresh elk, some of us set off to race the darkness and find a takeha. It wasn't as difficult as we thought and was a lovely tramp near the lake. We were delighted...well...I was delighted, the others were pretty indifferent, to find New Zealand Pigeons, Kakapos, Kea, and sundry other rare-ish NZ birds, and a takeha pen. We very nearly didn't see a takeha in the pen, but Michael managed to creep about quietly enough and call me over just in time to see one wander into a big ol' tussock clump. It was pretty cool. We stuck around to see a gorgeous sunset, and headed home. Lauren and I stumbled across one of nature's poptarts--a young rabbit, bringing my total New Zealand rabbit count up to 17..

I still don't know what Milford Sounds like! or, Piopiotahi; check!

Fun fact: Milford sound is improperly named. A sound is formed by rivers, I believe, running into the ocean. A fjiord, like our dear Milford, is formed glacially.

After ages on the road, and what I still believe is interesting scenery (though, I could go from Point to Miami and call everything I see interesting scenery...except for maybe Illinois), we made it to Milford Sound in time for our scheduled cruise. We were the youngest people on board by at least 30 if not closer to 40 years, which, especially after being in Queenstown, was fairly awkward. The boat was gigantic, and not at all what I had expected, and we were given the only not-delicious food I've had since leaving the US. Not-delicious, is an understatement, actually, putrid excriment in a plastic box may be more accurate, actually. Everybody had a sandwich that was spread either with rotten seal fat or compost bin scrapings (the vegetarian option), some blindingly shiny bit of plastic in the shape of an apple, and sundry biscuits that may have been baked at about the time of New Zealand settlement--the Maori, not the Europeans. Fortunately, though, the scenary and the variety of wildlife was worth the skipping of a meal. We even got to peek at the Tasman Sea! I think though, that the rest of the story (mainly, what I saw) is best told in pictures, though.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=62701&id=500764078&l=fcda6

Are those Fiordland Crested Penguins (Tawaki), Samantha? You do know that it is especially rare to see them this time of year...Yes, friends, I am well aware of that.

Fur Seals!

The Road to Milford Sound

I have mentioned the wonders of Fergburger before, and it truly was an amazing place. Because it was open until 5am, in theory, and we were leaving Queenstown at 5:30am, in theory, it only seemed right that Fergburger would become the breakfast of choice, n’est pas? Andria and I were the only people awake enough at that magical hour to walk over and retrieve the coveted burgers, though people were plenty awake to put in requests.

Unfortunately, we left later than we had intended to and scrambled, ran, jumped fences, and otherwise made heroic efforts to make it to the promised land before close. Alas; we arrived at 5:03 and much to our disappointment, a friendly fry cook informed us that they had just turned off the fryers and we were out of luck. We returned to our vacation flat, sad and broken shells of who we once were.

It was then that we realized that the before mentioned cat had spent the night snuggled on the couch with Dan, a co-traveler. I reached for my small camera to take a picture of them as well as of a sign on the bathroom door that read, “Ablutions” (incidentally, my new favorite euphemism for evacuating myself), and realized that I had lost the camera, and we were leaving in approximately 10 minutes! I borrowed a flashlight, pardon, torch, and headed back out to the school yard where we had jumped the fence. Well, not really jumped, it was only about hip high and there was a gate, we just couldn’t find it in the dark. I searched and searched and shuffled my feet around, but to no avail. As I turned to head back, I stepped on something. I nearly took it to be a soda can, but it was my camera! Hurray! I ran back, boarded the bus, and wasn’t even the last one aboard, and off we were to Milford Sound.

On the way, we had many photo stops, including stops at the Mirror Lakes and a really pretty view of a valley in the Southern Alps.

Videos were also introduced on the bus ride for the first time. We watched, “The World’s Fastest Indian”—a heart-warming tale about an elderly man (Anthony Hopkins) from Invercargill (southern tip of NZ) with an old Indian motorcycle who has altered it and wants to race it at Speed Week in Utah. We also watched, “Once were Warriors”—not heartwarming at all semi-documentary about Maori life in Auckland. It was very, very violent (and I like Quentin Tarintino movies) and often very hard to watch because of uncomfortable themes expressed graphically (domestic abuse, rape, etc). I do highly recommend it, though, and it is highly thought of in Maori communities, so I am told.

