A Scholar and a Gentleman

And so passes a pivotal moment in a young student’s life, his first week at his new school. I was sort of expecting/hoping for something from Dazed and Confused or a John Hughes movie, but alas, nothing so story worthy. Before I get into my first impressions, I think I should walk you through my schedule. I take a whopping total of three, count ‘em, three courses (called papers here). These courses are: Criminal Behavior and Investigations – A Psychological Approach, Abnormal Psychology, and Creative Nonfiction Writing. Here is how they break down in a more typical format:

CRIM: T TH 10:00 – 12:00

PSYC: T TH F 1:10 – 2:00

CREW: F 9:30 -12:00

Looks a little more familiar, right? I also have a one-hour psychology lab on Wednesday afternoons, but I’m not complaining. I have a lot of time on my hands, time which I plan to spend writing and doing things worthy of being recorded. But I digress, back to school.

I walked into the criminology classroom, unsure of what to expect. I’ve taken psychology courses and I’ve taken criminology classes, but have never had the two combined. I took a seat in one of the front rows and pulled out my trusty pen and paper. Hopefully, with several episodes of Criminal Minds and a few murder mystery novels under my belt, I would ace the course. The professor, a relatively young guy with dark, wavy hair and sleek glasses, spoke in an undeniably kiwi accent. Like most kiwi professors, he insisted on being addressed by his first name. The kiwis are a casual people, and formal titles are relatively foreign amongst them. I tried to suppress a smile (because of the accent, not the subject matter) as my professor explained to us the details of New Zealand’s most prolific killer, David Gray. Mr. Gray, a gun nut and hermit with some paranoid delusions of persecution, went on a shooting rampage through his small village, killing at least a dozen people before he was stopped. I’m not going to make a joke here, because as cynical and insensitive as I am, even I’m not that bad. I’ve heard of these things happening in America before, even recently in the United Kingdom, but I still find it hard to imagine that something like that could happen here in New Zealand. We went on to discuss the ins and outs of juvenile offenders and the crime statistics associated with delinquency, and then were told that classes on Thursday would be labs and the first one would be next week. No class Thursday morning? Sweet as. Anyway, on to greener, or at least less psychopathic/criminal, pastures.

Next up on the list is Abnormal Psychology. My first observation about the class: it’s freaking huge, like, the size of my ego huge. A young woman stepped up to the podium and announced that our professor, John, was currently in a conference in Melbourne, Australia and would be there for the rest of the week. Class was still in session though, and the woman, Kirsty, informed us that she would be our lecturer for the rest of the week. After only a few minutes of lecturing, a number of things became apparent. Firstly, Kirsty was a new lecturer. She admitted this during Friday’s class, actually, but despite being a novice, her lectures were both entertaining and educational. The second thing that became apparent was Kirsty’s admiration for our absent lecturer, John. In addition to being Kirsty’s thesis adviser, John is apparently somewhat of a rockstar here at Victoria. He is both brilliant and a rebel, even though I can’t imagine that a psychology professor can be that much of an outlaw. Still, you have to have some influence in the office, if you can totally skip the first week of work without complaints. My third and final observation was less a question of education than ergonomics. The desks here suck, plain and simple. Not only does the writing surface slant 45°, but it is also about an inch away from the edge of the seat. Only Mini Me would be comfortable in that desk (even though he would have to stand up on the seat to reach the desk surface, but that is beside the point). All of that aside, the class is great. So far we have covered the evolution of medical treatments for mental illnesses, everything from invention of corn flakes to discourage masturbation to Freud and his penchant for cocaine. None of the subject material of my courses has been particularly cheery so far, eh?

Friday morning eventually rolled around and with it, my final paper. I showed up to the class early, as is my habit at the start of a semester (showing up late the first day of class doesn’t make a particularly good impression). As the rest of the class started to trickle in, I grew more and more convinced that I was in the wrong classroom. Sure there were two other students my age (a guy and a girl), but out of the twelve of us, nine were middle-aged women. I had stumbled into the goddamned Ya-Ya Sisterhood. The lecturer himself, Harry, is possibly the most British man I have ever encountered. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a tattoo of the Union Jack. He looked like he had stumbled out of a Harry Potter movie. Harry is bald except for a shock of blond-gray fringe shooting out of the side of his head like flames. Loafers, a habit of saying, “jolly good”, and I’m pretty sure he was wearing tweed. So between the kiwis and the Englishman, I was the lone American of the group, a Hemmingway among… um… kiwi writers. The first test of our mettle was a simple writing exercise describing an experience in the living room of our childhoods. Now I don’t consider myself a phenomenal writer by any stretch (I’ll get better with time, I promise), but after reading our pieces out loud, I realized something. I can compete with these people. I know writing isn’t a competition, but I was worried that my writing would seem, well, sophomoric compared to the scribblings of the elderly Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. But I can rest easy, my English professors have taught me well.

And so after another bout with Abnormal Psychology, the weekend arrived. For me, that meant only one thing: All Blacks vs. South Africa. The All Blacks, New Zealand’s national rugby team, are the pride of the country. The players’ pictures are pasted up everywhere advertizing everything from underwear to soft drinks. These guys are rockstars. And for good reason. The All Blacks have a winning record comparable to the Harlem Globetrotters. They are big, they are scary, and they can haka and play rugby like no one’s business. I was as giddy as a schoolgirl at the Twilight premiere (oddly enough, a 23 year-old man was found dead in the movie theater the morning after the premiere of the latest Twilight film here in Wellington).

I started my big day by going to Westpac Stadium to pick up my ticket. I’ll start by saying this: that walk was a bitch. There were no steep hills or anything like that, and the walk would have been pleasant… except for the rain. I normally like the rain. Reading during a rainstorm is one of the most relaxing pastimes I can imagine, but having raindrops thrown into your eyes like baseballs from a pitching machine is about the exact opposite, especially for three hours. I must have looked like Hell, because the guy in the ticket booth jumped when I shuffled up to the counter. Regardless, he handed me my ticket and told me to have a good time as I wearily made my way back into the rain.

Next stop, All Blacks merchandise. There was no way in Hell that I would show up to that game without visual proof of my support for the team. The store (there is actually an entire chain of All Blacks merchandise stores) was easy enough to find. I just followed the black clothing and instead of ending up at some Goth (the pale, black clothing wearing kind, not the barbarian kind) bar or S&M club, I thankfully ended up at the front of one of the stores. Now my original plan was to buy a jersey, and I got so far as trying one on, and in addition to the jersey being… unflattering to my build, the price is what hurt the most. I took one look at the price tag, and it was like an All Black tackled me. $180? There was no way my wallet could handle that. Instead I settled for a nice All Blacks beanie for a cool $15. Hooray for college budgeting!

