Hey, folks, did you know that I am broke? Yes, it’s true. Backpackers are traditionally poor employees, so people are typically not terribly keen to hire them. I also note that Americans are typically not the most well thought-of people in the world, and the arrogance that we are generally known for is not looked upon kindly.
So fighting both of these stereotypes, armed only with a frightening head of dreadlocks, I find that there are not many work options open to me. This means I rarely get work. More importantly, this means I’m poor as hell. Traveling was my dream, and I still love it.
So you don’t get anywhere without asking for help. If you want to help the Cattiwampus Foundation, also known as the ‘James is hungry and has eaten almost nothing but peanut butter for the past two months’ fund, check the link below. You can also find this link on my facebook page. Don’t have much? Then only give a little. Ten bucks, five bucks, a dollar, is a huge help. I live cheap. Thanks, folks.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Couch Surfing Wellington
So I’ve returned to Wellington, lured by the promise of guaranteed work and the presence of honest-to-god coffee shops (open later than 4PM, a rarity in kiwiland). I applied for a job working in Home Healthcare, a steady gig that could have lent itself to some interesting stories. I interviewed well, despite the fact that when I arrived I could remember neither the name of the person I was supposed to see or even the name of the company I applied to.
I was told that I was hired, and just had to wait for the paperwork to process. I am constantly struck by Universal truths, common human things that seem to transcend culture to be a fact the world over. The particular truth I think of now is that all Human Resources departments are full of sniveling weasels. Everywhere I’ve ever worked this has been true, and this company was the same. They refuse to call a contract anything but ‘permanent’ and my visa has a line that says I am not allowed to take “permanent work.” So this opportunity, like so many others, fell through.
My friend Sean got me residence as a sort of long-term couch surfer at his flat. It is a strange house, populated by four hipsters, a Canadian stoner, an angsty goth (is there any other kind, really?), and a unicyclist. The goth is fairly resentful at my presence, and brings the strong kiwi tradition of passive-aggressiveness (a culture this polite can’t help but breed such), but thankfully no one else in the house seems to mind. One of the housemates is a girl that in the span of a month I have never actually heard speak aloud, although she seems nice. Sean is an extremely good guy; an incorrigible hipster, but nice about it.. As Wellington is the hipster capital of New Zealand, most everyone you meet has some degree of that about them. Personally, I don’t mind so much; I lived in Austin for five years before coming out here.
There is something about me that seems to invite strangers to approach me with their weirdness (‘tis my personal blessing, I think), so while most people may look askance, there is a core of odd and/or interesting people that seek me out. I was going to a coffee house for a cup of tea, when the barista began to chat with me about religious philosophy and his recent experiments with LSD. He even showed me his writings, a small batch of papers folded up in an envelope with subjects like “Natural” and “Nothingness.” I enjoy this sort of behavior, so I wrote him a couple of pages in response. Two days later he came to me asking for advice on doing Ecstasy. I recommended Vick’s Vapor Rub, and Valium for the comedown.
I have a knack for meeting street people, although I have met fewer in Wellington than in Auckland. Last night I did have an interesting conversation with a man that was beat boxing on the street. He continually complained that people acted frightened of him due to the fact that he was Maori. I personally think that it is because he is six and a half feet tall, and about four feet wide, but he was friendly enough to me. He kept referencing Shrek, stating “the ogre is the good guy, Prince Charming is bad” as the well dressed bar hoppers passed by. I also had a brief chat with the transsexual prostitutes that seem to abound in every major New Zealand town. They are strangely entertaining to chat with if you can get past the creepiness of the sexual propositioning. Personally, I like to ask them about politics.
So now I’m back to looking for work in every possible corner. I’m not sure anyone has ever been turned down from more cafes than me; for some reason no one seems to like the idea of me washing their dishes. At one point I a possible employer hung up on me after I admitted that I was from the States. I’ve started to think that I need to work on my Canadian accent.
I was told that I was hired, and just had to wait for the paperwork to process. I am constantly struck by Universal truths, common human things that seem to transcend culture to be a fact the world over. The particular truth I think of now is that all Human Resources departments are full of sniveling weasels. Everywhere I’ve ever worked this has been true, and this company was the same. They refuse to call a contract anything but ‘permanent’ and my visa has a line that says I am not allowed to take “permanent work.” So this opportunity, like so many others, fell through.