In order to get to Milford Sound, we passed under the Southern Alps through a one-ish lane tunnel that people lost their lives to build. During the winter, there is a very real danger of avalanches and there are restrictions about where and when vehicles can stop along that entire highway.

We were also lucky enough to see a Kea. Kea are the world’s only alpine parrot and are highly intelligent. I have read and heard anecdotes that when they are bored, they have a tendency to strip cars of their windshield wipers and other little bits, as well as damage other property. They have even been known to land on the backs of sick sheep at night and pick through their backs in order to eat them. They are now officially my favorite parrot—not that there has ever really been a competition.

Kow-a-bungee, dudes.

New Zealand is the birth place of bungee jumping. We stopped at the Kawarau bridge, the birthplace of the commercial (legal) jump, infact. Now entrusted to the AJ Hackett Bungy company, the bridge is a fantastic tourist destination where one can watch while listening to good 90's alternative, and, if suddenly inspired by the good 90's alternative music, can take the plunge, bounce, and plunge. Once upon a time, one could bungee for free if one did it naked. Unfortunately, this fad caught on, and while clothes are not compulsory, the lack thereof does not qualify one for a discount. We were suddenly inspired, but the mere 43m weren't enough to suit our need for the extreme.

Instead, we opted for the highest jump in New Zealand (and third highest in the world, the others being somewhere in China, and I think the Phillipenes, but I'm not sure on that), the Nevis Jump at 134m. We had come all this way, and if we were going to die, we were going to die doing something really ridiculous.

We made our way out there the morning of February 10th--a day that shall live in infamy, well, probably not, but it sounds cool. The bus ride wasn't nearly as harrowing as the bus ride to the rafting site, but it was kind of spooky through the early (9am) morning fog. Once we arrived, we were shuttled out to the platform via a tiny gondola that was fairly subject to the breezes whistling through the canyon, though once we made it to the platform everything seeme pretty stable. Jumping at this time was our select crew, a mom and daughter pair from England (the mom was just there to take pictures) and a young couple from elsewhere in New Zealand.

Frank was the first to jump, and we all held our breaths. He lived! and even made it back up to the platform! Side note, I hadn't thought about how I'd actually get off of the line. I was a little alarmed to realize that it would be by being hauled back up the way I went down. Frank came up positively beaming and couldn't come up with anything to say other than, "It's awesome. It's so awesome!" Slowly the number of people who jumped increased, and it was my turn.

Someone came and put binders around my ankles. This is where I started getting nervous--I was actually going to do it. Then I had to sit in the chair where they attached the actual cord to me. I shuffled to the edge and muttered some profanities. This was much different than skydiving. I actually had to jump, I couldn't just let myself be ripped from an airplane wing.

They counted down, and I jumped.

I am told that I immediately curled into a ball as I freefell at speeds, again I'm told, in excess of 60 miles an hour. I remember going down and not being able to catch my breath enough to scream. After what seemed like an hour, I relaxed into the fall and enjoyed the freedom that such an experience brings, enjoyed being wholly in that moment with all other anxieties, grudges, and thoughts really, suspended.

The cord snapped, and I was snapped back into the real world. It wasn't close to as violent as I imagined it would be. It was more like a stretch, a return to gravity. I bounced, and reached up to pull the cord that would re-orient my feet for the ride back up. I yanked, grabbed, and pulled as hard as I could, but I couldn't get the caribeaner to open. Finally, with probably about 30 meters to go back to the platform, I gave up and took a good look at the inverted valley surrounding me. It was pretty spectacular. The fog and mist had started to lift and everything was bathed in an eerily beautiful sunlight--like the picture on a card you'd give to someone whose mom has just died.

At last, and far too soon in my mind, I reached the top. I am told that I looked very much like a disoriented bat, and was chastised by the operators, "What have you done Samantha?! Oh you've broken it!" They were kidding of course and said that in about one in ten jumps the caribeaner doesn't open and it's no big deal. They helped me down and I beamed.

