BlogAbroad.com - Jonathan

The Land of Oz Part Two: Playing the Tourist

December 5th, 2005

Wednesday, Day 4, was the first of two day trips I planned out of the city for various activities. The people at the Information Centre not only have information on day trips, they will also book them for you so you don’t have to deal with all that, with no cost above the original trip.

The coach that picked me up early in the morning was sleek, shiny, and clearly featured the latest in bussing technology. It was built for travel in comfort and in style. AAT Kings didn’t mess around, and I suppose a trip costing me the exorbitant rate of US$110 had better show me exactly where the money went.

Our first stop was the Australian Reptile Park, home to dozens of different types of crocodiles, lizards, skinks, etc., as well as a large number of horrendously huge spiders. Now, I am not frightened of spiders per se; it’s more of a mutual dislike, and, well, spiders that large should definitely not be allowed, and even more definitely not be allowed to roam freely around a country in which I was spending a week of my time. That’s all, honest.

Anyways, it was when we arrived at the kangaroo and koala sections of the park that I realized that I was having a miserable time, though it was a few minutes more until I figured out why. Everything was so controlled, so planned to the most minute detail, so…touristy, and I could not handle it, in addition to the swarms of people devouring every last image with their cameras. We grabbed snacks from the nearest café, and munched among kangaroos and echidnas. I sighed dramatically for the nth time; as close as we were to nature, it was all so fake, so routinized, so constructed that to me, the reality of nature was as remote as the moon. Where was the spontaneity? Where was a sense of danger, perhaps in the form of a waiver that I had to sign, releasing AAT Kings from any liability from crocodile bites or the sinister machinations of power-hungry dolphins?

We boarded the bus, bound for Port Stephens, and I shook myself out of my irritable mood. The best was yet to come for certain. 99% chance of finding dolphins, the pamphlet boasted. As we sailed off into the bay following a small pod of dolphins, I found as quiet aplace on the boat (read: small cruise ship) as I could, and closed my eyes as the sun and wind played over my face. This was much better. Much more to my liking.

Yells suddenly pierced my constructed solitude. I looked around, and…

Wait…what?

There’s nothing–!

This was getting ridiculous. Those horrible dolphins were disappearing just before every shot. They were there, honest! Finally, after a couple of dozen very nice pictures of water, I finally caught something resembling a dolphin:

If you look just to the left of the center, you can sorta kinda make out the dorsal part of a dolphin. Let’s just hope it wasn’t a funny-shaped log or something.

In the end, the trip went exactly as expected. We saw lots of Australian wildlife, just as expected. We went out and the dolphins hung out with the boat-cruise-ship-thing, just as expected. The staff and crew were very polite, conversational, and professional, which any person could rightfully expect. We even arrived back in Sydney right at 7pm, fully in line with what they advertised.

What was unexpected, though, was my contempt for such things.

New Zealand had turned me into an adventure junkie, and the thought of paying money (and so much!) for something that didn’t get my adrenaline pumping or test my physical limits was utterly ludicrous. Returning to Sydney, I walked around the city without plan or purpose, and liked it that way. On some level, after so much time not knowing what sort of crazy trip the weekend would bring, or how this half-baked scheme would play out, or even where I was going to be in an hour, I needed my daily dose of the unknown, of schedules made, revised, then tossed aside completely. Watching twilight gather from some nameless bridge while eating dinner, I could only hope that my next day trip would be more to my liking. But Jon Jackson, Adventure Junkie…I kinda liked the ring of that…

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The Land of Oz Part One: The All-Star

November 30th, 2005

On Saturday, November 5, I packed the last few items in my bags (meaning I crammed them in with force and prayed for the best), wolfed down my now-standard breakfast of buttered toast and milk, and set out for Australia. I have a friend studying for a semester in Sydney, so my last week abroad seemed a perfect time to visit her. Over the next few posts, I’ll recount my adventures, some in narrative, some factual reporting, but in all I include actual prices, converted to US dollars, in case any of you are thinking of planning a trip to New South Wales.

The flight went by without much incident, until I arrived in Sydney and stood in line for an hour and a half to be wearily informed that my luggage was missing, last location unknown. I wasn’t too fussed, but eagerly accepted the overnight bag they gave me in apology.