My friend Sean got me residence as a sort of long-term couch surfer at his flat. It is a strange house, populated by four hipsters, a Canadian stoner, an angsty goth (is there any other kind, really?), and a unicyclist. The goth is fairly resentful at my presence, and brings the strong kiwi tradition of passive-aggressiveness (a culture this polite can’t help but breed such), but thankfully no one else in the house seems to mind. One of the housemates is a girl that in the span of a month I have never actually heard speak aloud, although she seems nice. Sean is an extremely good guy; an incorrigible hipster, but nice about it.. As Wellington is the hipster capital of New Zealand, most everyone you meet has some degree of that about them. Personally, I don’t mind so much; I lived in Austin for five years before coming out here.
There is something about me that seems to invite strangers to approach me with their weirdness (‘tis my personal blessing, I think), so while most people may look askance, there is a core of odd and/or interesting people that seek me out. I was going to a coffee house for a cup of tea, when the barista began to chat with me about religious philosophy and his recent experiments with LSD. He even showed me his writings, a small batch of papers folded up in an envelope with subjects like “Natural” and “Nothingness.” I enjoy this sort of behavior, so I wrote him a couple of pages in response. Two days later he came to me asking for advice on doing Ecstasy. I recommended Vick’s Vapor Rub, and Valium for the comedown.
I have a knack for meeting street people, although I have met fewer in Wellington than in Auckland. Last night I did have an interesting conversation with a man that was beat boxing on the street. He continually complained that people acted frightened of him due to the fact that he was Maori. I personally think that it is because he is six and a half feet tall, and about four feet wide, but he was friendly enough to me. He kept referencing Shrek, stating “the ogre is the good guy, Prince Charming is bad” as the well dressed bar hoppers passed by. I also had a brief chat with the transsexual prostitutes that seem to abound in every major New Zealand town. They are strangely entertaining to chat with if you can get past the creepiness of the sexual propositioning. Personally, I like to ask them about politics.
So now I’m back to looking for work in every possible corner. I’m not sure anyone has ever been turned down from more cafes than me; for some reason no one seems to like the idea of me washing their dishes. At one point I a possible employer hung up on me after I admitted that I was from the States. I’ve started to think that I need to work on my Canadian accent.
A disclaimer, of sorts
Let me begin by apologizing. I have not been updating frequently, and I have posted what I have with care. I had originally intended to simply share my happenings with others. I succumbed, however, to my desire to be overly nice, to not speak ill of others. I also knew that my parents would read this, and did not want them to worry too much about me. However, after looking through my old posts, I realize that these precautions make for some dull reading. So I commit myself to making this a bit more interesting. So here to come are some slightly more true to life tales of my adventures abroad. To Dad, Mom, Aunt Anne, Amy, and Faith; I’m sorry about anything inappropriate. It’s for the sake of art and entertainment.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Migrant Workers and Bogans
I took the ferry to the south island from Wellington at two in the afternoon. I had arrived late, and had to buy a second ticket, then spent several hours napping on the terminal floor. The Cook straight is a beautiful trip. The Sun was setting as we arrived in Picton, and I realized as I walked out that the buses were done running for the day. A kind old man offered me a ride halfway, but as we were leaving the parking lot a man in need of jumper cables stopped us. I ended up being passed off to this man and his family; a young boy, and middle aged Kiwi, and his Asian wife who he just referred to as “Bob.” They took me to the doorstep of my new home, a hostel converted from a holiday park, now known as Duncannon.
It could house up to 200 hundred people, but there weren’t nearly so many while I was there. Blenheim is a dreary place in winter, and sunshine is rare. I took up employment with a contractor named Savvy, a shady operation run by Indians acting like gangsters. Big jewelry, polo shirts, 4x4 trucks, everything. The work was brutal outdoor labor in vineyards, stripping branches from the wires and stumps. The boss strutted around with the air of an overseer, stopping occasionally to tell you what you were doing wrong.
At the hostel, there was a strong air amongst the residents that they knew they were being put-on. Most were backpackers attempting to build savings, but there were some that traveled to New Zealand just for the work. It was a wide-ranging international community. I learned of the many accents of England, and met a variety of travelers. A wild and entertaining Scot named Lorry, a well traveled French girl named Faustine, a bevy of people from Uruguay (all of whom were fascinated by the yerba mate gourd I drank. They didn’t believe that I picked up the habit in Texas) and a Malaysian whose name I could never that managed to be present at every joint smoked on the property. Blenheim is barely a dot on the map, which means that weekend entertainment for most consisted of sneaking in alcohol and loitering in the smoking area.