I beamed in the, "I just cheated death" way, I beamed in the way that let everyone else know that for that moment I was invincible. Once I was on something solid again, my knees shook. It was a good morning.

Rafting the Shotover

Fun fact: Just after the US gold rush, there was a fair sized gold rush in New Zealand. Apparently, for a while, the rivers were lousey with gold nuggets. The Queenstown area was pretty major during this time.

My first adrenaline packed activity in Queenstown was Whitewater rafting. I have not even considered rafting as an activity since I was five and was coerced into doing it in Idaho (I really did enjoy it then, though). I had no idea of what to expect.

We arrived by bus and were herded like cattle into the building with guides gauging our sizes and handing us wetsuits, jackets, helmets, booties, etc. At the end of the line there were changing rooms for us to put on our new digs. After that, we waddled onto another bus and were taken on the scariest bus ride ever.

It was an averaged sized bus, not quite school bus sized, but I would say a 25ish passenger vehicle. Never again shall I doubt a motorized vehicle This beast went up (and down and all around) on the steepest, most windy, narrow, gravel road that I have ever seen. On one side, there was rock, and on the other there was nothing, not even a railing, but the river valley below. We didn't find out until later that most of the edges of the road were held up only by drystacked flat rock. AhhH! This was by far the scariest part of the day.

All of the girls from our crew ended up in one raft with our guide, Sandy (a bloke from a very small sheeping town in the NW of the south island). We shredded those rapids and really had a good time. I don't really know how to describe a rafting experience. We saw two goats in the cliffs and nobody fell out or was wounded. It was really a great time and I would most certainly do it again.

Folks from all nationalities ran the place and were truly passionate and truly happy with what they were doing.

Queenstown

Queenstown is a vibrant young town run by adrenaline junkies and surrounded by lovely mountains to jump off of. We stayed at the Pinewood Lodge and finally were separated into groups of two per room. It was pretty much a house, complete with a kitchen and cooking utensils and couches to sit on! We also had a porch with a barbeque that afforded a fantastic look out over the town (the porch, not the barbeque). Oddly though, at one point while a few of us were shooting the breeze, a german couple wandered into our abode and onto the porch. When they came back through, we asked what they were up to and found out that they were just checking the place out. There was also a stray cat that came inside and, due to Dr. J’s fondness for felines, was allowed to stay.

I also really liked being able to cook for the first time in a long, long while, and with the grocery store just up the road, took full advantage of the opportunity. We all made lamb stir-fry the first night with rice and all sorts of vegetables, and Andria and I found some cheap chicken and had tropical chicken and rice. The apricots and mango made it tropical.

Queenstown also introduced us all to the wonders of Fergburger. Fergburger is a lovely burger shop that is open from 8:30am until 5:30am and offers fine gourmet burgers; like the Bambi--a venison burger, or the Bun Laden; a falaffel burger. There are also some egg burgers and traditional beef burgers all reasonbly priced. The morning we left Qtown, infact, Andria and I went on a mission to snag breakfast there. After a very fast jog and jumping a few fences, we arrived out of breath, only to find that we had just missed it. The worker was very polite, but the fryers were turned off. It was a shame, and we meandered back; burgerless and broken.

A small town interlude

The Police in New Zealand are kind, helpful, unarmed, and wonderful people genuinely dedicated to helping the populous anyway they can. Frank lost his wallet somewhere, it was turned into the police with all of the cash and all of the credit cards, who then, after being contacted by our crew, drove it to a town called Twizel that we would be passing through. Truly kind people. We stopped at the Twizel police station to pick it up, only to find no one home, and no way bar calling the emergency number, to get a hold of them. “No worries!” was the general consensus, as we saw a car at a hotel. The bus driver went in, checked around, asked the counter attendant, and couldn’t for the life of him find an officer. After some discussion of smoking crack and/or slashing tires to draw police attention, we decided to go back to the station and wait. After a while, someone returned from lunch, a bit surprised, Frank regained his wallet, and we were on our way.