I walked out of the terminal, gave my friend a huge hug, and set off into the twilight, destination adventure. By the light of ten thousand bulbs, I was introduced to Darling Harbour and immediately put the place on my mental list of Top Ten Places that Jon Likes a Lot. We ate dinner on the harbour, and chatted while we ate dinner overlooking the harbour, parting ways not long after. I checked in to the Wake Up! Hostel in Central Sydney (great accommodation, by the way; though I was in a room with nine other people, there’s plenty of space, very clean, an incredibly friendly and helpful staff, an enormous kitchen, a TV lounge, good location in the city, not too expensive by any means, all in addition to a very popular bar in the basement. Perfect for the 18-30 crowd), and upon meeting my new roommates, I was, unfathomably, dubbed Texas Pete by a couple of the British guys. Apparently there was some cartoon show with a discarded teddy bear given special powers, and the leader of the bad guys was my namesake. However, I digress. Not long after I took a bit more flak for being from the same state and country as our president (it’s something I’ve dealt with during my entire abroad experience), I headed to bed.

Sunday I was an all-star, to be humble about my accomplishments. I did the Harbour Bridge Climb (nice, but a bit overpriced at around US$140, I think), the Sydney Opera House tour (fairly interesting), walked along Manly Beach twice (beautiful and free), wandered around The Rocks (lots of shopping there) and Circular Quay (I always pronounce it wrong, but the place is nice), went to the top of the Sydney Tower (decent views of the city) and saw a show called OzTrek (more for young children, but still mildly entertaining), and finishing off the day with a visit to the Sydney Aquarium (very cool, but I recommend going during the day—US$34 as a combination package with the Sydney Tower) and another walk around Darling Harbour. Feeling like a champion, the day absolutely gorgeous, I returned to Wake Up! and promptly fell asleep.

Pics from Day 1:

In terms of getting around, the Information Centres in the city are a must for booking trips and seeing what’s available. They try to push the Sydney and/or Bondi Explorer packages for travelling around, but I recommend purchasing a TravelPass. Whereas the Explorer packages can run up to US$28a day, the TravelPass gets you all around central and a large portion of greater Sydney for US$32, which lasts a week, and if you traveled around by bus, train, and ferry as much as I did, it’s a fantastic deal.

The second and third days didn’t go nearly as smoothly as that first golden day, as many of the events I tried to see were cancelled, closed, or poorly planned on my part, and my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants decision-making process crashed down around my ears. I was able to see the Chinese Friendship Garden (very quiet and peaceful; probably the best place to go if you’re feeling a bit stressed), a bit of the Sydney Olympic Park, Bondi Beach (they have a sculpture exhibit this time every year, and it’s amazing, particularly with a backdrop of sand and sea), the Taronga Zoo (not a patch on San Diego or any of the super-huge zoos, but not half bad in its own right), and spent a lot of time wandering aimlessly around Circular Quay and Darling Harbour, falling more deeply in love with the city with every meandering circuit, causing me to be late to nearly every meeting with my friend, but that was all right—though Sydney may not be as laid back as the rest of the country (as well as New Zealand), the ideal of a leisurely pace still pervaded the city, and I took full advantage.

Pics from Days 2 & 3:

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Leavetakings

November 11th, 2005

I lay panting over my stuffed suitcase for a moment, the quiet euphoria of having shoved five months’ worth of life into a couple of bags coursing through me. The curtain over my window was drawn, as night had long since settled, even at this time of year when the sun traced lazily across the sky. Ahead of me, one last examination from the much-lamented New Zealand Lit, followed by sweet, unabated freedom. Behind me…

When the goodbyes first began in late October with the Arcadia farewell dinner, I felt ridiculous. It was a fantastic event, our program director Jane treating us all to one of Dunedin’s swankier restaurants, Bell Pepper Blues. It was an evening of much storytelling and laughter, camaraderie and recollection. There were still three whole weeks left before I left New Zealand; surely it was much too soon to make grand speeches and reminisce over fond memories. Surely it was much too soon to exchange contact information for keeping in touch. Surely it was much too soon to utter that most permanent of parting phrases, “Goodbye.” And while the feeling was too subtle to articulate even in thought, I felt a faint stab of irritation when someone started in about going back home. We still had ages yet!