Days consisted of a fair routine; work in the field, a semi-warm five minute shower (shower tokens were free, but the open air was cold), then loiter about the kitchen chatting to people. Meals were of the peasant food variety; porridge and kiwi fruit for breakfast, peanut butter for lunch, rice and beans for dinner. Occasionally splurge on a small head of two-dollar broccoli. When the rain was too heavy to work, it just varies between reading books and hunting for conversations. Every once in a while I would make a foray into town for a cup of coffee just as an excuse for activity.
Americans are not known for being a traveling people, and I’ve met few as I’ve wandered New Zealand. I find that there are a few things completely unable to be understood about America that fascinates most people I meet. Primarily it is extreme conservatism and guns. It seems to be a mystery to most, and I regularly get drawn into conversation about such. I find myself regularly saying that the show Cops is indeed real. It is interesting that people have some varying ideas on America, based largely on their country of origin.
Due to an inability to make any money in the vineyards, and the overall boringness of Blenheim, I decided to pack up again for a small jaunt into Nelson. The bus took me through the outskirts of Abel Tasman Park, which were some of the most beautiful views I’ve ever seen. The south Island has a much wilder feel than the north, and I look forward to exploring it thoroughly.
Nelson was a bigger town than Blenheim, known for being a haven for hippies on the South Island. I only witnessed a little of this, but for the most part the people were extremely friendly in a genuine way. I was able to meet real Kiwi rednecks (they call them ‘Bogans’) here, complete with mullets, flannel, and racism. I shared a hostel with a family of such; we had little interaction with one another. I found Nelson to be a pretty place, but as with most of New Zealand, no work available in the winter months. So after two days I packed up my things and headed back across the water to the North Island. Now trying my luck in Wellington. If nothing else, it is nice to be in a city where vegan food and a decent cup of coffee is actually an option.
It could house up to 200 hundred people, but there weren’t nearly so many while I was there. Blenheim is a dreary place in winter, and sunshine is rare. I took up employment with a contractor named Savvy, a shady operation run by Indians acting like gangsters. Big jewelry, polo shirts, 4x4 trucks, everything. The work was brutal outdoor labor in vineyards, stripping branches from the wires and stumps. The boss strutted around with the air of an overseer, stopping occasionally to tell you what you were doing wrong.
At the hostel, there was a strong air amongst the residents that they knew they were being put-on. Most were backpackers attempting to build savings, but there were some that traveled to New Zealand just for the work. It was a wide-ranging international community. I learned of the many accents of England, and met a variety of travelers. A wild and entertaining Scot named Lorry, a well traveled French girl named Faustine, a bevy of people from Uruguay (all of whom were fascinated by the yerba mate gourd I drank. They didn’t believe that I picked up the habit in Texas) and a Malaysian whose name I could never that managed to be present at every joint smoked on the property. Blenheim is barely a dot on the map, which means that weekend entertainment for most consisted of sneaking in alcohol and loitering in the smoking area.
Days consisted of a fair routine; work in the field, a semi-warm five minute shower (shower tokens were free, but the open air was cold), then loiter about the kitchen chatting to people. Meals were of the peasant food variety; porridge and kiwi fruit for breakfast, peanut butter for lunch, rice and beans for dinner. Occasionally splurge on a small head of two-dollar broccoli. When the rain was too heavy to work, it just varies between reading books and hunting for conversations. Every once in a while I would make a foray into town for a cup of coffee just as an excuse for activity.
Americans are not known for being a traveling people, and I’ve met few as I’ve wandered New Zealand. I find that there are a few things completely unable to be understood about America that fascinates most people I meet. Primarily it is extreme conservatism and guns. It seems to be a mystery to most, and I regularly get drawn into conversation about such. I find myself regularly saying that the show Cops is indeed real. It is interesting that people have some varying ideas on America, based largely on their country of origin.
Due to an inability to make any money in the vineyards, and the overall boringness of Blenheim, I decided to pack up again for a small jaunt into Nelson. The bus took me through the outskirts of Abel Tasman Park, which were some of the most beautiful views I’ve ever seen. The south Island has a much wilder feel than the north, and I look forward to exploring it thoroughly.