My Everest

Mountains are big and I am not. This has been my most predominant thought staying in Mt. Cook. At the base of the largest mountain in this hemisphere (where Sir Edmund Hilary spent a lot of time) there is a small town to support a resort and the people taking care of the national park and that’s it. We stayed at a YHA hostel, again with all six girls packed together, and one of the guys so that he didn’t have to share a bed. The hostel really reminded me of dorm life at Northland with weird savory smells coming from everywhere mixed with patchouli and unwashed kids sprawled in every spot of sunshine and creatively increasing coze factors of the less sunny spots.

On the way, we stopped at Lake Tekapo and Pukaki which because of rock flour and light reflections were the most turquoise lakes (well, pretty well only turquoise lakes) that I’ve ever seen. It would have been nice to linger at each lake—they had almost the same sort of pull and majesty of Lake Superior.

At Mount Cook we took a boat tour to see icebergs at in the lake at the base of the Tasman Glacier. Twenty-five years ago the lake that we were in, Lake Tasman (one of many, I’m sure) didn’t exist. The actual size of the ice chunks didn’t become clear until we saw another boat across the lake—icebergs are big and I am not. Our crew took up almost an entire boat, but there was one lone traveler with us.—Kathy. Kathy had broken her foot and was on her way to teach English at a co-op farm in Japan. She was very kind in that eccentric middle-aged lady sort of way and had a stellar sun hat. She got on well with our crew.

That evening we took a 10ishK hike through the Hooker Valley—across two suspension bridges and down some “trails” that can only be described as “not trails.” One part was literally a hunk of rock set at about a forty-five degree angle with a very rickety chainlink fence separating one from the raging river below. It was an adventure and the valley was filthy gorgeous with yellow St. John’s wort, purple lupine, ox-eyed daisies, and other European flowers. Well, it would have been pretty if introduced species didn’t irk me so.

The other event of note involved trading a tomato to a young Japanese couple for a small bowl of really yummy red soup with bitty prawns and some veggies—all without the use of vocal language!

All in all, a lovely place to visit. A lot of LOTR battle scenes were filmed there. Take a peek if you ever get the chance.

Little sheep out of the big city

Sheep, sheep, sheep, and then some sheep. Fifteen minutes out of town, and I saw more sheep than I’ve seen in Christchurch. I can easily believe that there are at least twenty times as many, if not more, sheep than there are people in New Zealand. I have heard that there are 2 million people, and about 40 million sheep.

As we began our South Island tour, I was struck with how green this country is and how little of it is developed. Also, the kiwis are insane drivers.

We stopped at Possum Lodge Farm to see how sheep are sheared and I think to give us a “farm” experience. Many of my co-travelers are from small towns in northern Wisconsin, and Stevens Point isn’t exactly big-city, so I don’t think we were quite as impressed as we were supposed to be. But these people were really kind and showed us their sheep, their red deer, their pigs, and their cows, and even gave us a sheep herding demo with their dogs. Afterwards, they invited us into their home for tea and biscuits and we awkwardly discussed weather in Wisconsin and heating costs. Mostly the professor talked about heating.

I hadn’t realized how tightly wound I had become in Sydney, and am glad to be in a less urban environment.

Christchurch

At last! We made it to Christchurch! For two days we set up shop at the Christchurch YMCA. We went from having our own room at Dunmore-Lang to all six of the girls sharing a living space. It was more like a really great sleep-over than any actual crowded inconvenience.

It was a lovely, cool, refreshing change from the furnace of Sydney. I learned quickly, however, that the weather in New Zealand can change very rapidly and there is a saying that one can experience all four seasons in one day. I’m most certainly not complaining though.

Waitangi Day is the Kiwi equivalent of Australia Day and Independence Day, though it isn’t about sticking it to the Brits nor is it about sticking it to the colonized, it’s about a treaty between colonial kiwis and the Maori and it DIDN’T screw the Maori! It was officially celebrated the day that we left town on our South Island tour, but every evening the town had events going on in a big gorgeous English-style park, kind of similar to Riverfront Rendezvous. Our first night, we stumbled on a three man play presenting “The History of Cinema: Abridged” I wonder if there is a bit of a trend in the theater of this part of the world. There were a couple of sly American history references about republicans and their (stereotypical) feelings toward minorities as well as a tasteful and artistic Sarah Palin impression.

