Bay of Islands

Technically, we had been e-mailed an itinerary for our weekend excursion to the Bay of Islands.  However, as I did not bring my laptop along, I found myself asking everyone else "When do we need to wake up tomorrow?" and finding out our activities as we did them.  Fortunately, our first evening at the hostel was free of commitments.  It consisted of sleep, going to a restaurant called Shippey's, which is on a boat, and then more sleep.

Saturday, the first real day of stuff, we went to the Waitangi Treaty Grounds, a place we've heard infamously much about in our classes.  This is the place where, in 1840, British representatives and Māori leaders laid down guidelines relating to sovereignity and land ownership.  The problem is, the Māori version--Te Tiriti o Waitangi--is apparently quite different from the English version--The Treaty of Waitangi.  (Surprisingly, the Māori words te and o, which basically mean the and of, are not related to the English words.  It's a small world--or a small mouth--after all.)

A depiction of the treaty's signing.

The Māori version says something like: you may keep all your land.  Whereas the English version says something like: we may take all your land.  It erupted in almost three decades of internal land wars.  Naturally, this is still a point of contention today, though at the tourist-aimed Treaty Grounds, it was made to seem like all New Zealand is one big happy island family.  Sort of like how in Pokémon all the creatures coexist happily and you never think about what that meat is the characters are eating.

It really does take an extra mental step when viewing beautiful places to remember that war took place here.

A waka, or war canoe, replica built on the hundreth anniversity of the treaty's signing.  Nowadays, waka can refer to any vehicle.  There's even a bus company called Waka Pacific.

Next on our trip was Russell, known as "The Hellhole of the Pacific" for the criminals, drunks, and sex workers who populated it in the days of yore.  Upon arrival, we found, tragically, that it had devolved into a quaint seaside village.

The Hellhole of the Pacific

 

Oh my god, get me out of this place.

After going to the rather odd Russell Museum, whose bric-a-brac reminded my of an I Spy book, we were on our own to wander the town and beach.  The beach was composed not of sand but of smooth rocks which groups of seagulls were nuzzling into for warmth.  At the end of a beach was a surprise nature preserve trail.

 

Though it said "Kiwi Zone," we saw no kiwis.  They're nocturnal or some excuse like that.

At the end of the trail we were left on a random road.  All we knew is that we were high up and needed to get back down.  On the way, though, we ran into an artist's collective and what we're pretty sure was a pukeko, another awkward bird which has waddled its way into New Zealand symbology.

 

I did not take this picture.  But you get the idea.

A bilingual pun at the art place.  I went weak in the knees.  (Aotearoa is the Māori name for New Zealand.)

Oh, and speaking of awkward birds, as we were waiting for the ferry, we saw, no kidding, a one-legged seagull.  I named him Skipper.

 

He had to hop to move, but had amazingly good posture.

In the evening, it turned out we were going back to the Treaty Grounds for a..."cultural performance and light show."  But I mean, who's to say what authenticity is?  At the end there was heart-warming a song in English about how the Treaty of Waitangi brought two peoples together to live as one.  All the Dartmouth students were uncomfortable.  It was great.

 

The next day, Sunday, I had the vaguest conception of beforehand.  All I knew is that we were going further north, to Cape Rēinga, which it turns out is the very tip of the North Island.

 

Stop one was a place called Gumdiggers, which showed us places people used to dig for kauri gum, which is basically hardened sap from the kauri tree.  Apparently it can be used in some type of varnish and lacquer and became New Zealand's biggest export in the 1900s.  It's quite pretty, actually.



Back in the day, the average New Zealand household had a piece of this lying around, usually as a doorstop.  Now, at the gift shop, pieces this size sell for, oh, over a thousand dollars each.

Then, some drive further, Cape Rēinga itself.  The end of the world, or at least of land, for miles and miles.

 

I couldn't help but blink in sheer awe.

While everyone else went to look at a lighthouse, Melinda, Ian, Matt, and I took a path in the opposite direction toward Tapotupotu Bay.

 

Suckers...

It felt like another universe.

A windy universe.

So filled with rapture was I that I took a steep downhill path too fast running and lost my balance.  I slid hard, still laughing.  Even though I had sleeves and long pants, I was left with battle wounds.

 

But really, what truer way of interacting with a place than being bodily altered by it?

Perhaps even destroyed?

A place that, were I to fall to my doom, I would comparatively not mind doing so in.

