Friday 16th April 2010, 11.30am, Robinson Crusoe Island
We're still living on Robinson Crusoe Island, still sunbathing and reading and sleeping like it's going out of fashion. We do go kayaking though, and snorkeling, ahh yes, snorkeling. We went out on the boat yesterday about 20 minutes from the island to some deeper coral reefs and I almost had a heart attack when, peacefully swimming along, a member of our group spotted a couple of rather large reef sharks skimming through the water below us. I believe I have previously mentioned my hatred of these creatures but I don't believe anyone understands quite how much they bother me. On the discovery that I was a mere 4ft above them and in their territory I began to uncontrollably shake and cry, and very nearly vomited. Ella was the most helpful, simply saying, "Keep your head out the water Grace, it's nearly over, I'll tell you when they're gone." Everyone else was quick to try and calm me down by offering platitudes such as "Reef sharks won't hurt you Grace, they're harmless!" and all wore confused expressions that suggested they were frustrated by my overreaction.
This is how I know that people do not understand. The knowing that these sharks weren't about to eat me does not make a blind bit of difference to the fear and physical symptoms of panic I feel upon seeing them. That's the point about phobias, they are not rational reactions, they are visceral manifestations of a feeling we can't control and telling someone who is mortally terrified of sharks to "chill out" whilst she's in the water with them is about as useful as telling someone having an asthma attack to "just breathe". Will the cartoon sharks in Finding Nemo jump out of the TV and bite me? No. But can I bring myself to come out from behind a pillow and watch that bit of the film? No I cannot. Do I know that there are no sharks in the swimming pool at my gym? Yes I do. But if I think about them when swimming does my heart beat out of my chest and my breathing become difficult? Yes it does. Do I realise that my bed is not floating on water and if my arm is hanging over the side there won't be any sharks underneath me to come and chew it off? Yes, I realise this. But will I still pull that arm straight back under the duvet to safety? Yes, yes I will. See, it's nonsense, verging on clinical insanity, not something that can be dissuaded with "chill out". I'm actually rather pleased with the progress I've made; I swim in the sea and jump off boats and go snorkeling without too much thought these days. It's all about small manageable steps, and actually swimming with them is far beyond my definition of manageable.
So I've not gone snorkeling out on the reef today, and some of the other islanders seem to think this makes me a killjoy, and so I quite feel like spending the day by myself. I'm not in the best mood anyway, nothing to do with the island, not the sharks' fault, I'm just feeling rather subdued and contemplative. It doesn't help that I have been jokingly accused today of being 'grumpy' and 'unsociable'. I am aware of the fact that many a true word is said in jest, two can play at that game, so I "jokingly" suggested that yes, I am unsociable today, so why don't you take the hint and leave me alone? Ha ha ha. So that's what I'm doing today, sitting perfectly content at the far end of the beach, only really talking to Ella, and letting everyone else think I'm the most miserable sod on the planet if that's what they want to believe. In the words of my favourite Friends character, I'm finding it very hard to give a tiny rat's ass.
I know I must sound like a cantankerous, curmudgeonly old spoilsport, forgive my moans and groans. It's just that in normal life I'm not a naturally happy-clappy, sunny side of the street kind of a gal. I'm a cynic, an occasional pessimist, I've a sense of humour drier than the Sahara desert, and I don't mind my own company. Near on 5 months of constant excitement and joy needs to occasionally take a break from itself and release me into a state of self willed grumpiness, a 24 hour chance to match the laughter lines with some frown lines. I'll probably read back on this in a few weeks time and scold myself for being such an ungrateful misery guts. Right now though, I'm wallowing in it.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
Blessed With Less
Wednesday 14th April 2010, 2.45pm, Robinson Crusoe Island - Fiji
There's only so many ways I can tell you about a beach, and having calculated earlier today that the one I now occupy is the 24th beach of my travels, I am at real risk of repeating myself. You all know what a beach looks like, well at least you think you know what a beach looks like, that is, until you come to Fiji. We got to Fiji on Monday afternoon, but only properly arrived yesterday when we caught a boat over to Robinson Crusoe Island. It's basic, extremely basic. We're sleeping on wooden bunk beds under moth eaten mosquito nets in a 40 bed dorm, it's a culture of outdoor living, only the bedrooms come with a roof. Sand miraculously works it's way into everything, and seems to inhabit every part of your body and possessions from the moment you step on the island. People don't wear clothes, only swimwear feels appropriate and definitely not with shoes - even battered old flip flops feel too formal here.
You have to carry a torch around with you at night so as not to flatten any of the hermit crabs or cane toads who sit on the dirt paths seemingly waiting to be squashed. Plus, sea snakes come up the beach at night, and you really don't want to be treading on one of those slippery buggars, they're one of the most venomous creatures on earth, one bite and you'd pretty soon be on your way to a great big Fiji in the sky. I saw 4 last night, and screamed every time. The local speciality beverage is Kava, made from pulped plant roots soaked in urns of water. It is drunk cross legged on the floor from wooden bowls, looks and tastes like dirty dishwater, and gives my mouth pins and needles. I have yet to discover the true "herbal properties" of Kava, but from the way my lips went numb I'm guessing it's not an altogether innocent substance. All the hot food is cooked in an underground pit, heated by burning coconut husks.
To take a shower here you must fill a tin bucket with water from the well, detach a watering can from the wall on the shower block, fill up watering can with well water, hoist watering can to appropriate height using a pulley and lever system, turn a tap to open up the flow, and hope that you've got enough time to shampoo and shave your legs before the can empties without you having to run to the water source and start the whole process again whilst covered in suds and wrapped in a towel. I don't think I'll be showering often, too much like hard work in my opinion. But I love all this, this return to simple living, this provision of basic needs in return for an island home in the Pacific Ocean.
It takes 20 minutes to walk round the whole island, it looks like a circular sandy birthday cake with palm trees clustered as the swaying candles in the centre, the icing on said cake being the turquoise sea crowded with coral and reef life. There are a multitude of incredibly friendly staff here who have our names learnt by heart, and besides them, only 4 tourists (including Ella and I) are staying on this island. It is utopic, solitudinal, stranded in paradise beach heaven. Hammocks hang from the trees, a sea breeze blows refreshingly through 35 degree unclouded sunshine, coconut oil massages are on offer 12 hours of the day. Fish is line caught from wooden boats and cooked for you the same night, orchids and frangipanis in salmon pink and scarlet are left on your pillow, cocktails on the tab are pineapple and rum and banana liqueur and taste like the tropics... drinking at lunchtime is perfectly acceptable. Fijian men sit under the trees with their guitars and sing Van Morrison and Al Green melodies with voices like milk and honey, my sarong and my book sit on the flat, white sand and beckon me, and I am powerless to resist them much longer.
We knew nothing about Fiji before we got here, it was typical Grace and Ella "we'll sort something out when we get there" behaviour. Still in truth we know very little other than that it looks like somewhere I might want to go for eternity when I die. We have been handed advice by a few locals who say that to see the Real Fiji you have to go to the islands in the Mamanuca and Yasawa groups out from the West Coast of the mainland. Apparently, once you've seen one island, you've pretty much seen them all, and so we heeded that advice, swiftly left the airport town of Nadi around Tuesday lunchtime, and crossed the water. We're going to spend the next few weeks making temporary homes for ourselves on a few different beaches, taking time to unpack and unwind and enjoy these last days in each others' company. I can't see the unwinding part being a problem for us, we adapt pretty comfortably to beach living these days. I already look like an Asian Stig of the Dump, and earlier on I caught Ella wandering around in a homemade grass skirt and coconut bra like it was the most normal thing in the world. I promise I will try and keep up my writing whilst here, but you know how it is, the less you do, the less you can do. And here my friends, less is most certainly more.