On the second day, we wandered toward the University to poke around. I enjoyed a butter chicken curry for breakfast from a restaurant on campus (where else could I get curry at 9:30?) and fear (in the most delicious way) that this may become a habit. We also wandered to a grocery store to shop for our hostel stays and generally poked around town. I’m looking forward to living there.

On the eve of Waitangi Day, there was an even called Classical and Sparks or Sparks in the Park. This was the most spectacular display of pageantry and national pride that I have ever seen. Thousands and thousands of people showed up and, after a traditional Maori performance group gave an introductory ceremony, the Christchurch Symphony opened with a very inspiring piece while images of the All Blacks doing impressive rugby maneuvers were interspersed with images of the crowd and the symphony were displayed on the television monitors (we were too far away to see more than specks on the stage). Next, there was a jousting tournament. Men in full medieval attire rode on horses at each other and tried to take each other out all while the symphony played fitting music. The evening wore on with a troupe performing show tunes not only from standard Andrew Lloyd-Weber but from Mamma Mia (which most of the audience sang and danced to) and even Rocky Horror Picture Show—complete with drag queens. My love for drag queens is right up there with my love for mountains and national parks. The finale came when the symphony reappeared and played the William Tell Overture during a fireworks display. Highly impressive.

I look forward to spending some time in this city, and I’ve seen one Dae Woo so far.

A Farewell to Aus

Some final notes on Australia that I haven’t really been ale to fit elsewhere:

I saw 12 dae woos in all.

Very few places were air conditioned which led to lots of open doors and windows, and, except for the few hell-like sweltering nights, was really nice. Not even the museums or the aquarium had a/c. Based on the number of open windows I saw on apartment buildings, I would say that they didn’t have a/c either.

I saw five mammals in total; the four roos and one rabbit in the wild.

I saw no roadkill.

From what I understand there’s more to Australia than Sydney. This claim, I feel, warrants much further and extensive investigation—perhaps to a magical place called Perth? Ularu? Hobarth? Obviously the only solution is to return.

The Year of the Ox

I may have neglected to mention Ian and Terry—two guys we met on the hike to Manly. They are highly interested in Aborignal rock carving and are associatated with a tour company—Tribal Warrior Tours—that takes folk out to various carvings in the Sydney area. Though they were obviously trying to recruit us for one of their tours, they told us where a lesser known carving of a whale was, 1 of 7 around Sydney apparently. We decided that this would be our Sunday hike. As a side note, they were familiar with and highly interested in the mounds at Devil’ Lake.

The hike took us around to the rest of the harbor that we handt yet walked around. The whale was exactly where we were told it would be and was was pretty cool. Traditionally, these carvings would be re-done every so often, but since the carvings are now protected by the government, they’re starting to wear away. On the way to meet up with the rest of the crew, we walked across the harbor bridge. We had planned to climb it (with a company) but realized that it would be ridiculously expensive.

Upon arriving in downtown Sydney, we found out that there was going to be a GIGANTIC parade to celebrate the Chinese New Year—it put a bit of a damper on picnic plans, but if one cannot picnic, one might as well enjoy an evening parade, right? We stoppedby Woolworth’s (where I got my pomegranate and gingerbeer) and claimed a spot on the route.

I take a secret joy in pageantry, and celebrating the onset of the Year of the O did not disappoint me. Load of dragon dancers, flashing lights, and elegantly lit paper sculptures filled the evening along with a number of highschool marching bands from China. What more could I ask for?

Fireworks, you say? Well, I was in luck. After the parade we made a mad dash to Darling Harbor and sat and enjoyed a spectacular fireworks display over the water. Happy year of the Ox everyone!

Museums

Australia museum was a really fantastic natural history museum with exhibits on dinosaurs, Aboriginals, Wildlife photography, and, my personal favorite, ice age era megafauna—including time spent on giant wombats, glyptodons, and thylacienes.