I had the ticket, I had the paraphernalia, there was only one thing left to do to prepare for the big game. Pizza time. Right down the street from my flat is what the manager of the place described as the busiest pizza place in New Zealand and Australia. The restaurant is called Hell’s Fully Fury. I first heard of it when I noticed their menu tacked up on the notice board in my flat’s entryway. The pizzas all had amusing and appropriately themed names such as Underworld, Minion, Brimstone, and all of the seven deadly sins (except for pride, for reasons unknown to me). In my opinion, the pizzas were as great as their names. I ordered an Underworld, a seafood pizza (get it?), and was not at all disappointed. I had brought two bottles of wine, white and red, to the restaurant, yet all classiness was voided by the fact that I had forgotten a cup. I sipped sparingly, because I knew I was going to need some for the game.

Interesting fact: outside liquor is prohibited in Westpac Stadium. Whoops. I raced to the stadium in a cab, blissfully unaware of this interesting little piece of information. I shouldn’t say blissfully, because my eyes were glued to the clock. I was not going to miss the All Blacks’ traditional pre-game haka, of that I was damn sure. I ended up getting out of the taxi in mid-traffic, and running the rest of the way. Roger Bannister would have been impressed. Then the announcement came on as I made my way through the crowd and toward the gate. My ears pricked up at the words, “prohibited items include alcohol-“. Damn. I stepped into the bag check security line. I felt like a Columbian drug mule must have felt (minus the lump of heroin in my rectum) as I set my bag on the counter. The woman looked in my bag. For once, luck was on my side. I had forgotten that I had put my pizza leftovers in my backpack, and by some freak twist of karma/fate, the box completely covered both my bottles of wine. The security officer barely glanced into my bag before giving me a dismissive way through the gates. I had just experienced the great American tradition of smuggling alcohol into a large scale sporting event, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t feel a little patriotic.

I made it to my seat panting, and sat between two middle-aged kiwi couples. As soon as I sat down, I knew I was lucky. I had paid top dollar for my ticket, and was it ever worth it. I sat midfield; right at the 50-meter line about 15-20 rows back. I had a perfect view of pretty much everything. Let the games begin.

As soon as the Springboks (the South African team) lined up to face the All Blacks, the stadium got dead quiet. The players took their positions, and their captain roared out in Maori. I was a little disappointed to see that they didn’t perform their traditional “Ka Mate” haka, but was a little assuaged when I found out the haka they performed, the Kapa O Pango, is a haka they reserve almost exclusively for the Springboks. When they finished, I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. I would almost say that the entire trip to New Zealand, and definitely worth the trip to the stadium earlier, was worth it just to see that haka. And then the game started.

I don’t claim to know the rules of rugby. I understand most of the concepts, but some aspects elude me. All of the fouls sounded like horribly vulgar sex acts to me, but I learned the gist of the game pretty quickly. When I didn’t understand, which was often, I just cheered when the kiwis around me cheered. And I drank. Being at a rugby game, I felt it was only appropriate to do so. I was nervous at first and did my best to drink from the bottle with a little subtlety (a feat I now consider impossible). Then I met the gaze of an old man. He was one of those men who looked like he had seen ages in a lifetime. It was as if he stepped straight out of the pages of The Old Man and the Sea. Eternity swirled in his eyes and white hair, cascading like waves, flowed from the top of his head. I felt a pang of guilt as my hand froze, the bottle still in midair. His wrinkled face broke into a smile of understanding. He nodded in approval as I continued to drink. I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again: I love this country.

The game itself was spectacular. Those men are modern warriors. As fast as they are strong, I would never EVER want to get on the bad side of any of them. The atmosphere was electric as the players sprinted full tilt down the field. Rugby truly is a sport of kings, or at least the sport of gentlemen. Really intimidating, gigantic gentlemen. The game ended in an All Blacks victory, as expected. Still, the kiwis were thrilled. Upon hearing my accent when I left the stadium, the kiwis in the crowd around me eagerly asked me how I enjoyed the game. I even got a picture with some of the more intensely painted fans (black and white skulls) before I left.

Between school and exploring the city, life has been good. I’ll have some more pictures up soon, I promise. One of the items I hope to include is a slideshow of pictures of my flat, so that all my dear readers can picture me typing away at my computer, preparing the next exciting post in my ongoing saga. Until then, I’ll conclude with a Warren Zevon quote my dad is fond of using, “Enjoy every sandwich.” And considering that I am here until November, my metaphorical sandwich is a six-foot sub. And boy is it ever delicious.

The Duke of Wellington

Despite countless hills, confusing street names, and my own disturbingly poor sense of direction, I’ve managed to successfully navigate myself through the city and back to my computer. The more I wander the streets of this city, the more I fall in love with it. It’s not that the architecture is amazing or that the weather is great (far from it, actually), there is just something here that is, for lack of a better word, charming. Maybe they’re putting something in the water, but whatever it is, I love it.

My first experience with VUW (directly, at least) was International Orientation. We were a predominantly American group, but I’m pretty sure we had some representation from each continent (I’m pretty sure there was a penguin in the room, or then again, maybe I was just insanely bored). Now I won’t say that the information that was presented wasn’t useful, I definitely learned a few helpful tidbits, but I had heard most of their spiel during my past week with AustraLearn. The most amusing segment of the day came in the form of cultural orientation. Sure, most of it consisted of the fact that kiwis are a lot less hurried and a lot more laid back than most cultures and that a “biscuit” is a cookie here in New Zealand, but the highlight of the cultural segment was dealing with cultural miscommunication. As soon as the speaker pulled up the YouTube window on the projector, I knew it could only be one thing: Flight of the Conchords. For those unfamiliar with the pair, the Flight of the Conchords is a comedy/music duo consisting of Jemaine Clement and Bret McKenzie (both VUW graduates, so fingers crossed for an alumni show). The two kiwi comedians are accomplished songwriters, musicians (both play guitar), and actors (in addition to having their own HBO comedy series, both have been in multiple films, Bret actually having a small in role in the Lord of the Rings movies). The clips the presenter showed us involved Bret and Jemaine overcoming the prejudices against kiwis in America (prejudices which actually turned out to be against Australians). Thanks to the fab… two, I am fully prepared to overcome any cultural miscommunication.

Next up was handling enrollment. I had actually already enrolled online about a month ago, but I needed to go through a few more hurdles before I was considered a full UVic student. The lady who handled the enrollment seminar was perhaps the most incompetent woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet with. Every question that we asked her was answered with a confident, “I can’t help you there. You’ll have to ask the Faculties.” The Faculties, while sounding like the name of some omnipotent tribunal, are representatives from the various departments who would give the final authorization for our selected courses. It would have to wait until tomorrow though, because the Shadow Council would not convene until tomorrow. On that note, orientation adjourned.

The rest of the day was spent preparing for the birthday of the kiwimate (the kiwi roommate of an international student) across the street. The party itself was to happen at my humble flat, because the kiwimate in question had lived there previously and all the kiwimates (I’m beginning to suspect that they have their own little club or Faculties, if you will) agreed that 11 Landcross St is the best place to have a party. Personally, I was thrilled with the choice. My little house on the cliff was going to be filled with kiwi accented cries of “Cheers, mate!” and "Thanks heaps!" Plus, having an American at your party is considered cool here, and the more you have the cooler your party is. Never have I contributed so much by doing so little. You can quote me on that if you like.