There's only so many ways I can tell you about a beach, and having calculated earlier today that the one I now occupy is the 24th beach of my travels, I am at real risk of repeating myself. You all know what a beach looks like, well at least you think you know what a beach looks like, that is, until you come to Fiji. We got to Fiji on Monday afternoon, but only properly arrived yesterday when we caught a boat over to Robinson Crusoe Island. It's basic, extremely basic. We're sleeping on wooden bunk beds under moth eaten mosquito nets in a 40 bed dorm, it's a culture of outdoor living, only the bedrooms come with a roof. Sand miraculously works it's way into everything, and seems to inhabit every part of your body and possessions from the moment you step on the island. People don't wear clothes, only swimwear feels appropriate and definitely not with shoes - even battered old flip flops feel too formal here.
You have to carry a torch around with you at night so as not to flatten any of the hermit crabs or cane toads who sit on the dirt paths seemingly waiting to be squashed. Plus, sea snakes come up the beach at night, and you really don't want to be treading on one of those slippery buggars, they're one of the most venomous creatures on earth, one bite and you'd pretty soon be on your way to a great big Fiji in the sky. I saw 4 last night, and screamed every time. The local speciality beverage is Kava, made from pulped plant roots soaked in urns of water. It is drunk cross legged on the floor from wooden bowls, looks and tastes like dirty dishwater, and gives my mouth pins and needles. I have yet to discover the true "herbal properties" of Kava, but from the way my lips went numb I'm guessing it's not an altogether innocent substance. All the hot food is cooked in an underground pit, heated by burning coconut husks.
To take a shower here you must fill a tin bucket with water from the well, detach a watering can from the wall on the shower block, fill up watering can with well water, hoist watering can to appropriate height using a pulley and lever system, turn a tap to open up the flow, and hope that you've got enough time to shampoo and shave your legs before the can empties without you having to run to the water source and start the whole process again whilst covered in suds and wrapped in a towel. I don't think I'll be showering often, too much like hard work in my opinion. But I love all this, this return to simple living, this provision of basic needs in return for an island home in the Pacific Ocean.
It takes 20 minutes to walk round the whole island, it looks like a circular sandy birthday cake with palm trees clustered as the swaying candles in the centre, the icing on said cake being the turquoise sea crowded with coral and reef life. There are a multitude of incredibly friendly staff here who have our names learnt by heart, and besides them, only 4 tourists (including Ella and I) are staying on this island. It is utopic, solitudinal, stranded in paradise beach heaven. Hammocks hang from the trees, a sea breeze blows refreshingly through 35 degree unclouded sunshine, coconut oil massages are on offer 12 hours of the day. Fish is line caught from wooden boats and cooked for you the same night, orchids and frangipanis in salmon pink and scarlet are left on your pillow, cocktails on the tab are pineapple and rum and banana liqueur and taste like the tropics... drinking at lunchtime is perfectly acceptable. Fijian men sit under the trees with their guitars and sing Van Morrison and Al Green melodies with voices like milk and honey, my sarong and my book sit on the flat, white sand and beckon me, and I am powerless to resist them much longer.
We knew nothing about Fiji before we got here, it was typical Grace and Ella "we'll sort something out when we get there" behaviour. Still in truth we know very little other than that it looks like somewhere I might want to go for eternity when I die. We have been handed advice by a few locals who say that to see the Real Fiji you have to go to the islands in the Mamanuca and Yasawa groups out from the West Coast of the mainland. Apparently, once you've seen one island, you've pretty much seen them all, and so we heeded that advice, swiftly left the airport town of Nadi around Tuesday lunchtime, and crossed the water. We're going to spend the next few weeks making temporary homes for ourselves on a few different beaches, taking time to unpack and unwind and enjoy these last days in each others' company. I can't see the unwinding part being a problem for us, we adapt pretty comfortably to beach living these days. I already look like an Asian Stig of the Dump, and earlier on I caught Ella wandering around in a homemade grass skirt and coconut bra like it was the most normal thing in the world. I promise I will try and keep up my writing whilst here, but you know how it is, the less you do, the less you can do. And here my friends, less is most certainly more.
Friday, 23 April 2010
A List's Completion
Sunday 11th April 2010, 10.55pm, ACB Hostel - Auckland
Auckland is our last port of call, this sprawling and commanding urban jungle that houses over a quarter of New Zealand's population and is a subject of derision and callous mocking for the other three quarters. Everywhere we've been, non-Auckland inhabiting Kiwis have been merciless and unforgiving in their despising of the country's significantly largest city, criticising the suit-wearing, Latte-drinking, soft top-driving culture of Yuppies that is evidently so detestable to the hardier country folk that live everywhere else.
It's a more exaggerated version of England's North/South divide, Auckland being the commercial and capitalist beast, the rest of the country defensively proud of their rural roots. Aucklanders are referred to as JAFAS, which stands for (excuse my French) Just Another Fucking Aucklander, their abundance in numbers has earned them quite the unfortunate nickname. On the way back down from Paihia on Friday afternoon, our driver announced to the bus, 'OK folks, the good news is that we're making quick time and should be at our destination in under 3 hours, the bad news is that this destination is Auckland'. The teasing and slander are endless.
I feel a little sorry for Auckland and it's unwarranted reputation. It's a massive city, and comes with all the chaos and mess and noise and rat-race freneticism that should be expected of a fully functioning business and residential hub. What are they all griping about?! Sure it's not beautiful, there's not a mountain behind every McDonalds, public transport sucks, people don't wave to you from their cars, there are more humans here than possums or sheep, and no one's asking if you want to go white water rafting, but it's a city for god's sake! The people who live here like cities and are slaving away at jobs in investment, insurance, retail, banking, tourism, that are undoubtedly contributing more than their fair share to the whole country's economy, not everyone can be a sheep farmer! Everyone else should quit their bitching in my opinion. But then, maybe I'd feel differently about this battle between country and city if I were a Northerner, rather than the evil Southern monster of a Londoner that I am.
Despite all the warnings from the bitter country Kiwis, Ella and I have had a really good time here. A couple of lazy days of shopping and coffee shop lounging were punctuated yesterday afternoon by going to see a rugby match, the Auckland Blues versus the South African Stormers, and marked the completion of my New Zealand 'To Do' list. Do you remember my mentioning of this list? An agenda of activities that I hoped to tick off whilst here? Well I've done all of them:
- Sky Diving
- Glacier Hiking
- Find Blanket Man
- Rugby Match
- Learn about Maori Heritage
- Wine Tasting
- See a Possum
- White Water Rafting
- Something Lord of the Rings related*
- Caving
- Jetboating
- Try a Fergburger**
Oh boy it's satisfying to finish a list, it might actually be the first time I ever have, usually I become frustrated at their incompletion, throw them away, and pretend they weren't things I really needed to do anyway. (My apologies now to any former colleagues of mine who were left with a myriad of Health and Safety tasks to complete after my resignation. I swear I always meant to sort out the fire hazards and fix the broken window locks, it just never seemed pressing, or interesting. If of course you have had a burglary or the office has burnt down since my departure, let me extend these apologies, and simultaneously accept no culpability for afore-mentioned mishaps). The rugby match was a thoroughly enjoyable way to round off list proceedings, and a prime opportunity to drink beer, shout a bit, and ogle what have to be some of the finest male specimens ever created; I was quite regretful afterwards not to have taken a banner with my phone number on.
But as ever, more surprises were ready to bestow themselves upon us even after we thought we had finished New Zealand. This evening we went for dinner with our friends Mitch and Bert, two native Aucklanders who we had met and spent Christmas with in Cambodia. We reminisced about our days on the beaches of South East Asia, laughed at Bert's performance on Christmas Day which earns him the accolade of Drunkest Person I Have Ever Seen, drove up to the top of a hill where we could view the whole city glittering and humming away in the evening darkness, and expressed our hopes for the next few months of our lives over ice cream sundaes by the sea. It was so wonderful to see them and to have some local tour guides, if you're ever in London fellas, mi casa es tu casa.
Tomorrow, Ella and I fly to Fiji to begin the last stage of our journey together, one chapter ends and the final one must begin. It is with heavy hearts that we will wave off this time, this country where I did everything I set out to do, and so much more besides. New Zealand has been the gift that kept on giving, and if I could, I would give it to all of you. As ever, I just hope that in some small way my writing of it has brought it to you, that you were given it in fragments of my worded joy before you come here for yourself, and see that I never once over sold what a magnificent place the last place on Earth really is.