Though, unfortunately, I was not at all in the mindset to be in a museum—I was far too wound up—I really enjoyed the wildlife photography exhibit and decided that I could be competitive in the 11-14 year old category. The most striking photo, and I believe the overall winner of the contest, was of a SCUBA diver standing and a Right Whale had come up face to face with him. The composition isn’t anything special, but I am impressed that such armament happened and was captured. There was also a photo of a Black Gibbon’s (or something like that) head on top of a fire—almost like a funeral pyre—however the caption said something having to do with bush meat trade and the illegal exotic animal trade, shocking because of its gruesomeness.

http://www.austmus.gov.au/visiting/whatson/display.cfm?event_id=322

The Museum of Sydney defines to me what a modern museum should be—sleek, highly interpretive and self-directed, a harmonious bled of old and new, and designed to tell many stories. The museum was designed to show Sydney’s history and FINALLY served as what the last two lectures were meant to be. There were many interactive high tech gadgets including an ENORMOUS touch screen with maps and paintings of Sydney throughout time. The museum itself was built on the site of the first governor’s house in the colony with the original floor plans bricked into the street. Above the museum was a modern office. A really neat exhibit involved video dialogues between different people who would have been found in the colony—indentured servants, Aboriginals, convicts, freemen, etc. Another was an indigenous person’s video project involving three screens showing a variety of natural images as well as candid people shots, in an attempt to describe what it means to be aboriginal and the connection to the land. My favorite artistic work though was a wall containing everything from chinchilla fur to whiskey that was imported into Australia in the early-ish settler days. The lighting and arrangement of this work was such that the colors and textures popped out and the best way I can describe them is as visually pleasing.

My favorite exhibit though was on Australian pets, from the attempts to domesticate kangaroos and dingos all the way through furbies, gigapets, and whatever the kids play with these days. My favorite aspect of this exhibit though was—surprise!—the photography. One artist took pictures of Sydney area folk with their pets. Urban free range-ish chickens, by the way, I guess are the current trend. But the photos were shot through a filter or edited to really make the bright colors pop. One photo in particular showed a slender dark-haired pale woman with her two Neapolitan mastiffs (the big’uns—think Fang from the Harry Potter movies). The blue of the dogs stuck out very vividly against the darker feel of the rest of the photo and complimented the electric magenta lipstick that the woman was wearing. Color me impressed!

Australian History and Aboriginal Culture

I was really looking forward to these lectures and was sorely disappointed when they actually happened. Though I have really enjoyed Greg Pemberton’s lecture style, he tried to get into the theory of history as well as the how’s and why’s rather than the who's and what’s—or as he put it, “One damn thing after another.” These lectures took about four hours each, and I had a really hard time listening.

The Australia Day as an Independence Day that I described a while ago is a lie, and I am much less pleased with the actual meaning of it—it celebrates the day when Captain Cook discovered Australia in the same way that Columbus discovered America. So it’s less of a stick it to Great Britain more of a stick it to the Aboriginals. The Columbus parallel was talked into the ground, along with the concept of “discovery” as ownership.

US independence had a lot to do with the founding of Australia, in that once we were no longer owned by the crown, Great Britain could no longer send convicts our way, so they started investigating Cpt. Cook’s report and pretty much said “Hey! Let’s use this!” and so it was.
1770-Cook’s report was filed away as there was no immediate wealth to be taken1776-US Independence1781-Parliamentary committee investigates where else to put convicts
1787-Decision on Aussie convicts settlement (at Sydney).

Movies that were recommended were “The Plowman’s Lunch” and “The History Boys.” Also, discussed were the ideas that monuments are in place to tell a national biography. As well as two ways of knowing the old way which was through the church and was pretty into acquiescence and the new way--through science--which demands activism and participation. Also, it would seem that throughout my post-secondary education, Cod keep coming up as a main theme of history, and let me again (if I haven’t already) recommend Cod: A History of the fish that changed the world by Mark Kurlansky. It is such an apt title.

This brings us to the Aboriginal lecture—which again took forever though wasn’t quite as excruciating. As I may have mentioned before, it comes back down to “it’s the same all over” and parallels the US settler/indigenous person situation.