The party itself was a smashing success. The guests were numerous and the wine was plentiful. For those of you who don’t know, New Zealand has a thriving wine industry, bottling some of the finest, most elegant wines out there. Unfortunately, my wallet won’t let me obtain those, but seeing as Wellington is almost in the dead center of wine country, I can still find some good ones at a reasonable price. I actually found a rather nice Pinot gris that is pleasing to both my palate and meager budget. I may become a wine snob yet (minus the pretentiousness though, I hope).

A couple hours later, and the party moved from my flat to the town. Wednesday night is student’s night in Wellington, so the city is flooded with the young and the restless (and the seeking-to-be-intoxicated). I threw on my jacket and was whisked away on a night that is fuzzy in my mind still. Not because I drank too much (definitely not enough for some of the places we visited, but because I was pulled, often literally, back and forth in between groups begging me to join them at the clubs. I was a hot commodity in limited quantity, and all because of my nationality. (Insert frenzied chanting of, “USA! USA! USA!” here)

The one place I managed to get the name of before being sucked into was The Basement. True to its name, the club was in the basement, a basement with enough strobe lights to be considered a health hazard. The club was packed to its limits, and I was sure that I was going to get my wallet stolen with the number of people I had to squeeze by. Fortunately, such was not the case. After only 30 seconds on the dance floor, my companions deemed the club unacceptable and I was whisked off to nameless club after nameless club.

The one other club that stands out in my mind from the night has since become an enemy of mine: Kitty O’Shea’s. The place is an Irish bar in the middle of town, and it seemed more like my scene than any of the other places we had visited, so I was excited. I presented my ID at the door, and looked anxiously over the bouncer’s shoulder at my awaiting land of fun and beer.

“Sorry, sir, but I can’t let you in because of your shoes,” the bouncer said. My jaw dropped. Surely, he must jest, because I could see paradise just behind him and just beyond my reach. The rather formidable Maori man assured me that he was completely serious, and that I could not enter because of my shoes (What is it with these people and shoes?). I looked down at my gray New Balance sneakers just to make sure that nobody had strapped a time bomb to them or drawn some ethnically offensive graffiti drawn on them. Clean as a whistle. Just a week ago my shoes had been considered a fine gift for a village chieftain, but here at some obscure Irish bar they were considered a misdemeanor. I would have scowled if I hadn’t been so tired. Instead, I grunted, shrugged, and told my new friends that I would be retiring for the night. And so my offensive shoes and I decided to call it a night.

The walk back from Kitty O’Shea’s to 11 Landcross St is upwards of thirty minutes and entirely uphill, so I stand confident in my decision to take a taxi. I chatted with large Maori women who was my driver about God knows what until the little sedan finally pulled up in front of my flat. Tipping here is not a custom, nor is it expected, so I was thankful that my tired brain didn’t have to do any math. Lights out, heater on, eyes closed. Good night.

Do you remember that game at the carnival where you had to throw the little plastic ring over the neck of a bottle? They have it set up with all the bottles in a square, and it is damn near impossible to win. My point is that my living room looked like that bottle setup the next morning. Not in shape or anything, but just the actual number of bottles scattered about. Still in my pajamas and with blurry eyes, I started collecting bottles in a plastic bag. Not one minute into working, Hanah joined in followed by my two other flatmates, Shane and Molly, both American and both New Yorkers. In about ten minutes, an amount of time I still find astonishing, we managed to clean up the entire flat. Somewhere in that time between picking up bottles in our pajamas and taking out the trash without socks, I think we all bonded. I was certain that campfire songs were to follow, but alas, no such luck.

The next few days found me at my computer or with a computer as the weather turned from cold to cold and rainy. My eyes had had enough of having raindrops slung into them by the harsh winds here, so I was pretty much under house arrest by Mother Nature. Despite the harsh conditions, Hanah and I managed to make a flat grocery trip to Moore Wilson’s. Moore Wilson’s is New Zealand’s answer to America’s Sam’s. The name of the game was bulk. Our most notable purchase included 90 eggs. That’s right, 90 of those suckers. Anybody up for a twelve-egg omelet?

The one night that was clear I spent in a movie theater. Not a very cultural experience, right? Wrong. The movie in question was “Boy”, described by kiwis as one of the most New Zealand films ever made, capturing the very essence of the nation. Describing the film to others has proved difficult thus far. The boy of the title is a young Maori boy named “Alamein”, but known by his nickname, “Boy” (hence the title). His hobbies include spending time with his pet goat, pining for an older girl named Chardonnay, and Michael Jackson. Boy’s life is interrupted with the sudden reappearance of his ne’er do well father, Alamein Sr.. The story is all at once funny (I definitely got a vaguely Napoleon Dynamite-esque vibe from it) and heartbreaking. If you want to really know New Zealand, watch this film. But be warned, their accents are thick and some (I definitely can think of a few people within my own family) will not be able to understand some of the actors.

The week ended with, you guessed it, another night on the town. This one, however, was a lot more memorable. Our group this time was composed almost entirely of Americans, and we had one destination in mind: Boogie Wonderland. Like the Basement, the club looked a lot like you would expect a place named Boogie Wonderland would. Light up dance floor? Check. Disco Ball? Guys in Village People costumes? Definitely check. And without ever actually seeing a 70’s porn movie, I can say with certainty that the furniture must have come straight from one of the sets. The place was so retro, that I was taken aback by it all. I mean, even the bartenders were wearing bellbottoms, for Christ’s sake. But it got even better. At the back of the club was a semi-hidden entrance to another bar named Alice’s. Alice’s, Wonderland, get it? Alice’s was more of a cocktail lounge, and eschewed the 70’s theme in favor of the Alice in Wonderland story. I think my favorite part of Alice’s had to be the fact that all the drinks were served in little teakettles. Where is my top hat when I need it? Before I got a better chance to explore, a bouncer approached one of my friends. I was curious as to what my face had looked like when I was told my shoes were not good enough for Kitty O’Shea’s, and that curiosity was satiated when my friend was given the same line. I empathized with her. I felt a pang of guilt as I looked down at my own nice, dress shoes (fool me once, and I change shoes), and realized that I hadn’t reminded her of my fateful trip to Kitty O’Shea’s. a few of us decided to leave the bar with her and find another place.

That other place happened to by Maya. Maya looked a lot like the inside of a Laser Tag place, so I was (understandably, I hope) disappointed when I wasn't presented with a laser gun and chest piece upon entering. Less than five minutes inside, and I had grown tired of the place. My friend Kyle, equally unenthused with our venue choice, left the club to seek our fortunes elsewhere.