With one week left, I chided myself for thinking that I ought to start packing. There was still so much left to do, and a week really wasn’t that short a time, after all…

Now, with just over twenty-four hours left, I stare around at my bare walls and empty closet. Goodbye presents have been exchanged with the flatmates, in addition to a week of fantastic dinners in honor of the imminent break-up of 10c Moat. I have triumphed in my wrestling match with my luggage, which now sits behind me, overstuffed and defeated. My plans for a week in Sydney have been finalized, paid for, and triple-checked. Yet I still cannot wrap my head around the fact that I will very soon be leaving all this behind, returning long enough to pick up a bag and head out again. That’s the reality, but it is not quite real to me yet.

I suppose it all seems so sudden; one moment I’m in late August, bored out of my skull because I’ve spent four solid weeks in Dunedin, and much to my surprise, calendars everywhere have turned to November, and my time here has dwindled to nothing. I think that’s what it is more than anything, surprise. It’s not sadness or reluctance, though those feelings are there in small measure. I have spent my time well here, and indeed, a growing part of me is excited about the next adventure. However, I think that tomorrow tends to look a long way away when you’re living in the moment, and anything further than that just a wisp of a dream.

Nevertheless, it’s time to go. “I will” has become “I have” in a lot of respects, but not so many that nothing is left to be done. The horror of self-complacency has faded to an ancient nightmare for me, and if nothing else, my study abroad journey has been worth every ounce of effort for that.

All that aside, I’m not disappearing from MindSay just yet, and I invite you to keep coming back. Although my final day has drawn nigh, I still have much I wish to share with you, including a full report on Australia and the stereotypically reflective re-entry posts, but also some additional adventures and insights that I haven’t yet had a chance to write about. Thank you all for your awe-inspiring support so far, and I will continue to do my best for as long as I’m around.

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The Arcadia Farewell Dinner at Bell Pepper Blues. In black is Jane, Arcadia New Zealand’s program director, smiling as always, surrounded by her adoring posse, the Arcadia Otago group, or “Otago-possums,” as Jane likes to call us.

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Adam and Jamie pose for a picture at the farewell dinner.

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I dare you to say no to a dessert like this. I double-dog-dare you.

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The Rail Trail

November 9th, 2005

The day after the trip to Oreti Plains, Dan planned a trip for himself, Marco, Hayley, and me to bike the Central Otago Rail Trail, a former railroad that has been converted into a walking/riding track. It didn’t sound too bad at first, and as you can see from the picture below, I was confident in my abilities to dominate the trail.

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Of course, I wasn’t entirely certain of what I was getting myself into. 150 kilometers (90 miles) in two days? Cake walk. And no hills? Even better. As we rode our rented bikes onto the trail and started our Tour de Central Otago, I marvelled at the beautiful landscape, and sincerely remarked to Dan that this was a great idea.

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A couple of the first pictures of the trail, masterfully taken while I was riding my bicycle. But a few kilometres in, I realized that I was falling further and further behind the others. Initially, I attributed this to my incessant picture-taking, but by the time we took our first break at 25 kilometres, I could hide behind my photos no longer, and lagged several minutes behind Dan, Hayley, and Marco, supremely convinced that there was no way on this earth I could finish the remaining 5/6 of the trail. Not a chance.

Sometime during the break, a powerful stubbornness took hold of me, and I set out once again, jutting out my jaw with the effort of trying to remain on my bike. Five kilometres later, I gave in to the unbelievable agony attributable to, of all things, the bicycle seat, and inventing new swear words to describe my discomfort (“Groxer!”), I had to walk for some time before frustration overwhelmed pain, and I hopped on the bike once again. Thus began my ignominious battle with the accursed bicycle, and I spent much of the first day following the riding-walking-riding loop, occasionally joined by Hayley, who was a welcome companion. Dan and Marco were far ahead of us as the sun finally waned and set as Hayley and I took our leave of the last stop before ending the day in Wedderburn, some 80 kilometres from Clyde, the starting point.

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Night crept up on Hayley and me, the darkness enveloping us for good around 9:30 pm. I switched on the head lamp that Dan had lent me at the last rest stop, silently thanking him for his foresight.

