You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘New Zealand’ tag.
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Sometimes life prevents us from getting out and about. Luckily when that happens, there are many “next best things!”
Ok, so they’re distant next best things to being on a tropical white sand beach yourself – but I’m working on the silver lining approach here, so bear with me. (I’m told that simply getting restless and setting off with my passport for parts unknown without warning or building up vacation days is bad for respectability and what not, so this is a necessary compromise.)
Anyway, being grounded myself I talked my mother into sending me treats from her trip which happened to be a first time visit to Hawaii. There was a geological conference that my dad was attending and she decided to join in and go exploring.
So onto the box. Classified ads can give intriguing little peeks at local life, but these newspaper sheets turned out to be primarily paid glossy ads that nobly did their job of protecting sweeter contents so that photo is mostly to build suspense. The main contents turned out to be a mix of Kiwi treats and Hawaii souvenirs.
As I’ve mentioned, my parents live in New Zealand. As they passed through Wellington, she snagged a keychain from Weta Workshop made of LOTR chain mail. This gift is for the the little girl who spent hours listening to her father read the books chapter by chapter and years later dragged him to Matamata because the hobbit village is now totally real. Also from NZ: pineapple lumps and an elusive Black Forest Cadbury bar.
For Hawaii, Mom honored my go-to souvenir or travel gift request which is the keychain (tiny! portable! even useful!) with a cute little ring of charms. She added fresh macadamia nuts and since neither of us can resist fabrics a sarong with bright, rich colors that I’ll take to the pool this spring under the bright Arizona sun. And she’s promised photos, too, when she has a chance to get them off of her camera.
Like guidebooks, travel shows and E.M. Forster’s A Room with A View, it all adds up to a welcome, vicarious taste of a place I hope to see someday through the eyes of someone who taught me to want to explore and to appreciate the details.
Plus, for some reason I can’t think about Hawaii without remembering my Middle East politics professor who taught us to say with the name a “v.”
So it’s a small, sweet box whose actual value lies not in the contents but the thoughts and the memories.
Mom writes that there’re more trips and conferences on the horizon – which I’m hoping will mean more boxes and more stories to share.
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The only thing better than getting to see the world is getting to see it along with someone who means the world to me – thank you for everything…
… I can’t wait to see what comes next!
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Written in April 2010 by my mother, Ellen Kroeker, and shared here with her permission
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| They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old; Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. |
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The Ode comes from “For the Fallen,” a poem by the English poet and writer Laurence Binyon and was published in London in The Winnowing Fan: Poems of the Great War in 1914. This verse, which became the “Ode for the Returned and Services League,” has been used in association with commemoration services in Australia since 1921.
Perry-Castañeda Library Map Collection
We were at the Dawn Parade for ANZAC day today, a big occasion here. April 25 might be one of the most sacred days in New Zealand. While it is in honor of all service personnel, it is mostly a commemoration of Gallipoli, a devastating battle in Turkey during WWI, and an honoring of those who died there. Our friend (89, former British Royal Navy WWII and son of a man wounded in Gallipoli) wanted us to go with him and we did.
When the white haired men march behind the kilted pipes and drums through the dark autumnal morning, one can feel the ghosts of the slaughtered young men hovering around them. Surrounding them as they stand in a great circle for the service, families hold their babies, teenagers with poppies pinned to them jostle, albeit quietly , and one is aware that these are the descendents of those who served and connected to those who died. About 100,000 New Zealanders served in World War I out of a population of less than a million. The man in front of me, the woman beside me wiped tears throughout the service. The morning was mild and as they all marched away, first the old veterans, then some whose hair was not completely white and finally, bringing up the rear, the snappily dressed young ones, the rosy fingered dawn spread across the sky.
Perry-Castañeda Library Map Collection
Gil, who grew up on Sunday night documentaries that extolled the heroism of those who fought in WWII and listened to his father’s stories from his time in the South Pacific during that war, always wanted to be on the side of the good guys, to fight the kind of people who were responsible for the Holocaust and for Pearl Harbor. These were the myths that he grew up with. There were no other narratives presented.
So the little Gil listened, learned, and when he grew up, he dedicated his life to being one of those good guys. But the enemies were shadowy and some seemed to be in his own government, the men of government who sent young men into the Vietnamese jungles for dubious purposes. It wasn’t a clean or clear war as WWII had seemed to be. Still, he had made a commitment and he had to meet his obligations.
1972 population map of Vietnam from Perry-Castañeda Library Map Collection
When he was presented with an alternative (if you go back to Vietnam, I’ll divorce you, said his then-wife; if you don’t go to Vietnam, we will court-martial you, said the Navy), he went to Vietnam and, back in the jungle, with hostile fire around him, he got his “Dear John” letter, informing him that the divorce was going ahead.
And when he returned to the States with his discharge papers much later, there were no parades, no heroes’ welcomes. He was no one’s hero. Change out of your uniform, he was advised. Try to travel incognito, as if no one would recognize a military haircut in the days of long-haired hippies. He opened his green footlocker and packed all the medals and citations away.
