Life in New Zealand

We've settled into the labouring part of the "working holiday". Our life now is quite ordinary; we have a house, a routine, jobs, a rotation of meals and favourite TV shows. Our plan is to work and save till August and then tour around, sleep in our car at D.O.C. (Dept. of Conservation) campgrounds and see more of this beautiful country, until December. Yet, despite the normalcy of our life, the subtle kiwi differences are apparent.

The road signs here are very dramatic. When we approach curves, the road sign predicts probable death, with an image of an uncontrolled car careening from side to side. In areas of loose gravel the sign's graphic warns that one errant hit from a rock will destroy your entire windshield. And don't forget, a sharp curve will topple a semi.

The government sponsored advertisements don't hold back either. Judging by these somber ads the country must be in the grips of binge drinkers, tired drivers and careless operators of heavy machinery. We haven't seen too many tired drivers, I would have said this country is humming with "boy racers". The drivers scream out of their driveways, accelerate like they're being chased, and then screech to a halt fifty meters away at the stop signs, (there aren't actually too many stop signs, most of the time you just "give way"). I don't know how it's done, but every car is made to sounds like it's sick and angry. This rumbling, thumping, choking sound is actually sought after.

New Zealand has no indigenous mammals. All the hairy creatures came over on boats: the people, their pets and livestock, their mice and rats. Instead birds had filled the niche filled by mammals and marsupials everywhere else. When we camped the other week, we heard dozens of different bird songs, fed ducks, geese and swans, but didn't see a single squirrel or fluffy bunny.

There are some differences in language as well. In the kitchen you boil water in the "jug". The jug sits on the "bench". Spilled pasta is swept up with the "brush and shovel" (I know!). Peppers go by "capsicums", zucchini by "courgette". Our rooms have different names as well, there's the "lounge" with the TV, and then there's the "toilet" which is separate from the bathroom, where you really just bathe. If something's good or cool, it's "sweet as" or "primo". A greeting is the hybrid, "how're you going?". This last one was confusing at first; where am I going? how's IT going? how am I? What are you asking? Oh, I see, I'm fine, thanks!

The beach

The beach here stretches for miles and miles, I can walk the few kilometers from our house to downtown Mt. Maunganui all along the ocean. At that end the beach terminates at the feet of Maoau (the mount of Mt. Maunganui). Curving back even further in the other direction it leads to the more rugged Papamoa, where we first stayed. Underfoot the sand feels like sugar, and sometimes like sifted flour, it's off-white and with few pebbles. The width of the beach does the length justice. When the tide is out the beach becomes a sandy playground for children, couples, volleyball teams, dogs and joggers. The tide must come in, when we go for walks I can see the moist traces of a high tide, but I've yet to catch it in the act. It flows in secret.

If you walk in shoes they will immediately fill up with sand, it's so deep. Close to the water line the sand is firm and smooth, you can walk quickly here, but up by the dunes it's like walking through a field of pillows. In general barefeet are the way to go, and if you shuffle, just so, the sand squeaks.

In the water breaking waves kick up the fine and fluffy sand, it swirls around under the surface in chaotic silence. It's the sort of sand that fills the lining of your bathing suit in no time, but takes years of rinsing to get back out. Maybe each grain is shaped like a light bulb. The best way to fill your bathing suit is by boogie boarding. This way each tumultuous crash and swirl of sand is concentrated on your lower half, for maximum exposure to the particulate mixture.

Here the waves break in threes, so that the regular breathing in and out of the ocean is replaced with a steady roar. Waves topple over themselves and others as they clamber to the shore, and then stumble in excitement as they slide back into the sea. If you're in a bad mood, or a sad mood, just go to the beach. Bury your feet in the warm sand, scoot out an indentation for you bum and admire the clouds and sky, the tireless waves and the selfish seagulls.