*Not to boast, but I feel I excelled myself with this 'to do'.
**Infamous New Zealand fastfood joint in Queenstown, and easily the best burger that has ever graced my lips. Ella had 4 Fergburgers in 3 days. Yes, she's always hungry, but they really are that good.
Auckland is our last port of call, this sprawling and commanding urban jungle that houses over a quarter of New Zealand's population and is a subject of derision and callous mocking for the other three quarters. Everywhere we've been, non-Auckland inhabiting Kiwis have been merciless and unforgiving in their despising of the country's significantly largest city, criticising the suit-wearing, Latte-drinking, soft top-driving culture of Yuppies that is evidently so detestable to the hardier country folk that live everywhere else.
It's a more exaggerated version of England's North/South divide, Auckland being the commercial and capitalist beast, the rest of the country defensively proud of their rural roots. Aucklanders are referred to as JAFAS, which stands for (excuse my French) Just Another Fucking Aucklander, their abundance in numbers has earned them quite the unfortunate nickname. On the way back down from Paihia on Friday afternoon, our driver announced to the bus, 'OK folks, the good news is that we're making quick time and should be at our destination in under 3 hours, the bad news is that this destination is Auckland'. The teasing and slander are endless.
I feel a little sorry for Auckland and it's unwarranted reputation. It's a massive city, and comes with all the chaos and mess and noise and rat-race freneticism that should be expected of a fully functioning business and residential hub. What are they all griping about?! Sure it's not beautiful, there's not a mountain behind every McDonalds, public transport sucks, people don't wave to you from their cars, there are more humans here than possums or sheep, and no one's asking if you want to go white water rafting, but it's a city for god's sake! The people who live here like cities and are slaving away at jobs in investment, insurance, retail, banking, tourism, that are undoubtedly contributing more than their fair share to the whole country's economy, not everyone can be a sheep farmer! Everyone else should quit their bitching in my opinion. But then, maybe I'd feel differently about this battle between country and city if I were a Northerner, rather than the evil Southern monster of a Londoner that I am.
Despite all the warnings from the bitter country Kiwis, Ella and I have had a really good time here. A couple of lazy days of shopping and coffee shop lounging were punctuated yesterday afternoon by going to see a rugby match, the Auckland Blues versus the South African Stormers, and marked the completion of my New Zealand 'To Do' list. Do you remember my mentioning of this list? An agenda of activities that I hoped to tick off whilst here? Well I've done all of them:
- Sky Diving
- Glacier Hiking
- Find Blanket Man
- Rugby Match
- Learn about Maori Heritage
- Wine Tasting
- See a Possum
- White Water Rafting
- Something Lord of the Rings related*
- Caving
- Jetboating
- Try a Fergburger**
Oh boy it's satisfying to finish a list, it might actually be the first time I ever have, usually I become frustrated at their incompletion, throw them away, and pretend they weren't things I really needed to do anyway. (My apologies now to any former colleagues of mine who were left with a myriad of Health and Safety tasks to complete after my resignation. I swear I always meant to sort out the fire hazards and fix the broken window locks, it just never seemed pressing, or interesting. If of course you have had a burglary or the office has burnt down since my departure, let me extend these apologies, and simultaneously accept no culpability for afore-mentioned mishaps). The rugby match was a thoroughly enjoyable way to round off list proceedings, and a prime opportunity to drink beer, shout a bit, and ogle what have to be some of the finest male specimens ever created; I was quite regretful afterwards not to have taken a banner with my phone number on.
But as ever, more surprises were ready to bestow themselves upon us even after we thought we had finished New Zealand. This evening we went for dinner with our friends Mitch and Bert, two native Aucklanders who we had met and spent Christmas with in Cambodia. We reminisced about our days on the beaches of South East Asia, laughed at Bert's performance on Christmas Day which earns him the accolade of Drunkest Person I Have Ever Seen, drove up to the top of a hill where we could view the whole city glittering and humming away in the evening darkness, and expressed our hopes for the next few months of our lives over ice cream sundaes by the sea. It was so wonderful to see them and to have some local tour guides, if you're ever in London fellas, mi casa es tu casa.
Tomorrow, Ella and I fly to Fiji to begin the last stage of our journey together, one chapter ends and the final one must begin. It is with heavy hearts that we will wave off this time, this country where I did everything I set out to do, and so much more besides. New Zealand has been the gift that kept on giving, and if I could, I would give it to all of you. As ever, I just hope that in some small way my writing of it has brought it to you, that you were given it in fragments of my worded joy before you come here for yourself, and see that I never once over sold what a magnificent place the last place on Earth really is.
*Not to boast, but I feel I excelled myself with this 'to do'.
**Infamous New Zealand fastfood joint in Queenstown, and easily the best burger that has ever graced my lips. Ella had 4 Fergburgers in 3 days. Yes, she's always hungry, but they really are that good.
Never Finding The Last Surprise
Friday 9th April 2010, 1.10pm, Pipi Patch Dorms - Paihia
I've found that when we are nearing the end of our stay in any particular country, we have a tendency to wind down, to halt the daily need for excursions and activities and sight-seeing, and instead just sit somewhere and soak up our last days breathing that country's air. This is why we have spent the past 2 nights in Paihia, New Zealand's seaside and perfect vantage spot for reclining on the beach, basking in the last blessings of waning Summer sun, a time to be with the friends we've made who we will soon bid our farewells to, a time to reflect on this too quickly departed month. I have never expected much from these last days, and that is why I am so gratefully elated and surprised to have had one of my best Kiwi experiences this morning, when I thought I was too busy winding down for anything to wind me into action again.
Leaving Ella and the other girls to their hangovers and the beach, I went on a kayaking trip. Or more specifically, the Te Waka tour. 'Waka' is the Maori word for kayak, a 6-7 person wooden canoe boat that myself, my shipmates, and our Maori guide, Nick, pushed out into the water this morning and set to rowing out to sea in. We rowed to a small island called Tere Tere where we went on a walk through the forest up to a viewpoint from where you can look out across the Bay of Islands, 144 uninhabited pieces of land clustered sporadically off the coastline. We rowed again to a clump of sharp rocks in the middle of deep water between two islands, jumped over the side of the Waka, and went hunting for mussels, pulling those pesky morsels of seafood from the rocks they stubbornly cling to and throwing them into our collection bucket, holding on to each other for steadiness against the waves which crashed us in to the rocks and washed over our tired heads, Nick willing us on from the boat with cries of, 'just a few more guys, I'm mighty hungry today!'.
With mussel bucket in tow we rowed to a deserted beach where Nick boiled our catch up in a makeshift stove and poured us all a glass of wine from the stash he'd brought over in a cool box. Just as we were sitting down on the sand to our self-provided meal of freshly cooked mussels as big as your palm, and crisp, dry Chardonnay, the sun grew tenfold in strength, glistening on the peacock blue waves we had just supported each other in rowing across. It was perfect, just absolutely, in every sense, a perfect morning. The stuff that travelling and holiday makers dreams are made of. Invigorating exercise which made us a team and united us in camaraderie, spectacular scenery, delicious food that we'd worked for, wonderful company, a refreshing dip in the sea, a lunchtime tipple, and sunshine sat on the top of it all. I'm so thankful that in these winding down days, I found another reason to love this country, a morning I never could have predicted or expected.
Some people who have had varied and adventurous lives claim that because they have "seen it all", nothing can surprise them anymore. Think about it, you must yourself have heard someone of age and experience and supposed wisdom utter those very words; that they have been witness to so much, that nothing will ever have the power to catch them off guard again. I can't agree with the conditions of this statement, in fact I am beginning to believe that quite the opposite is true.