Fun facts include that in the National War Museum there is no (or now very little) mention of any of the many Aboriginal men who have fought for ANZAC and other forces. They were not considered British subjects until 1921 and couldn’t vote in all states until 1941; though women got the vote in 1906 (Kiwi women enjoyed the vote since 1893—all three of them). The original Australian constitution called for Aboriginals to not be counted in any census until 1971. Like the US and Canada, there were generations of children were swept away to boarding schools, given anglicized names, and pretty well stripped of culture. Australia, like Canada has since apologized for this.

Some interesting acts in the indigenous rights movement include one leader flying to England and planting the Aboriginal flag and claiming England. Another is a tent embassy near all of the other embassies in Canberra that has been their for 37 years to assure reasonable representation. There is an idea for having a few seats in parliament set aside for aboriginal people, but it hasn’t gone so well. In New Zealand though, there are seats set aside for Maori, though percent wise there are more Maori in New Zealand than there are Aboriginal people in Australia. (Something like 12% versus 2% of the population). I would be interested to see how that idea would go over in the United States.

There was also discussion that history is absolutely bound up in politics, or, as my mother (jokingly) says, “Written by the winners and taught by the losers.” Also discussed were that global attitudes, as well as money, drive a lot of progressive policy. For example, discrimination against Asian peoples only became passé after Asia was seen as a market for Australian goods. Oh! Side note! Australia is the biggest supplier of coal to China. Take a minute and think about how big that is and the consequences (and benefits) that rest therein. It’s a big deal. Really though, Pemberton boiled it all down to, “It’s all about real estate” and that’s all I have to say about that.

On my impressions of the Australian People

...or Stereotypes Down Under


Though the interractions I've had with Australians have been relatively few, there are a number of generalizations that I feel reasonably qualified to make about Australians--at least Australians from New South Wales. Namely, like our stereotype in the Mid-West they are friendly and helpful. People on the bus and clerks at stores have noticed my accent and asked which part of Canada I'm from, when finding out that I'm from the northern middle of the US, they don't seem too disappointed. One especially helpful piece of advice that I recieved from a like-aged bloke on the bus was that in order to beat the heat, my best bet is to freeze my underwear at night. I am taking this into consideration.

Almost immediately after finding out that I'm from the states, the next reaction seems to be, "Oh! Isn't Obama wonderful? Did you watch the inaugeration? We all did here!" I've said before that if Obama does nothing else, he has given the American people hope again, and I feel I must amend this now to the people of the world. It would seem that he has a global following and I wonder how this will play out. I am excited to see what happens.

Perhaps the most striking thing about Sydney is that I hear languages other than english being spoken far more often than I hear english--in my dorm hall, in the busses, on the streets and throughout the places we've been visiting. It's wonderful and, frankly, makes me feel really cultured. There is definitely a high population folks from Asia here, and I've heard it refered to as an "Asian Invasion" which I don't think sounds too kind. Co-travelers have also made the observation that, "They have Asian people like we have African-Americans!" Which, historically makes sense. While I'm talking about ethnicity, I have seen more lebanese restaurants here than I have ever seen in the US--granted, Stevens Point isn't exaclty known for having a high Lebanese population.

One night, a small group of the crew met up with one of the RA's who was excited to talk to us and answer our questions. Something that I've found to be really unfortunate is to realize is that those trashy reality TV shows that I hold so dear are what the world ends up seeing of the United States. I think that is highly unfair for this to be the basis of opinions, but it's not like we're spitting out anything classier at the moment. Though because I don't use another nations' television to form my opinion about a nation--what if I thought every British town was like Royston Vasey? or filled with people like Hyacinth and Onslo? It would be ridiculous--I can't imagine that this is how everyone sees us. She also came of as quite boisterous and as the kind of girl who was very comfortable starting conflict, so that may have something to do with it.

I've also met a woman from Wara wara--an aboriginal community whose members come to the college every so often for some sort of certification. She has been more helpful than any of the lectures in discussing Aboriginal issues and what it means to be of that culture. As I mentioned before, it's the same all over. Issues like alcoholism, teen pregnancy, obesity, apathy, alienation from any culture, etc. that I see/hear about among american indigenous peoples run rampant amongst these people as well. Neither government seems to have come up with a solution, though the Australian government has apologized.

So, to sum it all up I suppose, the people here are nice and interesting.