This week, Laurie, our older friend and the Royal Navy veteran, urged Gil to pull out the medals, pin them to his chest and march in the Dawn Parade. Gil said it wasn’t his military, it wasn’t his occasion. Laurie said, come on and Gil doesn’t easily say no to Laurie, this cheerful man who once introduced Gil to someone as his “other son.” So we got up at 5 am, and while Gil put his ribbons on, they were nearly undetectable under his jacket. Gil was introduced to others at the gathering place as former LT of the US Navy and welcomed as such.
Wellington, New Zealand - credit : Ellen Kroeker
The kilted bagpipers and drummers swung into place, and the white heads, male and female stood to attention under the instructions of a very quavering voice. They turned on command, the drums began, the pipes began a mournful tune, and, with fragmented step, they marched off to the town center and the cenotaph for the Dawn Service. There, among the Brits, the Maoris, the Scots with their family tartan colors, the Irish, marched one American, slightly uncomfortable, slightly at home, as always. Along the side of the marching column walked wives and husbands, children and grandchildren.
On one corner, a small boy was riveted by the parade of heroes.
photo credits : Fleur Phillips & James Pratley
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Ohope Beach, New Zealand (December 2010)
Musée Rodin & Louvre, Paris, France (May 2002)
rose garden in Vienna, Austria (June 2006)
chocolate, Lawrence, Kansas (2009)
This 200-year-old uncredited drawing is probably the first European record of the Australian black swan, locally named mulgos. As this little guy below can tell you black swans are also found in New Zealand and the UK where their aggressiveness is feared to be endangering native birds – and they’re among his neighbors on the beaches that ring Lake Taupo.
Black swans known for their bugle-like call, for usually mating for life, and for aggressively defending their cygnets. I’ve been told that, like geese, these large birds are powerful and can cause injuries at full charge.
A few days after I arrived my mother introduced me to this spot, this friendly duck and the area’s five newest inhabitants. I was lucky – they were all conveniently awake and about despite unseasonably damp and chilly weather.
Suddenly, something happened –
Forget heroics or action photography – I straight out froze when I heard the sound.
Luckily, something kicked in and my trigger finger moved again before my heart did. I never figured out what startled her – she calmed as quickly and inexplicably as she had raged.
Feathers were re-ruffled, water droplets settled – and my own mother told me it was time for everyone to go.
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When it comes to weather, Kansas is a bit unpredictable. I never counted on a white Christmas or even a cold Christmas and always figured I was flexible when it came to how the holidays “should” be. But spending the holiday season in New Zealand this year was confusing.
With the sun out and the beaches full of kids on holiday, there’s no trouble getting into the swing of summer. I can wear sandals, shorts and t-shirts walking to town and eat lunch on my parents’ back patio while the house’s doors and windows are all open to catch the breeze.
On the other hand, I could totally get into the holiday spirit just by reading in the living room next to our family’s tiny Christmas tree with white lace snow flakes, or when the kids the language school where my mom works learned to bake holiday pies.
The problem comes with doing both at the same time. Every time we turn on the radio or tv, there’s advertisements: “Do your holiday shopping during Farmer’s summer blowout sales!” “Get your Kiwi bloke a grill this holiday season!” “Spend your Christmas Eve at AC Baths – swimming, raffles, prizes!” Every time we watch tv, there’s commercials that just do not make sense to me.
I realized just how embedded some of my seasonal patterns are; I get little twinges when things don’t match up, whether it’s tourists who show up in July and complain about the cold or my mother referring to April as “last fall.”
Luckily, this complicated problem has a simple fix : there’s nothing more relaxing or more joyous than a family Christmas picnic at the beach.
Growing up in Kansas, the holiday season was always a time of intensity and stress. Big family gatherings meant lots of arrangements, presents and preparation, plus in our family of mixed religious backgrounds, we always ended up trying to celebrate a little bit of everything – but I never felt like we fully landed on anything.
When I went to college and my parents moved to New Zealand, all of this came to an end. Now the holidays were about the winter break from classes and long distance phone calls – definitely less stressful, but also less celebratory.
Now that the move has become semi-permanent, my parents decided that my brother and I should get one annual visit each and this year we’ve all ended up in the same place for Christmas again, albeit halfway around the world from where we used to be. It’s been odd to listen to Christmas music with the windows open for the breeze, or to walk down the block looking at holiday lights in shorts and sandals.
But there’s huge rewards for if you can make the “difficult” adjustment : it turns out there’s nothing more relaxing or more joyous than a family Christmas picnic at the beach.
This post has been entered into the Grantourismo HomeAway Holiday-Rentals travel blogging competition
The end of the semester! I’ve turned in my students’ grades, received some of mine and finished semester projects. That means it’s time for winter break. My brother Peter, Steven and I heading to my parents’ house on New Zealand’s north island. I’ve been once, Peter has lived here over a year and visited since and it will be Steven’s first visit.
This time we’ll probably stay closer to home, but here are a few images from the north island…
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…and a few images from the the south island…
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…and a little something extra.
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The Air is Full of Spices 