I’ve had a fantastic
past two weeks—in that short time, I got to witness some great Kiwi patriotism,
experience a bit of local culture, and see some really lovely outdoor scenery.
Most of it renewed my positive feelings for where I am, and few things also
sparked some reflection on where I came from as an American.
Scenery is probably
what folks back home want to hear about most. I drove with a friend to Piha, a
beach less than 40 kilometers west of Auckland on the Tasman Sea, where I got
to see a few things I’d never seen at a beach. Ancient volcanic activity gives
the “black” sand its color, and it also left behind Lion’s Rock (Te Piha), the
large rock that serves as a landmark and tourist attraction for the area. First
we ascended Lion’s Rock, and if the scenery hadn’t already taken my breath
away, the climb would have (actually, it wasn’t too bad since there were
newly-carved steps along most of the way). However, I still preferred the sand
below: its color helps it absorb more heat from the sun, and it was so finely
ground that it was heaven to pad along the stretch of the beach barefoot. I had
a fantastic afternoon, and after this trip and the earlier one to Waiheke, I
think I’d be very happy to live at a beach here year-round someday.
Coastal life plays a
big role in life here—in fact, sixty-five percent of this nation’s population
lives within five kilometers of the coast—and this manifests most notably in
the sport of sailing, which I found out recently in the form of the America’s
Cup. I’m afraid I actually can’t explain it since I’m still not sure how it
works, but I’ll tell my ignorant experience of it anyway. For the past few
weeks it was THE news story around here (as in, front page every morning and
lead story of every TV news report), so I gleaned that it was something to do with
a sailing competition in San Francisco between a team from NZ and an American
team. Due to those nationalities, I jumped at the chance to join my host family
last Sunday when they attended a gathering with hundreds of other Kiwis at
Queens Wharf to watch big screen coverage of what could have been the Cup’s
final race. Many attendees donned red socks, which my host parents explained
was due to a former Team New Zealand captain’s superstitious habit of wearing a
pair. Unfortunately, weather conditions led to numerous delays until the race
was finally postponed for the day, and a very disappointed crowd dispersed.
That week, the final
races played out, and it seemed the country held its breath and then deflated as
slowly but surely the American team outscored Team New Zealand. Normally I
would chant “U-S-A, U-S-A” at an international sporting event, but in this
scenario I was pulling for the other guys, because a victory for the Kiwis
would have meant something to more people here than it ever will in the US. Sailing
plays a tremendous role in the NZ national identity, particularly in Auckland,
which is called “The City of Sails.” My host parents couldn’t fathom an
American who hadn’t even heard of the America’s Cup, and I felt like I was
telling a kid about Santa’s nonexistence when I revealed to them that no one
back home cared about sailing. In short, my seeing New Zealanders’ zeal for
sailing proved surprising, and for a few days after the tough loss, the nation
seemed as if it had just had the wind let out of its sails. Too soon?
The other recent culture events came my way
thanks to the Auckland Heritage Festival, a two-week series of events that
include a variety of activities, most of which are free. An amateur orchestra
concert I attended proved delightful—despite the music selection and its
instrumentalists’ skills. It was themed around the early twentieth century
composer Eric Mareo, whose fame extends more from his being convicted of
murdering his wife than from his compositions. The orchestra and the audience had
the same number of people, but that made for a very intimate atmosphere, and I
couldn’t stop smiling at the group of aging musicians who were just having fun
playing the things they loved. Going to a concert like this was something I
might never try to do back home, and I’m glad I got to see a group of local
folks promoting the arts straight from the heart.
The second Festival
event I attended was another opportunity to see some scenery, but I got to do
so a bit closer to town. I went to a guided walk—advertised as a chance to
discover “natural, archaeological, and cultural heritage”—at Oakley Creek a few
kilometers from my home here. The area follows the long stretch of a reserve
and indeed displays many lovely sights, including Auckland’s only urban
waterfall. Much of the walk was very pleasant, notably the sounds of the stream
and numerous birds chirping. Historically the Maori used the stream for
portage, and their presence survives in a barely discernible midden (a rubbish
pile that archaeologists relish because of how much they reveal about a
culture). Early European settlers later used land near the creek for farming,
and a long, moss-covered rock wall still stands from those days.
However, I was
disappointed by the space’s artificial facets: many areas had been landscaped with
nonnative plants and structures, and a paved walkway extended drolly
throughout. Plus, the walk was more of a garden tour and there were only a
handful of comments about the area’s past, so basically I didn’t get to
discover much history or natural forms. Despite that, I still enjoyed being
outdoors and seeing a great deal of natural beauty, and I saw a space I
probably would not have explored on my own.
I have reflected on
my national and cultural identity ever since I arrived in NZ (and beforehand),
but these recent activities added a little tinder to my thoughts. Seeing a tiny
country unite behind its passion for sailing really surprised me—I think I’ve
only seen Americans get that way about a few Olympians every four years. It made
me wonder what the rest of the world thinks about our sports scene, and it made
me wish there were something as simple as a sailing team that everybody in my
native country could support. Other moments of reflection about national
identity arose in everyday situations, one when I scored a goal in a water polo
game, and part of me wanted to shout, “For America!” Even though we were losing
the game by a significant but never-to-be-disclosed goal count, I felt like
that would seem rude simply because of my nationality. Perhaps no one would
have cared, but the worry that I would confirm the international perception of
Americans as overt braggarts kept my mouth shut. My eldest sister, who herself
lived abroad for years, told me, “You never really understand what America is
until you leave it.” I always believed her statement, but only now have I begun
to really grasp it.
In the vein of
cultural awareness, I haven’t gathered many new terms in an activity-filled,
short week, but ironically they sound as if they spring from a very sedentary
life.
- Lie in – sleep in/late
- Track pants – sweatpants
- Chippies – potato chips
- Chips – potato wedges (fries)
- Pavlova – a dessert made of meringue, topped with cream and kiwi fruit. Supposedly named for a Russian ballerina. I think Kiwis are trained to salivate at the mere mention of it.
My next weeks should
be filled with more exciting events from the Auckland Heritage Festival. I look
forward to finding out what else the free events in this city have to offer.
—Lenora