Nelson was a bigger town than Blenheim, known for being a haven for hippies on the South Island. I only witnessed a little of this, but for the most part the people were extremely friendly in a genuine way. I was able to meet real Kiwi rednecks (they call them ‘Bogans’) here, complete with mullets, flannel, and racism. I shared a hostel with a family of such; we had little interaction with one another. I found Nelson to be a pretty place, but as with most of New Zealand, no work available in the winter months. So after two days I packed up my things and headed back across the water to the North Island. Now trying my luck in Wellington. If nothing else, it is nice to be in a city where vegan food and a decent cup of coffee is actually an option.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Kawai Purapura
So for around two months I lived in a commune. It was situated in the far north of Auckland, a piece of wild bush amidst the sprawl of suburbia that has been plaguing the area like cultural kudzu. It is the former site of a cult known as Centrepoint. It is now known as Kawai Purapura.
There were around ninety residents and twenty WWOOFers; a combination of burned out hippies, artists, travelers, and the incurably weird. I lived in a small room that I shared with a friend, cramped conditions full of dirty laundry and empty jars of peanut butter. The bathrooms were communal outdoor affairs, and (as with most things there) highly reminiscent of summer camp. There was a large kitchen with four cooking areas, including one for cooking meat and one “elite” kitchen (which I was initially invited to and then later kicked out of for the heinous crime of ‘hanging out). The whole affair was surround with thick bush, bits of forest quite easy to get lost in. There was an area full of glowworms near a small stream. There was an open lot known as the Glade, which I was informed was the home to a number of fairies and the site of three different alien landings. I was supposed to mow the grass there at one point.
There were people from all over the world living there, all bringing interesting stories and personalities. Tucker, a cheerful Japanese man who competes in Air Guitar championships; Marie, an Irish folk singer who was one of my favorite people there (and one the only people I’ve met that can do justice to a Janis Joplin song); Kyang (no clue to spell his name), from China, who taught me both yoga and how to make Chai from scratch. He loved American “black” movies and food, and asked several times for me to teach him to make biscuits.
One of the downsides to communal living is that it tends to attract people who can’t normally find community on their own, and seek out places where people are obligated to be friendly to them. This leaded to some seriously annoying people sharing space, and the personalities clash. Borderline Personality Disorder is much in effect. The commune itself is run as a profit venture from Wellpark (seriously, a fucking profit driven eco village is a terrible idea). Note- never put hippies in charge of a business; they are karmically destined to fuck up the finances. I was charged four different amounts of rent at various instances, and then given a bill for the difference upon my departure. The personalities of some management combined with those of certain residents lent themselves to some interesting prejudices, particularly ageism. The residents were hidden from the people coming there on retreats, and the WWOOFers are essentially instructed to stay hidden from everyone. Little care is actually given to make it the community that so many people there are looking for; there is only a façade of sharing and openness from most (I found that the louder people talked about “community,” the less they actually did to create such an atmosphere).
There is a fair bit of controversy surrounding the place’s existence due to the Centrepoint cult that flourished there previously. There are a handful of people that have been living there since that time, and a few (such as my neighbor from one side) that seem to want to start a cult of their own. Having lived there, I can definitely say that there is a strange energy to the place, be it from the tragedies of the past or the weirdness of the present., I can’t say.
So I still like the idea of communal living, although that is a place I’d never recommend to try it. The world outside has no bearing in Kawai Purapura; it can be fun to escape for a time, but I don’t think anything there lends itself to any sort of personal development. More it is a place to go for arrested development; the high school antics are perfect for anyone who enjoyed the drama they generally grew out of at age fourteen.
No one likes a fake hippie. It has all of the opinions and stink, with none of the love or compassion.
So now I am back in the city, surrounded by something like the real world. Jobs (generally unheard of out there), rent, and meeting new people. A harsh adjustment, but quite a good. I am the sort of person that like progression. I'm looking forward to whatever the hell I end up doing next. Traveling is strange. The best thing I've learned so far is just to relax and enjoy the weirdness.