Hayley and I walked and walked and walked, totally unable to ride more than a kilometre at a time. However, soon enough we passed a sign, and our joy was unbounded:

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The entire day had been a very gradual uphill journey from around 200m to 600m, and the sign that Hayley is shown hugging told us that we were at the highest point of the track – in other words, it was all downhill from here. That’s when things got interesting.

The ebony night around us meant we could scarcely tell cliff from trail, so I switched Dan’s headlight up a couple of notches, and it was agreed that we would resume our cycling, with Hayley keeping close behind me. The wind whistled in my ears as I fumbled with the light—which was clearly not designed for nocturnal biking—alert for any gasps or yells indicating that our beloved Kiwi had taken a rather nasty turn off the side of the trail.

Suddenly, car headlights blazed in front of me, and like so many times in New Zealand, my surprise caused me to do absolutely nothing except what I was currently doing, which was pedalling as fast as I could toward the car that was precisely where no car should be. It transpired that Dan and Marco had gotten worried about us, and the hostel owner had taken them out along the trail to find us, to Hayley’s and my mortified embarrassment. The two of us insisted on completing the trail, all traces of fatigue washed away, the demystified car following behind us, illuminating our path.

The rest of the night was uneventful, us chatting with the tavern/hostel owner (which was amazing, by the way—exemplary service, facilities, and food for about US$22) and the four of us fell asleep in a wonderfully cozy mud-brick cottage.

Day Two was much less eventful, except for my renewed determination (read: stubbornness) to stay in sight of Dan and Marco. I had found a solution to my woeful bottom blues, and rode my bicycle standing up for the entire day, which I consider a personal feat, though nothing compared to the torment of those few times when I sat down on that merciless bike seat.

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You don’t even need to ask who the Coolest Flatmate is. This picture says it all, from my rolled-up shorts to my hiking boots.

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The four of us managed to stay reasonably closer together over the course of the day, though Dan and Marco zoomed ahead a few times. When I pulled into the town of Middlemarch, marking the end of the trail, to thunderous applause from Dan and Marco, it was with a definite sense of pride. I had done precisely that which I was so sure, only a day before, was impossible for me. And there’s nothing to boost your morale like achieving the impossible.

After that, it was a cake walk. We returned our bikes to the designated area, hopped on a bus, and took a pleasant train ride back to Dunedin, ending up at the Railway station, precisely where we had started. The four of us hobbled home, chatting animatedly about such things as Strong Bad, and poking fun at any cyclist who was unfortunate enough to cross our path. We had done it, and in my mind at least, we were legends.

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Final count: 157.43 kilometres (94.4 miles) in one day and four hours. Oh yeah.

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Oreti Plains

November 7th, 2005

New Zealand, it can safely be said, is full of sheep. Lots and lots of sheep. There’s as many as fourteen sheep to every one of New Zealand’s four million inhabitants, and when you work out the math, it’s still a lot of sheep. This means that odds are good for meeting a Kiwi who either currently lives on or was raised on a sheep farm. Luckily for us at 10c Moat, our token New Zealander Hayley fit just such a bill, and after much whining and tantrum-throwing on my part, she arranged a visit to her hometown of Oreti Plains, which is about as mind-bogglingly massive in size as Ben Wheeler, Texas. So last Saturday, while the weather tried to make up its mind what it wanted to do, Carsten and Christa graciously transported us three hours south in their “new” van.

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Dan and Hayley pose for a picture, but don’t let their smiles fool you (or Dan’s attempt to seem like he was from anywhere but the mean streets of Williams College, for that matter). The van trip proved quite hazardous to Dan, who was hosed down with water bottles for the cardinal sin of falling asleep in the company of people who were perfectly comfortable doing something quite cruel to him. I had no part in it. Honest. Anyways, several hours and several laughs later, we pulled onto a dusty gravel road, and finally, in front of the place that Hayley calls home. We were greeted by her father, who epitomizes almost everything I expected a sheep farmer to be, rounded out with a razor-sharp wit that showed the rest of us precisely from where Hayley gets her sense of humor.

Before long, we were feeding some orphaned lambs, which I thought was pretty cool, but at the same time, I could understand how it might get old, having to do it three or four times a day, in addition to other farming duties.