We couldn’t have taken more than fifty steps outside before we got into a conversation with a pair of kiwi girls. Nobody just stops and talks to you on the streets back home unless they are homeless or have less than noble intentions, so this was a novelty to me. They invited us to a bar called The Shot Shack with them, and we being two eager, young American boys, were more than happy to oblige. We squeezed our way through the crowds and up to the bar, chatting happily all the way. The girls kept gushing on and on about our American accents, so I’m pretty sure that both Kyle and myself were walking with a little swagger in our steps when we ordered shots, the bar’s specialty, for ourselves and the girls. The drinks were dirt-cheap and we wanted to appear gentlemen, because we are, so we asked them what was good. What we were served is called, and pardon my language, a Quick Fuck. Vulgar, yes, but also surprisingly tasty. Not being a fan of shots myself, I was surprised at how well the mixture of Bailey’s Irish Cream and Midori melon liqueur went down. Before I had even set my shot glass down, the girls were ready to take us to a new club.

What happened next inspires feelings of bitterness, but mainly amusement, as I recall it now. We stood in line outside of the club, Hope Bros., with the girls standing in front of us, and Kyle and I just happy to be there. And then it happened. While the bouncers checked my ID alongside Kyle’s, the girls, already in the club, split. I think Kyle might have genuinely been furious at their hasty departure, but I couldn’t help laughing. We ordered Quick Fucks and that is exactly what we got, we were quickly fucked over. Kyle grumbled under his breath as I led him to the bar. He ordered and downed two whisky shots before we departed. We thought that it was probably a good time to cool our jets, so we headed over to The Library.

The Library does indeed have books, but this library was a cocktail lounge. Passing the bouncer who looked suspiciously like Rasputin (does that guy ever die?), we went up a staircase and came face to face with a bookshelf. The bookshelf then swung open to reveal paradise. Being a man of words (I’m writing this now after all), I was instantly smitten with the place. The walls were composed entirely of bookshelves jammed with books. The lights were that perfect amount of dim, and the furniture looked like it could have come from Henry James’s parlor. I felt like I should have been wearing my smoking jacket just being there. Needless to say, I was in heaven.

Kyle’s mood lightened as we ordered drinks, and marveled at our surroundings. My fingers were itching for my keyboard and a word processor, as I looked at all the titles cramming the shelves around us. I didn’t really pay attention to what I ordered, just having what Kyle had, but the drink was still a welcome relief. Like my companion, it was just slightly bitter.

Mellowed out from The Library, we decided that we would visit my kiwi flatmate, Hanah, at her work. Hanah works as a bartender at J.J. Murphy’s, an Irish bar on Cuba Street, one of the hippest places in the city. Hanah flashed me a smile as we parted the crowd and ordered up at the bar, and I was pleased to see that Hanah was the one who made my drink. She told me to say goodbye when I left as Kyle and I made our way to one of the booths to listen to the live band play. Despite being duped earlier, I chalked the night up as a success as I sipped my drink and listened to kiwi versions of Oasis’s “Wonderwall” and the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Under the Bridge".

Once again, I took a cab home (they are surprisingly cheap here) as my week drew to a close. Classes start this week, and I’m honestly pretty excited to give New Zealand academia a shot. I just hope this school is ready for me… and my unacceptable shoes.

Under a Hill and On a Hill

My last day in Rotorua was actually spent under Rotorua. We departed from the ol’ Kiwi Paka early in the morning to head out to the small village/town of Waitomo. The day before, we were given the option to go through one of two caves: the dry cave involved a zip line, but the wet cave was more physically challenging. Never one to back down from a challenge, I chose the wet cave: Haggas Honking Holes. The groups were divided between the two caves and at different times, so my expedition consisted of nine people and two guides. The first guide picked us up in a van right outside of the reception building. He greeted us all with a big, friendly smile and introduced himself as Bruiser.

Bruiser was the kind of man who looked like his job. With a slight potbelly, squinty eyes, and a little nose, the man bore a striking similarity to a mole, a creature, that like him, spent most of its time below the surface. He explained to us that a woman named Linda Haggas owned the cave and the property surrounding it, and that he rented a small property from her. The man seemed incredulous at his own luck that he should be able to get paid for doing what he loved the most, caving. He seemed more giddy with anticipation to go down into the cave than we were, smiling and exposing a row of teeth that looked like they would belong to a man named Bruiser every time he talked about the cave. His excitement was infectious.

After a car ride that was shakier than one of those Magic Fingers beds at a cheap motel, we arrived at a little metal shed outside of the cave entrance. Bruiser led us inside to meet our second guide, Ian. Ian was a tall, lanky fellow with one of the thickest kiwi accents I’ve heard yet. He laughed a lot and the way he moved reminded me of the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. Ian helped size us all up for wet suit overalls and jacket, and told us to go pick out a pair of gum boots (rain boots) once we had finished changing into them. Topping off the whole ensemble was a bright red helmet. The complete outfits made us look like we would have been right at home in one of those futuristic societies from an 80’s movie where they all dress the same or a Men Without Hats music video. Take your pick. Anyway, dressed as such, we were ready to go out into public.

On the hillside overlooking the mouth of the cave, we received a quick lesson in abseiling, or as it is know in America, rappelling. I’ve rappelled before, but never with the equipment that Bruiser presented me. The main device through which the rope was threaded was an abseiling a rack, a device that looks like a miniature segment of a railroad track. The training was simple enough, no fatalities or anything, so into the abyss we descended.

For those of you who have never had the chance to go spelunking (or caving as it is called here), caves are dark. Everyone could probably have figured that out without my astute observational skills, but most people don’t realize how dark it can get inside one. There were a few moments when we all turned off our headlamps in order to experience total darkness. Noises became amplified, what little hair I had exposed stood on end, and every sensation became heightened. There is really nothing quite like it.

Most of our expedition was, however, illuminated. Our headlamps provided most of our luminance, but we had yet another source in the caves, the glowworms. The glowworms of Waitomo caves give the place its unique appeal. The Arachnocampa luminosa is found almost exclusively in New Zealand. The little critter, as Bruiser told us, is one of those creatures that when explained, sounds like it could only be from my current corner of the world. The female lays her eggs in clusters of fifteen or twenty, and the first one to hatch has its brothers and sisters as a first meal. No sibling rivalry, I guess. After pulling this dick move, the young glowworm enters the larval stage. The larva releases a large number of sticky silk threads to ensnare its prey. Seeing as there are very few other bugs to eat in the cave, do you think you can guess what the main staple diet of their diet is? You (I’m assuming) guessed it, other glowworms, specifically the adults. Once they’ve had their fill and are ready to grow up, the larva becomes a pupa and then an adult. The adult glowworm, in the opinion of my group, is a pointless animal. It has no mouth, so it can’t eat. It can’t, simply put, poop, because it can’t secrete waste. So needless to say, the adult glowworm doesn’t have very long to live. And if you don’t have very long to live, what are you going to do? Yeah, it’s baby-making time. After laying her eggs, the female gets tired and dies. Same goes for the male. And then the whole process repeats itself. Only in New Zealand.