There were around ninety residents and twenty WWOOFers; a combination of burned out hippies, artists, travelers, and the incurably weird. I lived in a small room that I shared with a friend, cramped conditions full of dirty laundry and empty jars of peanut butter. The bathrooms were communal outdoor affairs, and (as with most things there) highly reminiscent of summer camp. There was a large kitchen with four cooking areas, including one for cooking meat and one “elite” kitchen (which I was initially invited to and then later kicked out of for the heinous crime of ‘hanging out). The whole affair was surround with thick bush, bits of forest quite easy to get lost in. There was an area full of glowworms near a small stream. There was an open lot known as the Glade, which I was informed was the home to a number of fairies and the site of three different alien landings. I was supposed to mow the grass there at one point.
There were people from all over the world living there, all bringing interesting stories and personalities. Tucker, a cheerful Japanese man who competes in Air Guitar championships; Marie, an Irish folk singer who was one of my favorite people there (and one the only people I’ve met that can do justice to a Janis Joplin song); Kyang (no clue to spell his name), from China, who taught me both yoga and how to make Chai from scratch. He loved American “black” movies and food, and asked several times for me to teach him to make biscuits.
One of the downsides to communal living is that it tends to attract people who can’t normally find community on their own, and seek out places where people are obligated to be friendly to them. This leaded to some seriously annoying people sharing space, and the personalities clash. Borderline Personality Disorder is much in effect. The commune itself is run as a profit venture from Wellpark (seriously, a fucking profit driven eco village is a terrible idea). Note- never put hippies in charge of a business; they are karmically destined to fuck up the finances. I was charged four different amounts of rent at various instances, and then given a bill for the difference upon my departure. The personalities of some management combined with those of certain residents lent themselves to some interesting prejudices, particularly ageism. The residents were hidden from the people coming there on retreats, and the WWOOFers are essentially instructed to stay hidden from everyone. Little care is actually given to make it the community that so many people there are looking for; there is only a façade of sharing and openness from most (I found that the louder people talked about “community,” the less they actually did to create such an atmosphere).
There is a fair bit of controversy surrounding the place’s existence due to the Centrepoint cult that flourished there previously. There are a handful of people that have been living there since that time, and a few (such as my neighbor from one side) that seem to want to start a cult of their own. Having lived there, I can definitely say that there is a strange energy to the place, be it from the tragedies of the past or the weirdness of the present., I can’t say.
So I still like the idea of communal living, although that is a place I’d never recommend to try it. The world outside has no bearing in Kawai Purapura; it can be fun to escape for a time, but I don’t think anything there lends itself to any sort of personal development. More it is a place to go for arrested development; the high school antics are perfect for anyone who enjoyed the drama they generally grew out of at age fourteen.
No one likes a fake hippie. It has all of the opinions and stink, with none of the love or compassion.
So now I am back in the city, surrounded by something like the real world. Jobs (generally unheard of out there), rent, and meeting new people. A harsh adjustment, but quite a good. I am the sort of person that like progression. I'm looking forward to whatever the hell I end up doing next. Traveling is strange. The best thing I've learned so far is just to relax and enjoy the weirdness.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Two months in, three blogs out
So it’s been almost two months since I arrived in New Zealand. I have been meeting the locals, learning about how people on the bottom of the world take life. It’s been an interesting time so far, to say the least.
After being in Auckland on my own for two weeks, I took a trip down to Wellington. I had some concern about my ability to wake up in time to catch the bus, I stayed up the entire night before I left. Unfortunately, I learned that it is nigh impossible to sleep on a bus. I was, however treated to a 13- hour tour through the countryside of the North Island. It is just a beautiful (and full of sheep) as I had been led to believe. Mother Earth took her time with this country; I don’t know whom she made it for, but I am happy to be reaping the benefits.
Wellington is a great city. It is a young town, with all the art and music that comes with a strong university culture. It may also be home to the only decent coffeehouse in the country (I.E., art on the walls, open late, and vegan food options).
After returning to Auckland, my friend Nikos (at whose flat I have been living) returned from America, giving me a partner in my various adventures. Taking some time to remember how to be friends again after seeing one another in person for the first time in almost two years, we promptly fell into old routines. We attended a family dinner (see previous blog), started making friends in town, and spending excessive amounts of money in restaurants. We took to finding any gym that gave free 7 day passes (there are a lot of them), and rotating through them to avoid the ridiculous fees that are charged for such here.