The more you see, the more you do, the greater the headcount of extraordinary life experiences that you can claim as yours, then surely the more you should realise how little you know, how we could live for eternity and still be blessed with mornings we never expected. All I know, is that the more I travel, the more I understand how little I have seen and done before. It is when you think that you can no longer be surprised that life will jump up and bite you in your blase behind. New experiences do not make me feel any more worldly wise, they only give me faith in what an endless multitude of surprises are still to come.
I've found that when we are nearing the end of our stay in any particular country, we have a tendency to wind down, to halt the daily need for excursions and activities and sight-seeing, and instead just sit somewhere and soak up our last days breathing that country's air. This is why we have spent the past 2 nights in Paihia, New Zealand's seaside and perfect vantage spot for reclining on the beach, basking in the last blessings of waning Summer sun, a time to be with the friends we've made who we will soon bid our farewells to, a time to reflect on this too quickly departed month. I have never expected much from these last days, and that is why I am so gratefully elated and surprised to have had one of my best Kiwi experiences this morning, when I thought I was too busy winding down for anything to wind me into action again.
Leaving Ella and the other girls to their hangovers and the beach, I went on a kayaking trip. Or more specifically, the Te Waka tour. 'Waka' is the Maori word for kayak, a 6-7 person wooden canoe boat that myself, my shipmates, and our Maori guide, Nick, pushed out into the water this morning and set to rowing out to sea in. We rowed to a small island called Tere Tere where we went on a walk through the forest up to a viewpoint from where you can look out across the Bay of Islands, 144 uninhabited pieces of land clustered sporadically off the coastline. We rowed again to a clump of sharp rocks in the middle of deep water between two islands, jumped over the side of the Waka, and went hunting for mussels, pulling those pesky morsels of seafood from the rocks they stubbornly cling to and throwing them into our collection bucket, holding on to each other for steadiness against the waves which crashed us in to the rocks and washed over our tired heads, Nick willing us on from the boat with cries of, 'just a few more guys, I'm mighty hungry today!'.
With mussel bucket in tow we rowed to a deserted beach where Nick boiled our catch up in a makeshift stove and poured us all a glass of wine from the stash he'd brought over in a cool box. Just as we were sitting down on the sand to our self-provided meal of freshly cooked mussels as big as your palm, and crisp, dry Chardonnay, the sun grew tenfold in strength, glistening on the peacock blue waves we had just supported each other in rowing across. It was perfect, just absolutely, in every sense, a perfect morning. The stuff that travelling and holiday makers dreams are made of. Invigorating exercise which made us a team and united us in camaraderie, spectacular scenery, delicious food that we'd worked for, wonderful company, a refreshing dip in the sea, a lunchtime tipple, and sunshine sat on the top of it all. I'm so thankful that in these winding down days, I found another reason to love this country, a morning I never could have predicted or expected.
Some people who have had varied and adventurous lives claim that because they have "seen it all", nothing can surprise them anymore. Think about it, you must yourself have heard someone of age and experience and supposed wisdom utter those very words; that they have been witness to so much, that nothing will ever have the power to catch them off guard again. I can't agree with the conditions of this statement, in fact I am beginning to believe that quite the opposite is true.
The more you see, the more you do, the greater the headcount of extraordinary life experiences that you can claim as yours, then surely the more you should realise how little you know, how we could live for eternity and still be blessed with mornings we never expected. All I know, is that the more I travel, the more I understand how little I have seen and done before. It is when you think that you can no longer be surprised that life will jump up and bite you in your blase behind. New experiences do not make me feel any more worldly wise, they only give me faith in what an endless multitude of surprises are still to come.
Thursday, 22 April 2010
The Swim Back
Thursday 8th April 2010, 8pm, Pipi Patch Dorms - Paihia
I've moved a long way up the country since I last wrote. From the mid North Island town of Rotorua I went 3 hours with the big green bus up to Auckland where I spent one night on Tuesday. Then yesterday morning I dozily fidgeted around in bed and lent towards the window to get some light on my watch to see that it was 7 minutes past 7, the bus I had to catch at quarter past 7 that morning was already waiting for me on the pavement below. My alarm had made it's own decisions and obviously wanted to see me rush. It will be some indication as to the time I spend on my appearance and general grooming habits these days to tell you that at 16 minutes past the hour, I was sat on that bus, reading a book and eating an orange, backpack and hand luggage packed, locked, and stowed, pillowcase and key having been handed in at reception. Sure, I ain't pretty, but I'm punctual.
That nearly-missed bus brought me to where I now write to you from, Paihia, the Bay of Islands, New Zealand's Northern most tourist haven and beautiful beach town. I caught up with Ella here as she was one day ahead of me out of Rotorua, not wanting to spend the extra day white water rafting. The two of us along with two new friends (both called Emma) went on a day trip today to the tip of the North Island, Cape Reinga. It wouldn't be an excursion I'd recommend to anyone who may suffer from motion sickness. I am usually a thoroughly sturdy traveller who can read and write and eat and look out the window without so much as a single butterfly flapping around my stomach. Not today however. Sat up the back of the coach, because it's like, you know, the law for the cool kids to sit there (there were also no other seats available), and heaving on every bend that we span through during the 6 hour round trip, I officially experienced my first taste of car sickness. Thankfully no actual vomiting occurred, but I did feel so nauseous that I imagined a whole army of winged creatures fluttering about my digestive system.
By the time we arrived at the Cape, I practically rolled down the coach steps and inhaled that fresh sea air like I'd been underwater for 3 hours. Despite the misery of travel ills I am pleased I got to see New Zealand's last piece of land. This is the only place in the North Island which I feel truly rivals the South Island in scale, drama and rugged naturalness. I know I've used this word a lot to describe the landscape here, but when I'm floundering for ways to tell you about it, this is the one that my brain keeps repeating, it's the only word that satisfactorily encapsulates a view such as the one I have seen today; it is EPIC. A force of opposing elements in battle with each other for centre stage, a strip of craggy rock that stretches out into inky water where two oceans meet, the Pacific and the Tasmen Sea, colliding at the tip of this country, creating vast and swirling whirlpools where their currents clash, their waves travelling from half a world's distance to meet each other here at this agreed reunion spot. Sky and sea stretch uninterrupted for so many miles that it's hard to make out the horizon's separating line between them. This is the kind of view that would have made people of centuries past believe that the world was flat, and that you could fall off the end of it.
The black piece of rock that stretches out in to the sea has a single gnarled tree clinging to it. It's hard to determine proportion from where you view it on the cape, but it looks to be as tall as an adult Oak, as spindly as a Silver Birch, as black and withered as one often lightning struck. The Maoris believe that the roots of this lonely tree form steps from which the dead descend to the water below. It is here that Maori spirits climb down this woody ladder, dive in to the ocean, and swim across the Pacific to be reunited in death with the island of Haiwaiki, their ancestral homeland and origin of that first voyage to New Zealand. 'Reinga' is the Maori word for the underworld. This story, seeing this tree, is what made my car sickness a manageable evil today. Homecoming; it reminded me of the herons in Petulu, the swallows in Elm Avenue, of my own resistance towards the inevitable return journey. Everyone and everything it seems has a need to be reconciled with where they came from.
When I was 16 I started working for a company called Crossroads where my job was to provide respite care for disabled 5 to 18 year olds. This job was at times very difficult, emotionally challenging, physically exhausting, left me frequently covered in other people's sick and poo and spit, and my own bruises, and to top it all off... was based in Dagenham. I stuck with it though, in truth I absolutely loved it, and returned every school and University holiday to work for Crossroads and the parents and children there until I was 21. When I left University I accepted an equally strenuous and stressful (if not quite so messy) job, in Dagenham again, teaching Drama to children and teenagers of mixed ability at a school just off of the hell pit that is the Heathway. It was hard work, with much pressure and responsibility placed on my shoulders - but placed there by myself. One of the reasons that I saw a year in that job through whilst simultaneously working full-time for Social Services is that I felt, what I have only identified now, as an obligation of service to that small Dagenham community. I felt like that group needed me, I was told by parents and teachers what an important extra-curricular outlet this group was for those children, what a rare opportunity it was for them to be able to freely express some kind of creativity in a safe environment, it was, for a few hours a week, giving them a voice.
