This Tuesday I woke to the horrifying news that one of the most beautiful cities in one of the most beautiful countries on earth was victim of a devastating earthquake. That the city had crumbled under the strain of seismic shocks to it’s foundations causing the spire of the ancient cathedral to pound down to the ground below was shocking enough. Still worse was the agonising 12-hour wait to learn that my dearest friend, The Microchef (just like a Masterchef only available in a compact portable size), and her very young family were safe and well.
The very first time our family went on a plane we went to New Zealand. I was nine, wearing Gramma-made fleece underwear and we landed in Christchurch. I don’t remember much apart from Dad’s jokes about their strange accent, he didn’t tire of the six/sex joke for three weeks and the nostril stripping sulphuric odour of Rotorua, the source (no pun intended) of yet more jokes for Dad only this time related to his special subject; farting.
13 years later a little restaurant chain owned by three very big Hollywood stars would send me to live there, this time to Auckland, and as an adult, I rediscovered the wonder that is (God Defend) New Zealand.
Aotearoa, the land of the long white cloud, a nation of two large islands, named with the characteristic simplicity of Kiwis (who named everything after their native bird, the Kiwi, including themselves), North Island and South Island, each distinct in their geography, their topography and their people.
The North, more populated and home to the capital Wellington (yes Frenchies, the bloke with the rubber boots who beat your little fellow with his hand in his pocket), an Island created by volcanoes that poked above the sea, with mud lakes that boil, steam that spurts from the ground and home to the large majority of the native Maori, their volatile warrior tempers not dissimilar to their volatile land. Wandering the humid North you would not forget that you were in the middle of the Pacific, the plentiful pineapples give it away.
After landing in The South you could be forgiven for thinking that your plane had taken a detour and dropped you off in Strathclyde. Covered by almost permanent cloud, the locals wear sheepskin and tartan, eat excellent seafood, are very tall and drink a lot of beer. The country’s oldest university, Otago, located in a place called Dunedin (could it be any more Scottish) looks like Macbeth’s turretted castle, the inhabitants of the remote extreme South actually sound Scottish and the whole lot of them describe everything small as wee.
With a population of just over 3 million, the service and legacy they’ve given to the wider world is extraordinary.
During the First World War, a third of the country saw active service in far-away Europe and suffered casualties that were proportionately double that of the UK. Anyone with ears has heard the excellent melodies of the Finn brothers of Crowded House and more recently the world dominating Ladyhawke. Rumour also has it that Australia’s finest actor, Russell Maximus, was born in Wellington, not that I'll ever say that out loud. Most memorably though, Lee Tamahori made an excellent film in 1994, Once Were Warriors; a film that took the Maori to Hollywood and made a star of Temuera Morrison. Rather unfortunately he then became the chosen Storm Trooper in Star Wars and thus an army of cloned tattooed Jake "the Muss" Heke’s took on the Jedi.
The Maori also gave New Zealand that for which they are most globally recognised, the Haka. A war cry of ancient times, it is now thundered out by a bunch of rich little private school boys otherwise known as the All Blacks at the start of every international game of Rugby. If only it would help them win a world cup…not that I am bitter or anything.
Sport is truly where the Kiwis dominate. This tiny nation has taken home the America’s Cup twice, tied with the Swiss for winning more than any other country apart from the self-promoting Americans. In last year's soccer World Cup in South Africa, fielding a team that combined, earned less than the lowest paid player on the opposing Italian side, the All Whites were the only team to score against Italy. And the guy who scored? An amateur who works full time in a bank, not some long haired Lothario who gets paid twelfty million a year to play for Casa Nostra slash Juventus.
The Americans are flying in portaloos to sewer-deprived Christchurch and the Australians have sent police and surveyors to help rebuild the broken city walls. I simply hope they come back fighting when they host the World Cup later this year. I hope they beat the Poms and the French, I hope they fight harder than ever…so long as they don’t beat us.
Ka mate, ka mate! ka ora! ka ora!
love it x
Posted by: Victoria | 02/26/2011 at 06:44 PM
What a succint overview of our Kiwi friends and their amazing country. Glad to hear Victoria and family is OK.
Love AG and Big Al
Posted by: AG | 02/27/2011 at 05:00 AM