After this, we were driven to some sand dunes where I learned we were going sandboarding!  It's basically sledding, except with boogie boards, and headfirst, and sand doesn't melt if it gets in your eyes.  It was an apocalyptic moment at the top of the dune, all of us students with our unwieldy boards, trying to keep them from blowing away or blowing us away in the fierce gusts.  Sand whipped upward and battered our skin, and we were afraid to open our eyes.  I went down at the same time as Genevieve and Rachel, and of course my board started steering off course toward them, and of course I wiped out in between their paths, and of course I fell over and got sand in my fresh wounds and in my eyes.  I blindly staggered to the bus, unable to open my eyes until a lady with water helped me flush them out.  Covered in sand and blood, I just had to smile.  Indeed, it takes a lot to make me not have a good time.  Maybe, I thought, I will be destroyed after all.

We rode back home along Ninety Mile Beach, which is actually only sixty-nine miles long, but dang that's still impressive.  It's legally a national highway, you drive on the sand, and cops can catch you for speeding.

Along the way in Opononi

Melinda went right to the shore.

!!!

The next day involved a trip to the tallest extant kauri tree.  Apparently trees much, much bigger existed when Europeans first came, but it wouldn't be the white man's burden if you didn't have to put your back into it, now would it?

Tāne Mahuta, named after a Māori god, is up to 2500 years old and stands 168 feet tall.

And then there was the Kauri Museum, which had a delightful mix of neat things and terrifying things.

An unfortunate figure turning a crank.  There's a button you press and he actually turns it, but it's the machine that moves, so his arm just follows lifelessly.  Also, that position...  And that face...

An old accordion.  You were allowed to touch it!  It still made noise!

Toys?  Fun?

Poor things.

And that's about the last thing we did before getting back to Auckland.  Now for that paper I'm supposed to be writing about this trip that's due tomorrow...
 



Pukapuka Tuhituhi

 

Ināianei kua kainga taku rorohiko e he pāpahu i tātahi. 

 

Or: "my computer was eaten just now by some dolphins at the seaside."  But that's a lie, because it wasn't, as I'm typing on it right now.

 

Māori is a flavorful language.  It has just ten consonants and five vowels, giving it a sonic aesthetic which seems smooth and gleaming.  There is an illusion of simplicity--indeed, for many years Westerners thought the language was inferior--whereas languages like German and Georgian are quite upfront about being complex and difficult.  Prtskvna!  But Māori, though straightforward in some aspects, has its own quirks, like having to memorize the unpredictable passive form of every single verb.  (This weekend, we have to go back through with a dictionary and do this for all the verbs we've learned.)

 

My favorite word so far is "notebook," or pukapuka tuhituhi.  "Computer," rorohiko, from the sentence at the top, is "lightning brain." Also fun are the borrowings from English, as the sounds have changed to fit the syllables Māori has available.  Some goodies:

 

tāone -- town

reme -- lamb

hipi -- sheep

waea -- wire

tūru -- chair (I assume this comes from "stool")

motokā -- car

wīwī -- French person (from "Oui oui")

haina -- sign

haina -- China (the two haina's are Cali's favorite)

hāhi -- church

whutupaoro -- football

karaehe -- glass (yes, that comes from "glass"... g -> k; l -> r; s -> h)

 

It's almost like an argument that Western culture has assimilated into Māori culture, though that doesn't hold much water beyond these words.

 

In the politicized atmosphere of Māori-Kiwi relations, learning Māori feels a bit like trespassing.  Unlike English or Chinese or even Finnish, which have spread all over the world, Māori remains closely tied to these islands and the identity of the native population.  In studying Māori, one seems implicitly to want to take part in the cultural life of the Māori people, which maybe is something they never asked you to do.  I mean, the Māori have given up so much since the Pākehā (white people) came, maybe they don't want to share what they have left.  The Māori we've met so far, though, have been incredibly welcoming, and I think most are just looking for respect.

 

What people probably wonder more is, "Why are these Americans interested in Māori?"  It makes sense for a New Zealander to want to pick up Māori: it's an official language, there are signs written in it, you'll have some friends who probably speak it, and you can understand the names of towns, roads, and landmarks.  But once we leave New Zealand...whelp...  Secret code with Alpha Theta people?