Dagenham isn't an easy place for a child to grow up; senior schools are fitted with metal detectors, gang culture is rife, it's a highly multi-cultural London borough that voted in the BNP, literacy rates and qualification tallies are significantly lower than the national average, teenage pregnancy, disability and crime rates are among some of the highest in the country, one statistic from late 2008 suggested that 55% of children were living in families affected by poverty, every other person you meet will be claiming some kind of state benefit, I could go on, but it only gets more depressing. Dagenham is where I was born. I lived there for the first few baby years of my life before my parents did the best thing they have ever done for me - they moved. I was spared a childhood growing up on the graffitied estates and syringe littered public parks of that borough; a self-conscious, bookish, sarcastic little swot like me would have had a bloody tough time at school with some of those streetwise, mouthy sweethearts I later volunteered to teach. I have always been immeasurably grateful to Pat and Ray Gillman for financially damaging themselves in order to save me from that possible outcome, and yet what did I do? The second I was old enough to take employment, I went right back to Dagenham, to see if there was anyone there who I might be useful to. Call it a payback, a reimbursement of debt through duty. I've always felt like I had a lucky escape, but knew there were other children who hadn't, and won't, and I went to them. If the right post came up I'd work there again quite happily, as much as I abhor it sometimes, I feel a tangible connection to the place and the people.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that after I die I can see my spirit hopping on the District Line and joyfully floating off somewhere between Elm Park and Upney, it won't be merrily clambering on to a 174 and gliding off the bus at the Civic Roundabout. But what I saw today reminded me of this half-hearted, partial return that I once made, back to good old Dagenham. Standing on that last piece of land, seeing that tree and the eternal ocean beyond it, imagining hoards of ghostly Maori spectres queuing around me, waiting for their turn to climb down the roots and go loyally back to Haiwaiki, it made me wonder, where, when it matters, will feel like home enough to me that I'd be willing to swim an ocean to reach it?
I've moved a long way up the country since I last wrote. From the mid North Island town of Rotorua I went 3 hours with the big green bus up to Auckland where I spent one night on Tuesday. Then yesterday morning I dozily fidgeted around in bed and lent towards the window to get some light on my watch to see that it was 7 minutes past 7, the bus I had to catch at quarter past 7 that morning was already waiting for me on the pavement below. My alarm had made it's own decisions and obviously wanted to see me rush. It will be some indication as to the time I spend on my appearance and general grooming habits these days to tell you that at 16 minutes past the hour, I was sat on that bus, reading a book and eating an orange, backpack and hand luggage packed, locked, and stowed, pillowcase and key having been handed in at reception. Sure, I ain't pretty, but I'm punctual.
That nearly-missed bus brought me to where I now write to you from, Paihia, the Bay of Islands, New Zealand's Northern most tourist haven and beautiful beach town. I caught up with Ella here as she was one day ahead of me out of Rotorua, not wanting to spend the extra day white water rafting. The two of us along with two new friends (both called Emma) went on a day trip today to the tip of the North Island, Cape Reinga. It wouldn't be an excursion I'd recommend to anyone who may suffer from motion sickness. I am usually a thoroughly sturdy traveller who can read and write and eat and look out the window without so much as a single butterfly flapping around my stomach. Not today however. Sat up the back of the coach, because it's like, you know, the law for the cool kids to sit there (there were also no other seats available), and heaving on every bend that we span through during the 6 hour round trip, I officially experienced my first taste of car sickness. Thankfully no actual vomiting occurred, but I did feel so nauseous that I imagined a whole army of winged creatures fluttering about my digestive system.
By the time we arrived at the Cape, I practically rolled down the coach steps and inhaled that fresh sea air like I'd been underwater for 3 hours. Despite the misery of travel ills I am pleased I got to see New Zealand's last piece of land. This is the only place in the North Island which I feel truly rivals the South Island in scale, drama and rugged naturalness. I know I've used this word a lot to describe the landscape here, but when I'm floundering for ways to tell you about it, this is the one that my brain keeps repeating, it's the only word that satisfactorily encapsulates a view such as the one I have seen today; it is EPIC. A force of opposing elements in battle with each other for centre stage, a strip of craggy rock that stretches out into inky water where two oceans meet, the Pacific and the Tasmen Sea, colliding at the tip of this country, creating vast and swirling whirlpools where their currents clash, their waves travelling from half a world's distance to meet each other here at this agreed reunion spot. Sky and sea stretch uninterrupted for so many miles that it's hard to make out the horizon's separating line between them. This is the kind of view that would have made people of centuries past believe that the world was flat, and that you could fall off the end of it.
The black piece of rock that stretches out in to the sea has a single gnarled tree clinging to it. It's hard to determine proportion from where you view it on the cape, but it looks to be as tall as an adult Oak, as spindly as a Silver Birch, as black and withered as one often lightning struck. The Maoris believe that the roots of this lonely tree form steps from which the dead descend to the water below. It is here that Maori spirits climb down this woody ladder, dive in to the ocean, and swim across the Pacific to be reunited in death with the island of Haiwaiki, their ancestral homeland and origin of that first voyage to New Zealand. 'Reinga' is the Maori word for the underworld. This story, seeing this tree, is what made my car sickness a manageable evil today. Homecoming; it reminded me of the herons in Petulu, the swallows in Elm Avenue, of my own resistance towards the inevitable return journey. Everyone and everything it seems has a need to be reconciled with where they came from.
When I was 16 I started working for a company called Crossroads where my job was to provide respite care for disabled 5 to 18 year olds. This job was at times very difficult, emotionally challenging, physically exhausting, left me frequently covered in other people's sick and poo and spit, and my own bruises, and to top it all off... was based in Dagenham. I stuck with it though, in truth I absolutely loved it, and returned every school and University holiday to work for Crossroads and the parents and children there until I was 21. When I left University I accepted an equally strenuous and stressful (if not quite so messy) job, in Dagenham again, teaching Drama to children and teenagers of mixed ability at a school just off of the hell pit that is the Heathway. It was hard work, with much pressure and responsibility placed on my shoulders - but placed there by myself. One of the reasons that I saw a year in that job through whilst simultaneously working full-time for Social Services is that I felt, what I have only identified now, as an obligation of service to that small Dagenham community. I felt like that group needed me, I was told by parents and teachers what an important extra-curricular outlet this group was for those children, what a rare opportunity it was for them to be able to freely express some kind of creativity in a safe environment, it was, for a few hours a week, giving them a voice.
Dagenham isn't an easy place for a child to grow up; senior schools are fitted with metal detectors, gang culture is rife, it's a highly multi-cultural London borough that voted in the BNP, literacy rates and qualification tallies are significantly lower than the national average, teenage pregnancy, disability and crime rates are among some of the highest in the country, one statistic from late 2008 suggested that 55% of children were living in families affected by poverty, every other person you meet will be claiming some kind of state benefit, I could go on, but it only gets more depressing. Dagenham is where I was born. I lived there for the first few baby years of my life before my parents did the best thing they have ever done for me - they moved. I was spared a childhood growing up on the graffitied estates and syringe littered public parks of that borough; a self-conscious, bookish, sarcastic little swot like me would have had a bloody tough time at school with some of those streetwise, mouthy sweethearts I later volunteered to teach. I have always been immeasurably grateful to Pat and Ray Gillman for financially damaging themselves in order to save me from that possible outcome, and yet what did I do? The second I was old enough to take employment, I went right back to Dagenham, to see if there was anyone there who I might be useful to. Call it a payback, a reimbursement of debt through duty. I've always felt like I had a lucky escape, but knew there were other children who hadn't, and won't, and I went to them. If the right post came up I'd work there again quite happily, as much as I abhor it sometimes, I feel a tangible connection to the place and the people.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that after I die I can see my spirit hopping on the District Line and joyfully floating off somewhere between Elm Park and Upney, it won't be merrily clambering on to a 174 and gliding off the bus at the Civic Roundabout. But what I saw today reminded me of this half-hearted, partial return that I once made, back to good old Dagenham. Standing on that last piece of land, seeing that tree and the eternal ocean beyond it, imagining hoards of ghostly Maori spectres queuing around me, waiting for their turn to climb down the roots and go loyally back to Haiwaiki, it made me wonder, where, when it matters, will feel like home enough to me that I'd be willing to swim an ocean to reach it?