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Christa went into transports of delight at the sight of the one- to three-week old lambs, and was positively elated at the prospect of holding one. Lambing season has just ended here in New Zealand, which means that there are a lot of these tiny little guys running around at the moment.

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Dan was unsure while holding his lamb, but the lamb must have been equally confused, as it tried to suckle Dan while he was holding it. His right (our left) pocket flap is still damp in this picture with the lamb’s futile attempts to feed.

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Hey, what can I say? The lambs are cute, or adorable, or whatever other word I find incredibly awkward to use. They were very friendly towards us, and once they had all gotten their fill, Mr. Baird showed us his current side hobby.

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He’s building his very own airplane. Here is the main body, with the wings already assembled in another shed. If you look in the corner of this shed, you can see a wooden board with some of the 974 packets (packets, not pieces) that will go into completing his project, which he’s been working on for nearly a year. While Hayley and her brother had heard it all before, and likely several dozen times, Marco, Dan, and I were deeply impressed, and I hope that he’s able to take to the skies soon. Following that, the residents of 10c Moat joined the residents of the Baird farm and had a fantastic lunch, which was (ahem) lamb. I know, I know, but it was just too delicious to turn down.

After lunch we took a grand tour of the farm, in which Mr. Baird showed us some of his more than 3000 sheep and lambs, as well as his crops. When we arrived at the “hill” on their land, Hayley reminisced about rolling down the hill with her siblings in times past, until Marco challenged me to a rolling-down-the-hill competition. Unfortunately, the entire event is on camera, but suffice it to say that Marco rolled right into a concrete post while I was stabbed with a thousand tiny needles from a thorn patch that happened to be in my parabolic path.

We toured the farm, peppering Mr. Baird with questions about farm life in New Zealand, and he answered them all with the comfortable ease of someone who has spent his life working on a farm, and had gotten quite good with his work. All save Hayley were as awed as we could have hoped for when anticipating the trip, and we saw how much the country really relies on sheep and agriculture as primary exports, even how the Baird farm interacts on a regional scale, trading with Asian countries as part of a collective of farmers. All in all, it was a brilliant day, in which I was able to see what some call the real New Zealand.

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This picture was taken purely for reasons of amusement. I snapped the picture at a rest stop—honestly, who wouldn’t want to be Bruce, the King of Woollens?

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Nightlife in Aotearoa

November 2nd, 2005

Dunedin has always been advertised as one of those “student towns.” Now, I’ve never been entirely sure what this term meant. Did it mean that students just ran the town ragged during the school year, or that the city and the university worked closely together? Something else entirely? After some thought, some more thought, and a bit of toast, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s a mixture of both.

Dunners, as the city is known to locals, boasts students as nearly 20% of the city’s population. This implies several things. First, during the summer break (November to February) and winter break (June to July), the town is desolate, and during the first weeks of this period, there is no nightlife to speak of, the city slumbering by 10 pm. Of course, as the break trudges on, the locals tend to take over some of the usual student spots.

During the year, though, life in Dunedin couldn’t be more different. Big nights to go out are often Thursday and Saturday. I have heard theories as to why Friday night isn’t as popular, the most plausible being the fact that many would-be partiers have rugby games early on Saturday morning, and thus have no desire to have their two loves interfere with one another. Other explanations are that many students spend Friday recovering from Thursday and preparing for Saturday, which is likely, given that the drinking age is 18 and not a few have yet to learn that elusive technique called moderation.

A few bars, clubs, and lounges in town have capitalized on other days of the week to draw a select crowd. Mondays are for the Arc Café, in which you can hear live music of the chill variety. Tuesdays, people go to Bath Street for reggae; Wednesdays, it’s to Refuel, the on-campus pub, for rock. Thursdays and Saturdays are a free-for-all, no-holds-barred, battle royale, though the Robert Burns Pub has a live jazz quartet every Thursday that you would swear contained Louis Armstrong.

The bastion for most students is The Captain Cook, an old, but well-maintained establishment steeped in tradition and history. From there, easily over a dozen hangouts can be found within a twenty-minute walk, and, given that there are nearly 20,000 students on the prowl, all are likely to be packed.