So under the guidance of Bruiser, Ian, and pointless glowworms, we trekked through the cave for three hours. In that time we managed to abseil, rock climb, crawl, and at one point, swim through the winding passages of the cage. I have to say, rappelling down a waterfall (actually have the full force of the freezing water beat down upon me) has been one of the more Indiana Jones-esque moments of my life.

When we finally reached the light of day again, we were knackered. Our jaws dropped slightly as Bruiser and Ian almost skipped up the entire hill and into the shed, as we struggled to drag our feet up each punishing step. Painful? Yes. Worth it? Absolutely.

Now what would a brave explorer do after hours of defying the elements and conquering nature? If you guessed take a long, hot shower and then nap for a couple hours then you would be correct. If not, you would be wrong. Like horribly wrong. I had one final adventure of the night, so I managed to drag myself out of the warmth of bed and out of the door. Some call it risky, others are deathly afraid it, but I was about to take it head on: karaoke.

AustraLearn’s karaoke night included such hits as: Poker Face, Sexual Healing, Summer Lovin’, and my own version of Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” (a version that some would describe as “traumatic” or “scarring”). Alas, the hour grew late and my eyelids grew heavy.

My last moments in Rotorua were not among the fondest. In order to catch our flight to Wellington, us UVic kids had to be on our bus to the airport by 6:00 in the morning, so pardon me for not having any witty (or generally) any observations about leaving Rotorua. I was a little preoccupied with trying to regain full cognitive functions. Our early rising was all for naught, however, seeing as how our flight to Wellington was delayed by fog. I can understand why anybody would be reluctant to fly in that weather, though. All I could see from the windows at the departure gate was the airplane itself. I half expected a large tentacle or something else sinister to emerge from the fog and grab the plane. Unexcitingly, the fog cleared and we were off the ground and our way to Wellington at 9:00.

Somebody must have told the city that I was coming as it brought out its best winter weather for me. The sun was shining, the sky was clear, and it was about refrigerator cold instead of freezer cold. Even the flight attendant remarked that the weather was unusually nice for this time of year. A representative from the university met us all at baggage claim, and sorted us into groups based on where we were living. The first name called: University Hall. That’s me. My luck was starting to turn.

Seeing as it was I though, that didn’t last long. As soon as the shuttle that dropped me off at my new flat, a suitcase in each hand a smile on my face, I realized that my laptop case (containing both my laptop and passport) was still sitting in the back of the shuttle all by its lonesome. Fuck. I dashed to the RA’s house next door, and after a few phone calls, reached the driver who said he would gladly bring my bag back to me. The man actually apologized to me for not checking that backseat was empty. HE apologized. These kiwis never cease to amaze me. Anyway, on to my flat.

My house is like the Tardis or a wizard’s tent from Harry Potter, it is much larger on the inside. Being built on a hill, the third and top floor is actually the “ground” floor. It’s a nice, little four-bedroom affair with two bathrooms (only one has a shower, though) and a laundry room. The four of us who live here share a living room and a kitchen on the “ground floor”, as well. It’s not exactly an impressive feat of architecture or anything, but it does have one amazing feature: the view. The view from our living room window overlooks almost all of Wellington, the lights, the buildings, the mountains, the low clouds, almost all of it. My only regret is that I can’t see the harbor, but that complaint is a very, very small one. Nonetheless, the view is breathtaking. If I could paint, I would have set up an easel on our dinner table by now.

The first person I met was my kiwi roommate, Hanah. All the international students who live at University Hall are assigned a kiwi roommate to help them get oriented with the city and the university. Kiwis have a reputation for being nice, but Hanah goes above and beyond the call. Kiwis are also known for having a direct, sort of no-punches-pulled sense of humor, and she certainly has that down as well. She’s originally from a town called Nelson on the northern tip of the South Island of New Zealand. Being born and raised in a landlocked state, her stories of growing up on the beachfront and around the ocean mystified me. They also explained her major, Marine Biology and Ecology. I managed to get all settled in rather quickly with her help, so I decided to go shop for some essentials in town.

Wellington is hilly. It’s a simple statement, but I want people to understand that I live on the top of what could possibly qualify as a small mountain. I think I actually saw a Sherpa when I walked through campus. It’s pretty easy getting down into town, but a literal pain in the ass walking back uphill and home, especially being loaded down with groceries. I am going to have a phenomenally sculpted ass and legs capable of kicking through six-inch thick steel by the end of my time here.

I love this city hills and all, though. The streets are all well lit and the shops are charming. My first venture into the city gave me a huge to-do list of places I want to visit. From the hip and happening Cuba Street to the shop-filled Willis Street, I think I’m going to like it here. The shopping trip was uneventful, its main purpose being to better acquaint me with the city (and get shampoo and conditioner).

Despite this trip, however, I managed to get myself thoroughly lost when I went out for dinner that evening. My friend Hollin, a fellow AustraLearner and one of the sweetest people I have ever met, turned twenty-one that night, and we (the AustraLearners) would be damned if we weren’t going out to celebrate. We agreed to meet up at a small Indian restaurant in the city, and even though I got lost (horribly, horribly lost), I still managed to be the first one of the restaurant. The dinner itself was great. Fun people, delicious food, a friendly and helpful staff, the meal was thoroughly enjoyable.

We parted ways outside the restaurant hugging and already making plans to meet up the next day. I walked back with a few of my friends living in the apartments below Landcross Street (my street), and then things started going wrong. As soon as I left their company, I got lost… again. I wandered around for a good hour and a half, up and down the terrace, before I found my way home. Surprisingly, it was a great experience. There’s something exciting about walking through a new city by yourself, knowing that you would be considering it home in a short time. And as a result of my wanderings, I know the Terrace (the massive hillside area on which my house is built) better than if I had memorized a map.

I can’t wait to explore this city even more, and get acquainted with the VUW. Wellington is teeming with excitement and I am eager to write about all of it. That is, if I don’t get lost… again.

Where Men Are Men and Sheep Are Nervous

When we last left our intrepid hero, he had just made a valiant effort to play some rugby. While the success of that particular venture can be considered debatable, a good time was still had by all. Let’s skip ahead to day three.

Seeing as how our time in the country had been all play so far (if you can consider the haka play), it was about time to give back to the community. Us kids attending the Victoria University of Wellington (either referred to as UVic or VUW from now on) went out to Whakarewarewa Village (pronounced faka-reewa-reewa) to explore the grounds and see how we could give back to the land that has so graciously hosted us. After a short bus ride through Rotorua, we arrived outside of the gates to the village in weather cold enough to make our teeth chatter. We were greeted by an elderly Maori woman who informed us that the full name of her village is in fact much longer, a whopping twenty-six letters long. Filling out addresses on envelopes must be a real pain in the ass.