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
Fear Factors
Monday 5th April 2010, 9.50pm, Lava Bar - Rotorua
I suspect that it will only be when I eventually return home that I realise how travelling for this long has changed me. I know I have changed, I do not expect that you can see the things I have seen and become used to the way of life that now seems normal to me without it affecting your outlook and aspirations somewhat. But maybe it will need for me to be back on the grey and familiar streets of London to realise that I will no longer settle for greyness, knowing as I do that there are some places on Earth so overwhelmed in colour, the familiar will be made unfamiliar because I will be looking on it with a brand new pair of eyes.
There is one thing about me though that I can recognise the change in without having to go home to feel it. It has been gradually but forcibly creeping up on me, promising to take me hostage before I have any time to protest. At first I thought it was because of the Kiwis and the affect their laissez faire attitude to everything was having on me, but when I dissect the matter I realise that it has been building for much longer than that, really from the moment I arrived in Thailand, perhaps even from when I boarded that plane to Bangkok alone. From the first time I got on the back of a motorbike, drank snake wine, abseiled down a waterfall, jumped off a cliff into a lagoon, cycled through rice paddies in the dark, went snorkeling with the risk of sharks in the water, scaled slippery jungle mountain slopes, showered beneath tarantulas on the ceiling, gave blood at a Cambodian hospital, jumped out of a plane; I have been getting braver.
My friends and family will no doubt unanimously attest to the fact that although I may be many things, brave has never been one of them. I worry with the weight of the world on my shoulders, and whilst I'm busy fretting about everybody else, they use theirs and my share of courage to make adventurous leaps and bounds ahead of me. Not any more though. Living as I have been for the past 4 months has taught me that all of these things I dread happening, will probably never happen. And if they do? Well I have the strength of character and support of loved ones to see them through, setbacks will not make me crumble, I will no longer be left shaking and crying and hugging my knees to my chest in the corner of the room if things go wrong. The exhilaration and breathless sense of being truly alive that I have earned from doing things that scare me is worth every remote risk I may have had to take.
The reason that I am caused to write about this change in me this evening is because I have spent the past 2 days indulging in activities that 6 months ago I would have shied away from. Yesterday, Ella and I went caving and underground tubing, and today I have been white water rafting. The Waitomo Caves trip involved climbing into a wetsuit and helmet, throwing a rubber ring over my shoulder and following our fantastic female guides through caves and potholes 65ft beneath the earth to an underground, freezing cold river which you by turns scale on hands and knees through narrow rocky alleyways, and at other times when the water is too deep and the passage opens up, sit back in your tube and sail along in the dank, dark, watery underworld.
At one point the only way of negotiating the path of the river is to stand on a slimy rock ledge, 4 metres high, and jump backwards off of it in to a pool at the bottom of the waterfall which you can't see. You only know it's there because of the splash and the scream others make after they have propelled themselves bum-first into the darkness. Small torches are fitted in to the helmets so you are not expected to navigate in pitch blackness for the whole 2 hours, but the guides like to make it more exciting by ordering everyone to turn off their lights so that you are able to marvel at the thousands of glow worms which glitter on the stalactites above you. I additionally quite liked having the lights off because it meant I couldn't scan the water around me for eels - the caves' only other living inhabitants.
White water rafting today was similarly nerve testing. On the coach on the way to the river the guides delight in telling you that the treacherousness and speed of rapids are measured on a scale of 1 to 6, 1 being a tame little river that even Nanny Gillman might enjoy a cruise down, 6 being the kind of currents and drops that even the guys running the rafting centre very rarely dare to take a boat on. Number 5 is the highest grade of rapids that it is legal to raft commercially with paying customers, so guess what level of danger I was about to set off on in a rubber dingy? Yep, 5 of course. Again, the guides were amazing people, and all looked like the kind of men who might happily stick their head in the mouth of a crocodile just to see what would happen, or set themselves on fire for a bet, or ask to be tattooed on their tongue, whilst bungy jumping, blindfolded, from a helicopter over the Grand Canyon. You get the idea; these are the adrenalin junkies and fearless extreme sports nuts that I was so careful to hide from in Queenstown, truly charming, completely bonkers blokes. I was only slightly concerned that a few of them seemed to be missing front teeth, but elected to conclude that this was down to drunken tomfoolery and bar brawls as opposed to a direct result of the activity I was about to participate in.
They really pump you up for it, instructing the 5 of you in your boat to raise your oars and clap them together in a symbol of tribal solidarity, whilst they pray aloud to the Maori ancestors to keep you safe. Then everyone is instructed to chant the Hakka, the chorus becoming louder, faster and more impassioned as you sit in the boat gripping the vines on the banks to stop yourself catapulting downstream before everyone is ready. The air vibrates with energy and expectation and a spine-tingling, hair-raising electric fear pulses through the water, around the boats and right out the top of your helmet clad head. The atmosphere was infectious and addictive, these men have realised how to market fear - the good kind of fear - and sell it to whingeing, cowardly Poms.
This is what I could never grasp before I came away, the fact that there are two types of fear. The kind that is quietly terrifying, gut-wrenching, appetite thieving, soul destroying - the one that makes you want to wrap up those you love in your duvet and never let them walk out the front door in case Something Happens. The kind you feel when your Mum is ill, or when your friend stays in a relationship that will damage her, or when one of the vulnerable teenagers at work who you so love and cherish stops answering their phone, or when you see your sister growing up and the world and it's disappointments gaining in opportunities to hurt her; these are real fears, the justifiable kind.
But the other kind, the one I felt today as me and my crew approached the top of a 7 metre waterfall that our raft then plummeted over the top of, this fear is fleeting and assailable, momentarily shocking your heart so that it beats with the fervour and intensity required sometimes to remind us that we are living, not merely existing. Feel your heart pound in your throat, feel it reverberate through to the trembling tips of your fingertips, scare yourself, stick it to the Health and Safety bureaucrats, put yourself in measured danger to see how jubilant you feel to come through it, and then try and tell me that good fear does not exist. It's purely and simply life affirming.
I suspect that it will only be when I eventually return home that I realise how travelling for this long has changed me. I know I have changed, I do not expect that you can see the things I have seen and become used to the way of life that now seems normal to me without it affecting your outlook and aspirations somewhat. But maybe it will need for me to be back on the grey and familiar streets of London to realise that I will no longer settle for greyness, knowing as I do that there are some places on Earth so overwhelmed in colour, the familiar will be made unfamiliar because I will be looking on it with a brand new pair of eyes.
There is one thing about me though that I can recognise the change in without having to go home to feel it. It has been gradually but forcibly creeping up on me, promising to take me hostage before I have any time to protest. At first I thought it was because of the Kiwis and the affect their laissez faire attitude to everything was having on me, but when I dissect the matter I realise that it has been building for much longer than that, really from the moment I arrived in Thailand, perhaps even from when I boarded that plane to Bangkok alone. From the first time I got on the back of a motorbike, drank snake wine, abseiled down a waterfall, jumped off a cliff into a lagoon, cycled through rice paddies in the dark, went snorkeling with the risk of sharks in the water, scaled slippery jungle mountain slopes, showered beneath tarantulas on the ceiling, gave blood at a Cambodian hospital, jumped out of a plane; I have been getting braver.
My friends and family will no doubt unanimously attest to the fact that although I may be many things, brave has never been one of them. I worry with the weight of the world on my shoulders, and whilst I'm busy fretting about everybody else, they use theirs and my share of courage to make adventurous leaps and bounds ahead of me. Not any more though. Living as I have been for the past 4 months has taught me that all of these things I dread happening, will probably never happen. And if they do? Well I have the strength of character and support of loved ones to see them through, setbacks will not make me crumble, I will no longer be left shaking and crying and hugging my knees to my chest in the corner of the room if things go wrong. The exhilaration and breathless sense of being truly alive that I have earned from doing things that scare me is worth every remote risk I may have had to take.