I have found bar-hopping to be a crucial pastime of New Zealand culture. Initially, I was turned-off to the idea, mainly because I don’t drink (no particular reason, I just don’t care for the taste of alcoholic beverages, to be honest), but after accompanying my flatmates, and later, my friends, out for nights on the town, I discovered anew my penchant for dancing, just how awesome it is not be charged cover at nearly every establishment, the “cool twentysomething” feeling of having an intellectual conversation with a stranger in a lounge, the solidarity of a bar’s attendants at a rugby game, suddenly recognizing a familiar face where before all was muddy unfamiliarity, and innumerable other insights and feelings too firmly rooted in emotion to give a name.

Truly, the Dunners nightlife leaves nothing to be desired. Though I usually go out once a week—occasionally twice—every night something unique can be found, all within a small town of a little over 100,000.

And the nights roll on…

Image hosted by Photobucket.com One of my goals for this semester was to attend a party in which I was one of a few people who spoke English as a first language. Christa snapped this picture at a flat party (same thing as a house party) not too long ago, restoring my faith in my ability to accomplish what I set out to do.

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Music in Aotearoa

October 28th, 2005

I’ll be honest with you. I never expected a country the size of Colorado to have any sort of real, local music scene. Though I never consciously expressed it, I anticipated music to largely come from countries more readily adapted to a global market, i.e. the UK, the US, Australia, et cetera. But the music scene is utterly amazing. Utterly amazing. Let’s break things down, though.

As anyone who knows me is well aware, music is one of the biggest motive forces in my life. I’m not picky in my tastes (‘cept for that boot-scootin’ boogie, of course), so that made it much easier to be receptive to new types of music. New Zealand seems to specialize in what I’d like to call the R-Trifecta of music: rock, rap, and reggae. Of course, there are many very worthy bands, groups, and artists worthy of mention in other genres, but for now, New Zealand music seems to be making waves in these three areas. In the area of rock, the best place to go is the local bar or club, and see who’s playing. As often as not, nationally-recognized bands share the stage with the garage band from down the street. And as often as not, both will be very talented. I have never developed expertise in rock music, but it’s not difficult to segregate random clatter from synchronous, aural delight. Thus far, my favourite band is a lesser known one called Gestalt Switch, who aren’t too hard, and have a discernible melody. Also check out The Gladeyes and Elemeno P (get it?).

Rap music largely follows the same lyrical patterns you’ll find anywhere with talks of women, money, cars, the crew and the crib. However, a few gems stand out like P-Money, Savage, and Dei Hamo. These guys aren’t cut out from the world music scene, and have collaborated with dozens of different rappers from across the country and across the sea, the most notable that comes to mind is the seemingly ubiquitous Akon. For your perusal pleasure, I recommend anything by P-Money, Savage’s “Moonshine” featuring Akon (it’s ridiculous, but unbelievably catchy), and “We Gon Ride” by Dei Hamo, which won Best Video at this year’s New Zealand Music Awards (don’t ask, I still don’t understand how it won).

Reggae has found a place in my heart as I’ve come to New Zealand, as well as it’s sister genre, called dub. In case you’re like me and have never heard of dub, it’s got a slightly different rhythmic feel than reggae, but is still very mellow, and is great to have in the background at chill parties. The juggernaut for this category is the big winner at the New Zealand Music Awards show, Fat Freddy’s Drop. Despite being over nine minutes long, I can’t get enough of their song “Wandering Eye.” (Random trivia fact: The much-shorter music video features a cameo from New Zealand’s most prominent news team, showing how blurred the lines get here.) Not to be forgotten is the also-talented Katchafire. I find their music great for that winding down, after-sunset type of mood that you can’t ever find the right music for.

Other groups and artists worth checking out are The Black Seeds, Bic Runga, and Pluto. At least, that’s all I’ve experienced so far. I’m certain that this list is by no means exhaustive; however, for any budding music enthusiasts out there, I hope I’ve given you a bit of a start. I’m not sure about Gestalt Switch, but the other groups are on various labels, so you should be able to find them through iTunes or CDNow or related sites. And hey, if you’ve got any additional suggestions, send them my way; I’d love to check them out.