Whakarewarewa is a small village of twenty-three families that though outfitted with the conveniences of modern technology, is still heavily rooted in the practices of old. By the practices of old I don’t mean cannibalism or anything like that, but many of the day-to-do chores are done the same way as they were hundreds of years ago. This is all possible because of the geothermal activity underneath the village. In fact, as we were casually standing on some stones surrounding one of the many pools throughout the village, our guide mentioned that we were in fact standing on the thinnest part of the Earth’s crust. If it is not the thinnest, then it must rank within the top five, because upon placing my hand on the stones beneath my feet, sure enough it was as if they had been heated in an oven. Many of us took the opportunity to take a page out of the reptile family’s book, and lay down on the rocks to warm up.

Much of the village’s cooking is done over natural steam vents in wooden boxes that the guide jokingly referred to as “Maori microwaves”. Vegetables, shellfish, poultry, Hot Pockets, any and everything can be cooked in these geothermal boxes. If not, some foods are actually boiled inside of the pools (these pools can reach up to 180° C, that is very, very hot for those of you unfamiliar with Celsius). Some of pools that are less, urm, scalding, and these pools are used for communal bathing. Our guide invited us to join her and the rest of the village at 7:00 that evening if we wanted to experience the soothing effects of the pools. As tempted as I was to soak it up with a bunch of villagers and possibly enjoy a cold six pack, we already had dinner plans.

After demonstrating the process behind making the bamboo curtain skirts that the women dancers wear (they are made almost entirely out of flax using some modern tools like scissors as well as the original tool, a mussel shell), we were led up to the mountain trail by James, the Maori man in charge of the village’s maintenance, and were shown two types of plants. They probably would have been considered exotic back in the States, but here are considered a nuisance. We spent a couple of hours pulling weeds and cleaning up the brush around the trail, and despite having a few terrifying flashbacks to my days working as a gardener for Express Lawn Services of Tulsa, I rather enjoyed the work. Our efforts were rewarded with a simple lunch of meat pies, salad, bananas, muffins, and corn cooked in the geothermal steam. Consider me sold, because that corn was some of the best that I have ever had the pleasure of eating.

We said our goodbyes to our guide and James, and headed back to Rotorua to meet up with the rest of the group. We shared our experiences, us with Whakarewarewa village and them with volunteering at an all boys high school, during our last session together. After a little down time (I want to emphasize a little), we were herded on to, you guessed it, another bus. This bus went to Tamaki Village where we would have a traditional hangi dinner and an authentic Maori experience. Our driver needed one of us to be chief and represent the tribe in the village’s welcoming ritual. Being an avid rugby enthusiast, he chose our only rugby player, Tom, to be our chief.

We clambered out of the bus and into the stands of a large amphitheater. Tom and three other “chiefs” from different tour groups stood in front us. In front of them stood three elaborately carved archways, but before we could enter them the welcoming ritual must occur. Maori warriors in full tribal costume burst from the archways as a conch shell blew out a single long, sonorous note. The warriors would feign charging our courageous chiefs before pulling back and flicking their tongues, all the while demonstrating their skill with their spear/boat oar/cricket bat hybrid weapon. The chiefs approached the center and lay down a gift (a fern that I think Tom stepped on) for the village’s chief. The gift accepted us, the Maori warriors gladly accepted us into their village, and led us through the three archways.

Have you ever been to Jamestown? You know, where the people dress like, talk like, and work like the pilgrims did when they first landed? Picture that scenario, except in a jungle, and instead of pilgrims, it’s Maoris, a people considerably less inclined towards pacifism and clothing. They showed us some of the games that the children would play, and explained that all the games were used to prepare for battle. Forget SAT’s, the most valuable skill a child can learn is to how to use a big ass war club. I was asked by one of the warriors to participate in one of these games. On the ground was a long stick intersected by several smaller sticks forming a ladder. I was told to run through the space between each rung on the left side and then the right, and then would be rewarded with a picture with one of the warriors. About three quarters of the way through, my shoelace snagged on one of the sticks and jarred it from its position. The warrior in charge stopped me, and pulled me to the front of the crowd, unaware of the fact that I have little to no shame when it comes to situations like the one I found myself in.

“Do you have a wife?” he asked.

“No,” I said with just a hint of pride in my voice. This free bird can’t be changed, after all.

“A girlfriend?” he asked again. I was beginning to see where this line of this questioning was headed.

“Again, no,” I replied. What he said next threw me totally off guard.

“Your shoes are quite nice. They would make a fine gift for my chief,” the warrior said.

Not being one to offend a culture with a history of violence and tribal warefare, I made ready to untie the laces of my gray New Balance sneakers. Before I could even touch the knot though, the warrior, with some amount of surprise in voice I might add, said that he would accept a second run-through as a substitute. Shrugging, I put my hands on my hips as instructed and pranced liked a goddamn reindeer. Absolutely flawless. I made my best Maori warrior face in my prize picture. I’ll see if I can include it with this post.

After my run in with the Maori warrior caste, we met up with some fellow AustraLearners.

“What were you doing over there?” my friend Warren asked.

“I almost had to give up my shoes, because I’m single,” I said with a proud smile. Before he had the opportunity to inquire further, the conch shell horn sounded again, and we were corralled into a large Maori auditorium. Anybody who knows my family well will know our stance on folk dancing. Luckily, it was mercifully short, and surprisingly entertaining. Maybe it was because they were singing in Maori, or the fact that they were telling a local legend, but either way it kept my attention.

On to the hangi dinner. The Maori people traditionally cook their foods in pits, much like the way a luau pig is cooked. We feasted on fish, mussels, lamb, chicken, potatoes, a sweet potato that I still don’t know the name of, and some excellent stuffing. All of the food had a vaguely earthy taste to it, something I’d never really tasted before and quite tasty. Dessert was steam pudding with custard, cream, and my personal favorite, fresh kiwifruit. Whatever supermarkets are selling in the States, they are most certainly not selling real kiwifruit. If I wasn’t absolutely positive that Customs would lead me into a small, windowless room accompanied by the sound of a latex glove snapping against a human wrist, then I would undoubtedly try to smuggle a suitcase full.

Let’s move on to the next morning. I woke up on Thursday a.k.a. Adventure Day feeling, well, adventurous. I swaggered into breakfast ready for a day of adrenaline. That meant it was time to try Marmite. For those of you unfamiliar with this, um, food spread, Marmite is a food spread made from the by-product of beer brewing. I would love to meet the man who looked into the gunk at the bottom of a brewing vat and said, “Ya’ know, that would probably be good on toast.” Apparently, someone listened to the guy, and thus Marmite was born. One of our leaders, Ella, a native kiwi, said to never try Marmite plain, but to put some on a piece of buttered toast. Steeling my nerves, I applied a good-sized glob on one of the corners of my toast, and spread it out. If I had to describe the smell of the yeasty concoction, I think the best word would be “haunting”. As for the flavor… not bad. It wasn’t great, but I would eat it over sawdust or flat out starving. I’m not going to be stocking up on the stuff anytime soon, I’ll leave it at that.