The reason that I am caused to write about this change in me this evening is because I have spent the past 2 days indulging in activities that 6 months ago I would have shied away from. Yesterday, Ella and I went caving and underground tubing, and today I have been white water rafting. The Waitomo Caves trip involved climbing into a wetsuit and helmet, throwing a rubber ring over my shoulder and following our fantastic female guides through caves and potholes 65ft beneath the earth to an underground, freezing cold river which you by turns scale on hands and knees through narrow rocky alleyways, and at other times when the water is too deep and the passage opens up, sit back in your tube and sail along in the dank, dark, watery underworld.
At one point the only way of negotiating the path of the river is to stand on a slimy rock ledge, 4 metres high, and jump backwards off of it in to a pool at the bottom of the waterfall which you can't see. You only know it's there because of the splash and the scream others make after they have propelled themselves bum-first into the darkness. Small torches are fitted in to the helmets so you are not expected to navigate in pitch blackness for the whole 2 hours, but the guides like to make it more exciting by ordering everyone to turn off their lights so that you are able to marvel at the thousands of glow worms which glitter on the stalactites above you. I additionally quite liked having the lights off because it meant I couldn't scan the water around me for eels - the caves' only other living inhabitants.
White water rafting today was similarly nerve testing. On the coach on the way to the river the guides delight in telling you that the treacherousness and speed of rapids are measured on a scale of 1 to 6, 1 being a tame little river that even Nanny Gillman might enjoy a cruise down, 6 being the kind of currents and drops that even the guys running the rafting centre very rarely dare to take a boat on. Number 5 is the highest grade of rapids that it is legal to raft commercially with paying customers, so guess what level of danger I was about to set off on in a rubber dingy? Yep, 5 of course. Again, the guides were amazing people, and all looked like the kind of men who might happily stick their head in the mouth of a crocodile just to see what would happen, or set themselves on fire for a bet, or ask to be tattooed on their tongue, whilst bungy jumping, blindfolded, from a helicopter over the Grand Canyon. You get the idea; these are the adrenalin junkies and fearless extreme sports nuts that I was so careful to hide from in Queenstown, truly charming, completely bonkers blokes. I was only slightly concerned that a few of them seemed to be missing front teeth, but elected to conclude that this was down to drunken tomfoolery and bar brawls as opposed to a direct result of the activity I was about to participate in.
They really pump you up for it, instructing the 5 of you in your boat to raise your oars and clap them together in a symbol of tribal solidarity, whilst they pray aloud to the Maori ancestors to keep you safe. Then everyone is instructed to chant the Hakka, the chorus becoming louder, faster and more impassioned as you sit in the boat gripping the vines on the banks to stop yourself catapulting downstream before everyone is ready. The air vibrates with energy and expectation and a spine-tingling, hair-raising electric fear pulses through the water, around the boats and right out the top of your helmet clad head. The atmosphere was infectious and addictive, these men have realised how to market fear - the good kind of fear - and sell it to whingeing, cowardly Poms.
This is what I could never grasp before I came away, the fact that there are two types of fear. The kind that is quietly terrifying, gut-wrenching, appetite thieving, soul destroying - the one that makes you want to wrap up those you love in your duvet and never let them walk out the front door in case Something Happens. The kind you feel when your Mum is ill, or when your friend stays in a relationship that will damage her, or when one of the vulnerable teenagers at work who you so love and cherish stops answering their phone, or when you see your sister growing up and the world and it's disappointments gaining in opportunities to hurt her; these are real fears, the justifiable kind.
But the other kind, the one I felt today as me and my crew approached the top of a 7 metre waterfall that our raft then plummeted over the top of, this fear is fleeting and assailable, momentarily shocking your heart so that it beats with the fervour and intensity required sometimes to remind us that we are living, not merely existing. Feel your heart pound in your throat, feel it reverberate through to the trembling tips of your fingertips, scare yourself, stick it to the Health and Safety bureaucrats, put yourself in measured danger to see how jubilant you feel to come through it, and then try and tell me that good fear does not exist. It's purely and simply life affirming.
The Empire's Anomaly
Saturday 3rd March 2010, 9.25pm, Hot Rocks Hostel - Rotorua
I come from a country of conquerors. Of settlers and invaders, explorers and militia, sailors and governors, an ancestral legacy of men who found and claimed the remotest parts of the planet for their own. Whether I like it or not, I am descended from the Empire, the most successful conquering empire the world ever saw. There is very little in this for me to feel proud of - the history is chequered, the tactics underhand, the behaviour barbaric. I come from a country where the accruement of land came at a higher value than human life; indigenous human life.
There is no need for me to brief you on British colonial history, firstly because I am no authority on the subject and secondly because I acknowledge your intelligence dear reader - no one had to take a history degree to know the well documented catalogue of inhumanities committed by British settlers throughout the Americas, Africa, India, Australia... Yes, we were the winners, but winning came at far too high a cost for the communities throughout the globe which we "civilised", raped, stole from, imprisoned, cast out, disenfranchised, made slaves and circus freaks of. In New Zealand, I have found a gratifying and refreshing anomaly in a history so marred by cruelty and shame. Something happened here, something very different, and it makes me wonder why we couldn't have always got it this right.
When Captain James Cook moored these shores near modern day Gisborne, he brought with him a Polynesian friend who could communicate with the indigenous population - the Maoris. This proved to be an extremely beneficial decision to the Captain; the Maoris were a nation of warriors, fluent and accomplished in tribal warfare, guerrilla hit and run tactics and trench combat - they were progressively beyond their time in the rudiments of war, and a fearsome people under attack. But to friends, to people who claimed - as the Captain and Tupaia, his Polynesian translator, did - that they were coming in peace, they were and still are some of the most welcoming and accepting people on the planet. Guests are family, treated with respect and generous hospitality. Captain Cook did well not to make an enemy of these people, otherwise the course of history, and the nature of Cook's demise, may have been markedly different.
Thankfully for the eponymous Captain though, and for the Maori people, there existed between the two parties a mutual respect that was unique and so far unencountered throughout the colonised nations of the world. European immigrants in search of a better life soon began embarking upon this country in droves after Cook sent word back to the homeland of what a picturesque and habitable landscape this was, and these Europeans were rightfully impressed by what they saw. Not only the regimes of Maori warfare, but also their commitment to family and tribe, their advanced irrigation systems, their techniques for dealing with unpredictable weather conditions, and their early ideas and plans for tourism all garnered them the admiration of the settlers, this "uncivilised" nation taught invading white faces, for the first time in colonial history, what it really meant to be a civilian.
This was the first country in the world, where from day one, irrespective of race or religion, all men over the age of 21 were entitled to a democratic vote. It is also the first country that granted the vote to women. The year of 1840 saw the writing of a crucial historic document, The Treaty of Waitangi. This agreement was signed by the English dignitaries and ambassadors who had made the voyage out to the Southern hemisphere, as well as every chief from the 400 separate Maori tribes occupying New Zealand at that time. It decreed that this country would become part of the British empire, governed by English sovereignty, but the treaty similarly protected the Maoris' right to their country, stating that they would be the people who owned their land, it also gave Maoris the rights of British subjects. It was the first document of it's kind, the only written agreement in history which recognised the liberty of the indigenous race. It has been a subject of heated debate up until this present day, with many Maoris claiming that promises were not kept and using the Treaty as a legal document in which to reclaim land and money. For this reason the Waitangi Tribunal was established in 1975, to ensure the rules of this paper are adhered to and to take on any cases in dispute.
Compare this to the colonisation of Australia, where until 1970, Aborigines were not legally defined as human beings. Quite dramatically different stories I think you'll agree. In the 1860's, when a handful of Maori tribes decided they wanted rid of the settlers, the majority of Maoris fought side by side with the Europeans to quell the oncoming rebellion. And this is how it has been until this day, descendants of European settlers and Maoris, side by side, living, working, playing, celebrating their history together.