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Labour Day

October 26th, 2005

After a disappointing week in which I was forced to turn down three separate opportunities to see Milford Sound (the place to go if you’re ever on a short trip to New Zealand; less touristy and more beautiful is relatively nearby Doubtful Sound), faced the first of my final exam hurdles, and spent the weekend more sick than I can ever remember being, I woke to a quiet Monday and decided not to get up.

I have a few rules when it comes to not getting up, the first of which is that if I’m not wearing my glasses, it doesn’t count as “up,” and I can return to bed guilt-free. This usually results in me stumbling around the flat/dorm/house in a manner that ends in pain for me and hilarity for any observers.

On this day though, there were no observers, and my vision was good enough for me to note that the sky was that kind of blue that made you stop and think about it. I picked up and powered on my laptop with the guilty pleasure that I hadn’t gone near it for several days.

Ah, the beauty of that rare Monday that is part of a three-day weekend. Monday marked the Labour Holiday in New Zealand, which is akin to the US Labor Day in original meaning and Memorial Day in connotation. It means that summer, at last, has arrived. The days have lengthened an absurd amount since the equinox, the sun now lingering until after eight in the evening. Nights no longer dip below or even near the freezing mark, and while this is a signal for many to stop using their heaters, Dunedin hasn’t quite become warm enough for some of us.

Spring in New Zealand is something that must be seen to be believed. From my vantage point on the South Island, any direction vaguely east paints a dark strip of blue that is the Pacific. Invitations to backyard barbecues and potluck dinners are now a weekly occurrence. Talks of surfing, while never quelled during the winter, have now reached the lips of people I could never imagine picking up the sport, for example, me. I also live right next to Dunedin’s Botanical Gardens, so while any sunny day merits a jaunt through the native flora of New Zealand, the United Kingdom, North America, and even Africa, today seemed especially right to do so. I looked around my room with the somewhat sobering thought that I must begin the packing process in the next couple of days—locating half-forgotten rebel socks lurking in the seedy underbelly of the laundry room and whatnot—and headed out of doors, determined for now not to think on such things.

I spent the day doing anything, everything, and nothing. My Labour Day was fairly quiet, without any of that strenuous studying for finals and the like, which is what I believe the day is for in the first place, right? The day done, I settled down to study for my final the following morning. (Disclaimer: Mom, I promise this is not standard procedure for my tertiary education) Yes, it is a tough job, embracing the culture at all costs, but never let it be said that Jon Jackson was derelict in his duty to learning about this Land of the Long White Cloud.

Meanwhile, just to update you on the other flatties: Christa and Carsten bought a van and disappeared for ten days, and have only just returned from a jaunt all over the South Island. Marco and Dan did the Milford Track, the photos from which look amazing, and Marco’s still out on the West Coast doing some deep-sea fishing with friends. Hayley’s kept close to 10c over the last few days, but hopefully that will all change when she, Dan, and I head out to bike the Otago Rail Trail in a couple of days!

As everywhere, spring means new beginnings, and since I’ve been chronicling the beautiful budding flowers of New Zealand, I thought now might be an ideal time to share a few of them.

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A Cultural Experience for New Zealand

October 24th, 2005

One Saturday afternoon, the sound of drumming woke me from my half-nap in the Central Library. I had just laid my head down for a moment, honest, and then I was going to get right on that lab report. At first, I dismissed the noise as music from my headphones, and switched off my computer’s iTunes. Since I really didn’t get to lay my head down for that first moment…just one more minute…that’s all…

The drums spoke again, and this time, mine was not the only head that turned back and forth in consternation. This was the sound of tribal drums, not one of the university’s many amateur rock bands. A large portion of the library blocked my view of the street below. All vestiges of sleepiness gone, I hit up the City of Dunedin website (www.cityofdunedin.com), checked out the online calendar of events and saw…whoa….

Less than five minutes later, I was standing outside across the street, in front of the Otago Museum, camera in hand, my head bobbing irresistibly to the beat of Japanese drummers.