My stomach full of Marmite and toast, I was ready to go do some extreme activities. For my day of adventure, I had chosen a package called “The Triple Bypass”, a deal that promised the buyer participation in three of four activities (nothing about heart troubles in the fine print, I checked): jetboating, the Schweeb, the Swoop, or a wind tunnel that would simulate skydiving. I decided to go with the first three.

Arriving at the facilities with my friend Molly (she and I were the only ones to opt for the Triple Bypass, so maybe they should rethink the name), we decided to go on the jetboat first. As implied by the name, a jetboat is very fast, fast enough to make you pull 2-3 Gs. With a 450 horsepower engine and a system ejecting water at 1,100 L of water per second or minute (I forget which), a jetboat can easily exceed speeds of 100km an hour. Couple this with a watercourse with more twists than an Alfred Hitchcock movie, and you have my first activity of the day. The driver strapped us in with harnesses that I believe are only reserved for fighter pilots, and plopped helmets or both of our heads. The sensation of a jetboat accelerating is something else. The acceleration speed bordered on ridiculous, and I’m pretty sure that we actually left the water on the first turn. Needless to say, I will be purchasing a jetboat in the near future.

Next up was the Shweeb. What sounds like an unfortunate last name is in fact a piece of German engineering that combines cycling and a monorail system. Personally, I enjoyed the description of Bev, the lady at the front desk of my hotel, “It’s a bicycle inside a test tube attached to a monorail.” That’s pretty much exactly what it was. A hatch popped open on the side of my pod, and I was instructed climb in and grab the handlebars. The system had seven gears, and functioned much like a regular bike, the only big differences being that I was reclining and there were no wheels. The man who sealed me in told me that I would pedal for three laps, and then take two laps to cool off. As soon as the checkered flag was waved for a go, I pedaled with a fury that would have impressed Lance Armstrong. The Shweeb is designed to eliminate as much resistance as possible, so by the way the pod is shaped and connected to the rail, propelling yourself is quite easy. I flew through the track, my pod swinging outward at each turn. This was fun. I bumped the gear up to about six, and managed to come in with a time of 1:08, a time that beat quite a few of the numbers painted up on the loading station. Not too shabby. My pride was cut short upon exiting the pod. I’m pretty sure the Japanese tourists watching me thought that I had had a few too many by the way my legs wobbled and body swayed. I was a little relieved to see that Molly was in a similar situation.

We managed to walk off our pseudo-intoxicated gait as we made our way over to the Swoop. The Swoop is a mammoth swing that pulls you and up to two other people up over 130 ft in the air before releasing you at a speed exceeding 80 mph into a wide swinging arc. I was absolutely giddy as we waited to be strapped in. The jumpmaster led Molly and I up a set of stairs and to what looked like conjoined sleeping bags. He told us to step on the bottom part of the fabric and put our arms through the holes in the front of the bag. That being done, he zipped us up, clipped the carabineer on the bottom of our harness, and unceremoniously pulled the stairs out from under us. I can now say that I know how a caterpillar in a cocoon feels. We swung lazily in front of the jumpmaster as he handed me the ripcord at my side, and instructed me to not to even touch until he gave the word. Then the winch started up. Our ascension to the top was dramatically so, put off only by the music blaring from the ground, Dexy’s Midnight Runner’s hit single “Come On, Eileen.” I was about to hurtle down to the earth at a breakneck speed to “Come On, Eileen.” Sweet as.

Finally, we reached the top. Now I can’t say for sure what exactly the jumpmaster said, but I heard him counting backward and then a loud, excited noise that I took to mean “go”. I pulled the ripcord, nay; I yanked with all my might on the ripcord. There really was no second of weightlessness or anything like that. We dropped for about forty feet before swinging into an arc, during which my stomach made its way up to my sternum. The wind whipped past our faces, and grass below blurred as we made our descent. To my right, I saw sheep and emus grazing in their pens, ahead of my some of the most breathtaking landscape imaginable, and below me, the Shweeb. Was I really here? Was I actually swinging through the cold, winter air of New Zealand? The surreal nature of the whole experience still hasn’t worn off.

There was only one thing left for me to do that day, and it wasn’t in the package. Every since I first saw it on the Travel Channel, I knew it was destiny to try it. The activity? Zorbing. Zorbing is essentially being strapped into a giant hamster ball, and being pushed down a hill. And as fate would have it, there was a zorbing venue right across the street from the Swoop. I made my way over to the main office, registered, signed away all my rights to sue them (a recurring theme here in New Zealand), and waited to be taken up to the top of the hill. Zorbing can be done either wet with multiple people tumbling around in calf deep water while going in a zigzag down a hill, or it can be done dry by having every part of your body strapped down and then being pushed straight down a steep hill. Seeing as it was winter and I forgot my togs (kiwi term for swimsuit), I opted for the dry option. A little jeep drove me to the top of a very high hill, and unloaded me in front of a Zorb. The lady at the top told me to climb into one of the holes and take a seat on the cushion protruding on the inside of the sphere. After strapping my ankles, waist, chest, shoulders, and hands in, I was ready to go. The ball moved slowly at first, almost painfully so, but gathered speed in a split second. All I was able to see from the inside of the clear ball was sunlight then ground, sunlight then ground, sunlight then ground. I was glad I hadn’t had anything to eat recently. The ball reached the end of the hill and started rolling up the base of another (catching a considerable amount of air while doing so) before being corralled by two men at the bottom. I smiled as they helped me out and took pictures still dizzy from my ride. I couldn’t stop grinning as Molly and I made our way back to our driver. One more item checked off of the old bucket list.

Adventure Day drew to a close as we headed back to the Kiwi Paka (our hotel), and my heart was still racing. I had pumped about a week’s worth of adrenaline through my veins in a few hours. Even though that excitement was beginning to wear off, it was quickly being replaced by another kind of excitement. I had sampled a handful of the thrills New Zealand had to offer, and the thought that there were so many more out there waiting for me was enough to keep my spirits up for the rest of the night. I had Swooped, Shweebed, Jetboated, and Zorbed all in one day. To all of the adventures and challenges out there in New Zealand, I have only two words:

Bring it!

Kia Ora!

Kia Ora! It's a wonderful little phrase. In Maori (pronounced like 'mou' as in mouse and 're' as in rewind) it means "be well/healthy", but it can also mean "hi", "thanks", "goodbye", "nice to see you", or pretty much whatever you want it to mean. So to you all, I say, "Kia Ora!"

I have been in New Zealand for four days now, but the time has flown by so quickly. The flight from Los Angeles to Auckland, New Zealand's most populous city with 1.4 million residents is approximately thirteen hours, one of the longest flights I've ever endured. Normally, I don't find anything remarkable about a plane flight, but crossing the International Date Line is something close to mystical. Bill Bryson, the esteemed travel writer, marvels at the fact that when crossing the International Date Line, he actually doesn't exist for an entire day. I left L.A. at 9:30 on the evening of the 27th and arrived in Auckland around 5:30 on the 29th. And as I sit here in Rotorua (more on where I am currently later) it is July 1st, but back home it is still June 30th. Needless to say, calculating time zone differences is a little tricky.