This causes me some sadness as I sit here and ponder on this now. What ills and atrocities in our world may have been averted if people had always shown each other such mutual compassion and respect? New Zealand just proves that it was possible, possible for England to expand her empire without the devastation to innocent people. Things could have been so different, the world could be so much better for the millions of human beings living under 3rd World classification today had their civil liberties not been so hastily and contemptuously removed from them. These wrong doings feel all the more painfully acute to me knowing that they were avoidable.
We arrived in Rotorua this afternoon to be greeted by hills of sublime rainforest greenery, gargantuan clouds of steam rising from the countryside in thick, fluffy white towers, landscape dotted with dozens of natural hot pools and the smell of sulphur, potent and odiously prevalent on every molecule of air - it's the capital of Volcanic geo-thermal activity. Tonight we have been on a Maori heritage trip to the Tamaki Village; a community of huts in the midst of the forest about 20 minutes outside of Rotorua town that is set up to precisely resemble a Maori settlement as it would have been before the colonisers arrived. We were entertained with music and dancing, taught about their culture, weapons and living conditions, fed a veritable feast of roasted meat and vegetables cooked in a Hangi - an underground oven - and treated to a performance of the Hakka.
Huge Maori men wearing grass skirts and facial tattoos, and carrying foot long machetes, chanted and stamped, grimaced and gurned, waggling their tongues and protruding their eyeballs in a traditional demonstration of how rival tribes would greet each other - showcasing their ferocity and hopefully striking fear in to the hearts of any possible enemy. The threat that this dance carries would not be followed through however if the invaders signify that they are well intentioned visitors. After the Hakka a leaf is placed on the floor between the opposing sides and a member of our group was instructed to walk slowly forward and pick up the offering; a sign of a peaceful guest. If this ritual was carried through you would be, as we were tonight, welcomed in to the arms of the tribe with warmth and laughter and kindness.
I come from a country of conquerors, of settlers and invaders, explorers and militia, sailors and governors, the Great British Empire. The Great, but not the Good. Goodness is what matters to me, and how I wish I could say that I am descended from people who more often than they did, put down their hatred, and picked up the leaf.
I come from a country of conquerors. Of settlers and invaders, explorers and militia, sailors and governors, an ancestral legacy of men who found and claimed the remotest parts of the planet for their own. Whether I like it or not, I am descended from the Empire, the most successful conquering empire the world ever saw. There is very little in this for me to feel proud of - the history is chequered, the tactics underhand, the behaviour barbaric. I come from a country where the accruement of land came at a higher value than human life; indigenous human life.
There is no need for me to brief you on British colonial history, firstly because I am no authority on the subject and secondly because I acknowledge your intelligence dear reader - no one had to take a history degree to know the well documented catalogue of inhumanities committed by British settlers throughout the Americas, Africa, India, Australia... Yes, we were the winners, but winning came at far too high a cost for the communities throughout the globe which we "civilised", raped, stole from, imprisoned, cast out, disenfranchised, made slaves and circus freaks of. In New Zealand, I have found a gratifying and refreshing anomaly in a history so marred by cruelty and shame. Something happened here, something very different, and it makes me wonder why we couldn't have always got it this right.
When Captain James Cook moored these shores near modern day Gisborne, he brought with him a Polynesian friend who could communicate with the indigenous population - the Maoris. This proved to be an extremely beneficial decision to the Captain; the Maoris were a nation of warriors, fluent and accomplished in tribal warfare, guerrilla hit and run tactics and trench combat - they were progressively beyond their time in the rudiments of war, and a fearsome people under attack. But to friends, to people who claimed - as the Captain and Tupaia, his Polynesian translator, did - that they were coming in peace, they were and still are some of the most welcoming and accepting people on the planet. Guests are family, treated with respect and generous hospitality. Captain Cook did well not to make an enemy of these people, otherwise the course of history, and the nature of Cook's demise, may have been markedly different.
Thankfully for the eponymous Captain though, and for the Maori people, there existed between the two parties a mutual respect that was unique and so far unencountered throughout the colonised nations of the world. European immigrants in search of a better life soon began embarking upon this country in droves after Cook sent word back to the homeland of what a picturesque and habitable landscape this was, and these Europeans were rightfully impressed by what they saw. Not only the regimes of Maori warfare, but also their commitment to family and tribe, their advanced irrigation systems, their techniques for dealing with unpredictable weather conditions, and their early ideas and plans for tourism all garnered them the admiration of the settlers, this "uncivilised" nation taught invading white faces, for the first time in colonial history, what it really meant to be a civilian.
This was the first country in the world, where from day one, irrespective of race or religion, all men over the age of 21 were entitled to a democratic vote. It is also the first country that granted the vote to women. The year of 1840 saw the writing of a crucial historic document, The Treaty of Waitangi. This agreement was signed by the English dignitaries and ambassadors who had made the voyage out to the Southern hemisphere, as well as every chief from the 400 separate Maori tribes occupying New Zealand at that time. It decreed that this country would become part of the British empire, governed by English sovereignty, but the treaty similarly protected the Maoris' right to their country, stating that they would be the people who owned their land, it also gave Maoris the rights of British subjects. It was the first document of it's kind, the only written agreement in history which recognised the liberty of the indigenous race. It has been a subject of heated debate up until this present day, with many Maoris claiming that promises were not kept and using the Treaty as a legal document in which to reclaim land and money. For this reason the Waitangi Tribunal was established in 1975, to ensure the rules of this paper are adhered to and to take on any cases in dispute.
Compare this to the colonisation of Australia, where until 1970, Aborigines were not legally defined as human beings. Quite dramatically different stories I think you'll agree. In the 1860's, when a handful of Maori tribes decided they wanted rid of the settlers, the majority of Maoris fought side by side with the Europeans to quell the oncoming rebellion. And this is how it has been until this day, descendants of European settlers and Maoris, side by side, living, working, playing, celebrating their history together.
This causes me some sadness as I sit here and ponder on this now. What ills and atrocities in our world may have been averted if people had always shown each other such mutual compassion and respect? New Zealand just proves that it was possible, possible for England to expand her empire without the devastation to innocent people. Things could have been so different, the world could be so much better for the millions of human beings living under 3rd World classification today had their civil liberties not been so hastily and contemptuously removed from them. These wrong doings feel all the more painfully acute to me knowing that they were avoidable.
We arrived in Rotorua this afternoon to be greeted by hills of sublime rainforest greenery, gargantuan clouds of steam rising from the countryside in thick, fluffy white towers, landscape dotted with dozens of natural hot pools and the smell of sulphur, potent and odiously prevalent on every molecule of air - it's the capital of Volcanic geo-thermal activity. Tonight we have been on a Maori heritage trip to the Tamaki Village; a community of huts in the midst of the forest about 20 minutes outside of Rotorua town that is set up to precisely resemble a Maori settlement as it would have been before the colonisers arrived. We were entertained with music and dancing, taught about their culture, weapons and living conditions, fed a veritable feast of roasted meat and vegetables cooked in a Hangi - an underground oven - and treated to a performance of the Hakka.
Huge Maori men wearing grass skirts and facial tattoos, and carrying foot long machetes, chanted and stamped, grimaced and gurned, waggling their tongues and protruding their eyeballs in a traditional demonstration of how rival tribes would greet each other - showcasing their ferocity and hopefully striking fear in to the hearts of any possible enemy. The threat that this dance carries would not be followed through however if the invaders signify that they are well intentioned visitors. After the Hakka a leaf is placed on the floor between the opposing sides and a member of our group was instructed to walk slowly forward and pick up the offering; a sign of a peaceful guest. If this ritual was carried through you would be, as we were tonight, welcomed in to the arms of the tribe with warmth and laughter and kindness.
I come from a country of conquerors, of settlers and invaders, explorers and militia, sailors and governors, the Great British Empire. The Great, but not the Good. Goodness is what matters to me, and how I wish I could say that I am descended from people who more often than they did, put down their hatred, and picked up the leaf.
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