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I didn’t really need to work on that lab report, anyway. This was much more interesting. It was the opening of the Otago Museum’s latest exhibit, Kimono: A Japanese Story, celebrating Japanese history and culture. All too soon, however, the sound of the drums faded, but were almost instantly replaced by this:

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Two black belts squaring off just behind where we stood. They spun, flew, and showed us the basics, from how to fall properly to how to turn an opponent’s punch against him. Almost instantly, we heard chants of “Ichi! Ni! San! Shi! Go! Roku!” and on through the basic Japanese counting system, and half the audience (including myself) turned to see this:

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I have no idea what this is called, so I would appreciate any enlightenment that y’all could send my way. They were using a rod made of wooden strips, and would occasionally whack each other over the head. They yelled, leapt, and dodged, much to everyone’s delight. I found myself entirely caught up, and silently cheering them on, first one, then the other. Before I had given up on learning foreign languages, I had taken a semester of Japanese when I first started college, with the intention of studying in Japan for a year. The subsequent debacle that was JAPA 101 successfully changed my mind, though. But now, unbidden, half-forgotten phrases rose to my consciousness, and my love for all things Japan swelled. It was at this point that I noticed an elderly Japanese man standing next to me. He smiled, and for a wild instant, I was tempted to say, “Konbanwa, ojii-san,” which is just a simple greeting for elderly men. But then I realized that after asking how he was doing, and introducing myself, all I would be able to do is smile, and say, “I’m from Texas.” In English. So with an internal sigh, I turned from him after returning the smile, and vowed to learn Japanese if it was the last thing I ever did.

The day was growing late. Other matters of business drew nigh, of which I could not simply blow off. As if sensing my mood the events wound down with a demonstration of the samurai sword.

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Once again, I am not sure it was the samurai sword, but the blade was curved and stuff, so please correct me if I’m wrong.

Although the thought of Japanese cultural demonstrations in New Zealand is not as strange as, say, Japanese cultural demonstrations in Ben Wheeler, Texas, it still united for me two distinct worlds which I had never thought to associate. The world is full of interactions I had never dreamed about, not for any reason except I simply hadn’t given it any thought. My worldview corrected, I grinned, and walked off into the sunset.

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I must apologize to Hayley for neglecting to put a picture of her up all this time. At any rate, that’s Hayley on the left, if you couldn’t tell, looking as mischievous as ever. On the right is Dan, who shaved his head the day after I got a haircut because he just couldn’t stand how mind-bogglingly awesome I looked.

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The Beginnings of Complacency?

October 21st, 2005

When I first arrived in New Zealand, I marvelled at how everyone in the country was able to go about their day-to-day business without being distracted by how beautiful the country was. Surely the people of the land could not possibly be used to such astounding beauty? Though that was clearly the case, I refused to believe it as I tramped through the Catlins, drank in the alpine splendour of Queenstown, and stood on the mountains of the Kepler and Routeburn tracks.

However, it appears that the first signs of acclimatization are showing. Last weekend, I went on a trip to the Taieri Gorge region, which is close to Dunedin. The trip was organized through the University of Otago’s Recreation Services office, and though it was a wonderful way to spend part of a day, I found myself restless in the absence of challenges, the lack of staggering, snow-capped peaks, the dearth of sweeping valleys.

The trip was simple enough—a short trip outside town, a jetboat ride, followed by a bit of hiking. In the end, all three activities took less than twenty minutes apiece, and though I chatted animatedly with the other participants (half of whom were American; honestly, we’re everywhere), I couldn’t help but be horrified at the knot of disappointment growing somewhere in the region of my pancreas. Three months before, something like this would excite me to no end, which just goes to show you that even in the midst of beauty, one can get complacent.

Of course, this may be because I’ve spent nearly four months staring at the native bush that’s around the Dunedin area. But in the few days since then, the weather has been perfect, deep warmth at last adjoining the sunny days. Some things never get old, like watching the sunrise in the mornings, the electric blue of a cloudless sky, the sight of the Pacific Ocean from a hilltop. I think that this latest revelation has shown me that a semester of study—however short it may seem—is perfect for me. The feeling of disappointment last Saturday makes me think that at last, I’ve become settled into my life here in Dunedin as well as New Zealand. Luckily, this does not mean that I’m stuck in a routine, but rather that I am familiar enough with my surroundings to feel at home, and do some additional exploring which I would not have felt comfortable doing previously. I suppose that there’s always two sides to every emotion, and the beginnings of complacency hint at the beginnings of home. Though this feeling won’t last long, it’s still a comfort to know that finally, I can call Dunedin “home.”

And now, pictures of the place that sparked so much introspection:

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