 

Maybe the reason I'm wondering all this is because our teacher, Professor Mutu, is a bit of a firebrand.  In the Māori language class, she seems quirky and a little strict, so overall I like her as a teacher.  She hasn't been like, "You white people definitely cannot learn this language well."  She even makes sure to explain some Kiwi terms for us Americans.  But in the Māori culture class (which the linguistics people aren't taking), she has talked about how the Pākehā can never understand certain things and automatically have suppressive tendencies.  Apparently she's in favor of taking back all Māori land and making the whites and Asians leave, and argues that since her people are not in a position of power, none of her opinions can be considered racist.  I'm not going to issue an opinion on that, as I can't begin yet to understand the racial dynamics of this country. 

 

But I must say that Dr. Mutu reminds me of another controversial doctor...



 

 

And this is the part of the blog where I get kicked off the program.

Rangitoto Island

Rangitoto Island viewed from the mainland.

Rangitoto Island is basically a giant park.  There is no food or fresh water on the island, so you have to bring everything.  (Hummus sandwiches and golden kiwi, check.)  You can technically boat there, but most people take the ferry.  Don't miss the return trip, because I suppose you would starve.  It was 7:30 when Ian, Melinda, Grace, Justine, and I hopped on the boat, and fortunately our provisions lasted us the whole six-or-so hours we were there.

The name of the island is a little eerie.  Literally, rangi means sky and toto blood.  According to the pamphlet, this refers to the injury of a certain chief during a battle on the island.  But according to Bianca, the Māori tour guide who pointed out Rangitoto to us last week, the formation of the island looked like blood coming from the sky.  The island is relatively new, geologically speaking, and the Māori were there when it was formed, as evidenced by human footprints fossilized in the volcanic rock.  (But wouldn't that hurt?)

Pōhutukawa

Kōwhai

Our first meanderings on the island took us through a forested area.  We got to see the spiky red flowers of the Pōhutukawa Tree, nowadays nicknamed the "New Zealand Christmas Tree."  It's an evergreen that blooms around Christmas-time (meaning summer), and most have already closed up.  The Kōwhai, native to New Zealand, is the plant you see in the background of this blog.  In the spring and summer it has hanging yellow blooms which, sadly, had already dropped off.

An abandoned bach (pronounced like batch)

And the bachyard

In the early part of the century there used to be a hundred or so baches, or hand-built cabins, along the coast.  As they were often constructed on questionably legal grounds, most were pulled down in the eighties, though a few are still standing, and a couple still used.  The volcanic scenery along with the remains of these shack houses give this part of the island a sense of disaster.  As if the island rebelled against habitation and forced the dwellers to evacuate; or, something still undiscovered caused them all to leave, after which nature overtook the land.  Perhaps, because it is an island, they did not escape.  But no, unexcitingly, I don't think anything like that happened.

One bach, though locked, had its old contents arranged inside.

Who could she be?

The kitchen (like all these photos, taken through a window)

Umm...

After looking at the baches, which were near the arrival point, we decided to take the long path along the western coast.  Black, porous rock was everywhere.  The path was made of it, lined with it, and there were chunks of it in piles in every direction.  I'm amazed how such harsh, raw base material can come to foster such rich plantlife.

The path from Flax Point.  A volcanic wasteland...except not really.

A view of the coast from Flax Point.  Unexpected diversity in one frame.

We passed patch of rocks stretching far out into the water, home to a Black Back Gull colony.  It's even on the map.  I guess, being from Minnesota, I don't think of a group of birds being geographically constant enough to put down on paper.  Though there are parking lots where you can always count on seagulls.

The gull colony, sort of visible as white specks dotting the rocks.

Ian's jauntily dressed legs, making haste away from his despised seagulls.

The Variable Oystercatcher, or Tōrea-Pango.

Oystercatchers were another common sight, rooting around the shallows with their pointy bills.  (A tourist at Mission Bay the day before had said, "They look like they have carrots stuck one their faces.")  The one in the picture was a mother, who called to her children when we passed.  You can see one of the offspring to the right of her, though the plumage blends in with the path.

Soon after this, we came across a sudden patch of gigantic trees.  In seconds, the landscape went from flat and scruffy to grand and high.

I feel like, at the end of this wooded path, should lie our collective destiny or something.  But actually it was just more gravel path.  Symbolic?

After exploring the west coast, we decided to go to the summit.  Our map had estimated it would take 90 minutes to get this far, and it had taken us less than an hour.  We decided not to trust the trail time estimates.  Especially when...