The city of Auckland itself reminded me a lot of Seattle. They are both rainy and they are both home to a tall, pointy structure. Auckland's pointy structure, the Sky Tower, stands at a whopping 1,076 ft and is the tallest free-standing structure in the Southern Hemisphere. Many of us AustraLearners (the company through which I am participating in study abroad is called AustraLearn, therefore I refer to its participants as AustraLearners) commented that the tower looks like a poorly disguised missile of some sort. We were picked up from the airport by our AustraLearn leaders Gavin and Ella along with our bus driver, the waggish Dusty Scoops (great name, right?). Dusty proceeded to give as a concise tour of Auckland with commentary that I can only describe as off color, but good-natured.

After settling in at the hotel, we attended a brief session that aimed to introduce us to New Zealand's history, its politics, its slang, its customs, and its humor. Once the orientation was complete, we were given free reign to explore the city until dinner. My first order of business was to procure a cell phone. Not too adventurous, I know, but that would be soon to come. The city itself was quite easy to navigate, much to my surprise. Having all the streets labeled in English may have had something to do with it, but I like to think that I have suddenly acquired an uncanny sense of direction. It is widely believed that the kiwis are a friendly people, and the girl at the electronics store from which I purchased my phone was no exception. After being informed that the display model was the only one left of the cheapest phones they had available, I was prepared to walk away dejected. Instead, the cashier gave me a bright smile, and said, "No worries, mate. I'll just put that one in a box for you." The kiwis really are a wonderful people.

Dinner time soon arrived, so the gang assembled in the lobby to trek down to the harbor for a pleasant dinner at the Waterfront Cafe. With our stomachs full and our eyes heavy with jet lag, we just barely managed to make the trek back to our hotel.

After a night of much needed sleep, we AustraLearners woke up bright and early to one of the most English breakfast I've ever had since, well, having breakfast IN England. Mushrooms, baked beans, tomatoes, thick rashers of bacon, and bangers (sausages) lined the tables, and we all dug in like we had not eaten in days. I have not yet tried Marmite, a food spread made from the yeasty by-product of beer brewing, but I am pretty sure that will change soon. We piled into the bus for a three-hour bus ride to Rotorua, a small city in the Bay of Plenty region of New Zealand. The first activity of the day was a session dedicated to explaining the academic system of New Zealand. Among the more notable differences from the American system, the kiwis: graduate from university in three years, professors do not like to be called by their titles and instead prefer that their students refer to them by their first name, and many more. Next up, Haka World.

The bullet point next to Haka World on our itinerary read, "Become a warrior". So wearing my jeans, sneakers, and a button down shirt, I guess I was ready as anyone to be turned into a ferocious killing machine. For those of you who are unfamiliar with what a haka is, a haka is a traditional Maori war dance performed by Maori warriors before battles to challenge and intimidate the opponent. Each tribe and each sub-tribe has a unique haka that they perform. The words and gestures usually tell a story about an event in the tribe's past, and performing a haka with extra ferocity for somebody as a gift is seen as a sign of an enormous amount of respect. The particular haka we learned was the "Kamate" haka. The Kamate is performed by New Zealand's national rugby team, the All Blacks. Before each game, the All Blacks line up in front of their opponents, and perform their haka with a terrifying intensity that sends shivers up the spine. I'll post the link for the YouTube video at the bottom of this post.

We all sat down in chairs to face a whiteboard with Maori words and a short, slightly chubby, middle-aged Maori man with a bulbous nose and a big grin. He greeted us in Maori and showed us the traditional Maori greeting of touching noses twice while exhaling through the nostrils. This is to signify sharing the breath of life, when our breaths intertwine, our spirits and the spirits of all our ancestors meet in greeting. Pretty cool stuff. The man went on to explain the history of the Kamate haka, and revealed that he is a descendant of the great war chief who originally wrote and performed it. After guiding us syllable by syllable through the haka, we were ready to move on to the motions. The chairs were pushed aside and we all lined up in rows facing our instructor at the front. He then demonstrated the haka for us. To say that the man looked bat-shit insane would the understatement of the century. His eyes bulged and his veins popped out as he roared the words at a volume bordering on deafening. With pants freshly shat and my ears ringing, I couldn't wait to give it a go.

I gave it my all on the line, aided by the fact that I had memorized the words back at Rice (who says I don't think ahead?), and picked up the movements quickly. Our instructor divided us into two groups, and picked two leaders a.k.a. chiefs. My intensity was rewarded, and with great honor I accepted the position of war chief. The men then changed into fur loincloths with flax belts and had our faces inked in traditional Maori warpaint. As chief, I had the privilege of wearing a shawl/shirt that reminded me a lot of one of those bamboo curtains that cover doorways. Needless to say, I was thrilled. The girls wore traditional Maori dresses and headbands, and were given smaller warpaint designs on their chins. Did I mention we were filmed?

Our instructor led us to an area of the hotel specifically built for haka performances (I don't think even the Waldorf-Astoria has one of those). My group was up first. As Chief Pale-As-A-Ghost, I was determined to prove my tribe superior. I have to say, my warriors and I made an intimidating bunch. With eyes bulging and tongues out (that one is only for the guys, because of the…um…. phallic nature… of the gesture), we made quite the fearsome sight. I'll see if I can get my hands on a copy of the tape for everyone's viewing pleasure.

Since we were all fired up from doing the haka, we headed out to the rugby pitch for a game of touch rugby. I won’t get into the rules of the game here, but I have to say, I had a hell of a good time. The sport is fast-paced, teamwork heavy, and a lot of fun. My own moment of triumph came when the ball was on the line, one touch to my foot and the play would start. Only a few inches away from scoring a point I knew what I had to do. Quick as a flash, I bent my knees and with ball in hand I sprang into the air. Time slowed down around me, people silently cheered from the sidelines, someone started playing the Chariots of Fire theme, and I may have started sweating Gatorade. I fell to the ground with my arms outstretched and a triumphant grin on my face. Unsurprisingly, the point was no good, just short. My friends assured my after the game, however, that I looked extremely cool doing it, so I’ll chalk that one up in the plus column. I imagine that I missed a lot of the true spirit of the game seeing as how the tackling and gratuitous violence were absent from the whole experience, but I am looking forward to an All Blacks game now more than ever.

I’ll try and keep these posts to a manageable length, so I’ll sum up this one with my new favorite New Zealand phrase. Many kiwis use the word “as” in conjunction with an adjective at the end of a sentence to express a given feeling. For example, “I’m tired as.” Nothing is required beyond the as (the “as” is pronounced like the –as- in Tasmania). And out of all of the all the possible adjectives that could be used, the most common one is “sweet”. So “sweet as” means that everything is fine, everything is cool, things couldn’t be better.

Example: My New Zealand trip so far? Sweet as.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tdMCAV6Yd0Y