I share American culture as I can (primarily in the form of southern slang and rap music), and take what I can from Kiwi culture. I am shortly scheduled to move into an eco village in the northern part of Auckland, a sustainable living community of about 90 people from various places. I am quite looking forward to it; after two months on couches, having a whole room to myself will be luxurious indeed. I shall also be on the hunt for a job; the savings has dwindled rapidly, and pretty soon I’ll be sneaking into gardens to find sustenance. I’ll be taking the first job that doesn’t require a haircut
After being in Auckland on my own for two weeks, I took a trip down to Wellington. I had some concern about my ability to wake up in time to catch the bus, I stayed up the entire night before I left. Unfortunately, I learned that it is nigh impossible to sleep on a bus. I was, however treated to a 13- hour tour through the countryside of the North Island. It is just a beautiful (and full of sheep) as I had been led to believe. Mother Earth took her time with this country; I don’t know whom she made it for, but I am happy to be reaping the benefits.
Wellington is a great city. It is a young town, with all the art and music that comes with a strong university culture. It may also be home to the only decent coffeehouse in the country (I.E., art on the walls, open late, and vegan food options).
After returning to Auckland, my friend Nikos (at whose flat I have been living) returned from America, giving me a partner in my various adventures. Taking some time to remember how to be friends again after seeing one another in person for the first time in almost two years, we promptly fell into old routines. We attended a family dinner (see previous blog), started making friends in town, and spending excessive amounts of money in restaurants. We took to finding any gym that gave free 7 day passes (there are a lot of them), and rotating through them to avoid the ridiculous fees that are charged for such here.
I share American culture as I can (primarily in the form of southern slang and rap music), and take what I can from Kiwi culture. I am shortly scheduled to move into an eco village in the northern part of Auckland, a sustainable living community of about 90 people from various places. I am quite looking forward to it; after two months on couches, having a whole room to myself will be luxurious indeed. I shall also be on the hunt for a job; the savings has dwindled rapidly, and pretty soon I’ll be sneaking into gardens to find sustenance. I’ll be taking the first job that doesn’t require a haircut
Friday, March 19, 2010
A Family Dinner
Nikos and I received an invitation from an old family friend of his, a woman named Jocye that knew him as a boy. As I have been living on Nikos’s couch, I was given the invite to come as his friend. They would be having a dinner with their family, and that of a neighbor’s. Arriving to Joyce’s home, I was welcomed first by the scent of flowers from the garden, then by the cooking of several curries. We chatted together for a bit, and were informed that the site of the party had been moved to another house a few doors down.
I’m an American in New Zealand. I only know one person here, and a sense of nervousness pervades as we walk to the house. What I was greeted with was a combined gathering of around fourteen people from two different families, talking and cooking, all with warm smiles. It seemed to be taken as a given by everyone that I belonged there. They treated me warmly, as if I was an old friend, and not the stranger I was. Here lies a key facet of Kiwi culture; in speaking with people, they were open and honest in a way that shook me. Friendship did not have to be earned; they trusted me openly and without reservation.
I had not realized how much I am used to expecting duplicity in others. Realizing that I am conditioned to know that most of the people I am talking to have a hidden agenda of some kind, dealing with people that I could detect no such lie in was disturbing to me. I began to feel as though I am detoxifying from poisons I did not know I was taking. The old New Zealand culture is an impressive thing; this is a kind and open land.
I received numerous invitations to other gatherings, and even an offer to come stay at a house in Melbourne, Australia. It made me realize that I am only an outsider here is my own perception; everyone else knows I belong.
I’m an American in New Zealand. I only know one person here, and a sense of nervousness pervades as we walk to the house. What I was greeted with was a combined gathering of around fourteen people from two different families, talking and cooking, all with warm smiles. It seemed to be taken as a given by everyone that I belonged there. They treated me warmly, as if I was an old friend, and not the stranger I was. Here lies a key facet of Kiwi culture; in speaking with people, they were open and honest in a way that shook me. Friendship did not have to be earned; they trusted me openly and without reservation.
I had not realized how much I am used to expecting duplicity in others. Realizing that I am conditioned to know that most of the people I am talking to have a hidden agenda of some kind, dealing with people that I could detect no such lie in was disturbing to me. I began to feel as though I am detoxifying from poisons I did not know I was taking. The old New Zealand culture is an impressive thing; this is a kind and open land.
I received numerous invitations to other gatherings, and even an offer to come stay at a house in Melbourne, Australia. It made me realize that I am only an outsider here is my own perception; everyone else knows I belong.
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