...we saw this sign.  Note the time to the summit.

This is the back of the same sign!  LIES.  Also note how the wharf time has been scratched out and repainted.

The hike to the summit took us less than an hour, even with a long rest to take pictures.  The elevation snuck up on us, and suddenly we realized we could see Auckland and all the surrounding islands from above.

In the foreground, wooded Rangitoto.  In the distance, the sister island, Motutapu.

Another view from the summit.

In the top photo there, you can see Motutapu ("sacred island") which almost touches Rangitoto.  Whereas Rangitoto is fairly covered in vegetation, Mototapu seems to be composed of bald hills.  Their like opposites, complements.  I wonder how they can be so nearby and with such different characteristics.

Ian in some...military fortification?

And a final creepy note about the island.  There are remains of prison barracks (which we didn't see) and also military buildings.  The one in the picture, along the crater rim, is a simple cement building with no windows.  New Zealand prepared for invasion during the World Wars, but was too out of the way I guess, and so the war never came this far south.  So, unusually, these are ruins notable not for their history but their lack of history.  Buildings mostly unused fallen into disuse.

I swear, the entire island is someday going to reclaim anything that humans have altered on it.  I mean, abandoned barracks, dilapidated shacks, volcanic debris, misleading signs, and a group of college students on an island called sky blood?  Definitely the makings of a horror movie.  I'd watch it.

The Love of My Liver

 

The Maori artifacts in the Auckland War Memorial Museum were covered in patterns, whether carved, painted, or woven.  A box, a puppet, a storage building, an oar, even a rifle bought from the English.  All but the smooth stone flax-pounders seemed to place the ornamental above the practical.  Except that these designs, while not geared toward efficiency, are not quite impractical.  Wouldn’t you paddle harder given an oar tooled meticulously and thoughtfully by hand?

Unlike pure decoration designs, the designs are composed of motifs with given meanings.  A hook shape on the hull of a ship and tattooed on our guide’s arm signifies speed, as it echoes the way water swirls when paddled quickly.  (Also see the red and black section of the above picture).  A woven staircase design in the sacred house, or marae, signifies education.  (See picture.)  It’s almost like a doubly secret code: first secret in that outsiders don’t know what the symbols mean, and then secret in that the symbols might be mistaken for meaningless flourish.  Of course, when there were only Maori in Aotearoa (the native name for New Zealand), everyone would know the patterns contained symbols.  Only nowadays are there people who will encounter these objects and just think, “Oh, how pretty.”

I think we all have a spiritual need for depth.  We look at something and want there to be significance beneath the surface, an answer to “But what does it mean?”  Language is so alluring to me because it is both a sound entity and a meaning entity.  Only speakers of the language can access the meaning, and so have the special satisfaction of knowing what is beyond the sound.  In Victorian England, a so-called “language of flowers” emerged to express sentiments that would be inappropriate to express directly.  Imagine the dual experience of a suitor receiving a japan rose, aware superficially that his beloved has finally given him a flower, but aware also that this particular flower means “beauty is your only attraction.”  Hearts, peace signs, and Chinese characters might be so popular in America because there is a meaning behind them, even if it’s trite or out of context.

Yet these deeper meanings are not inherent in the objects, sounds, or shapes; they are assigned by cultures.  Looking for a deeper meaning in language or music or the natural world, I find only arbitrary human associations.  Maybe this is why so many see language and nature as a higher power’s creation.  It gives these things another level of significance, the sacred, which we claim is not something we thought up.  When we make art, we are trying to reach something beyond ourselves—beyond humanity even—something universal.  Please, is there not, we ask, something besides ourselves?  Surrounded by these Maori objects rich with meaning, though, I felt a part of a system of understanding.  I sensed something great and profound and comforting, even if I knew it was derived by people.

There is a saying in Maori, “you are the love of my liver.”  Rather than the heart, the liver is considered the emotional epicenter.  When I think about it, there are many emotions that seem to occur in the liver, though I won’t deny I’ve had heart-emotions, stomach-emotions, and scalp-emotions as well.  At first, the English translation of this phrase struck me as humorous, a play on “love of my life,” but of course that pun was not there originally.  I guess it goes to show that, no matter how much I try to be open to another world of understanding, I will experience it through my own personal/cultural lens.  In translation, if you will.