New Zealand is #4

in the listing of countries from safest to most dangerous, right up there with Iceland, Greenland and Denmark. It is not totally safe for rabbits. Since the pakeha (outside people) found life without mammals to hunt intolerable, rabbits were introduced for sport. As you know, reproduction for rabbits is not regarded as needing anything as encouraging as an environment with no predators, aside from a few dogs and mounted pakehas. Rabbits have prospered in their new country and are universally hated.

While you dear blogger was destroying the mother of all scratchy rose tree-bushes on this past Good Friday, other Kiwis were gearing up for The Great Alexandra Easter Bunny Hunt, a 24-hour extermination of the rabbit held annually every Easter. In this event, teams of a maximum of 12 shooters are balloted blocks throughout the region and following a briefing early on Good Friday commence on a 24-hour shoot. All teams return to Pioneer Park in Alexandra on Saturday for the official count, BBQ lunch, entertainment and prize giving. Cash prizes and trophy are awarded for most rabbits exterminated plus hard luck stories and spot prizes throughout the day. Special categories for best equipped shooting vehicle.

Another window into New Zealand: A Kiwi lands in Auckland (the main international airport for those coming from the states through LA, SF or Hawaii). The traveler is questioned about where in NZ she/he lives. If the answer is Auckland, the response is: “in which part do you live?”; if Wellington (capitol of NZ) “what is your job?”; if Christchurch: “what school are you attending?”; if Dunedin, the response is: “ooooh…how is it going for you down there?” (actually: “how’re you going?”)

Your intrepid blogger got away from Dunedin (Whaikikamukau) to play some concerts during a thrilling whirlwind visit to the North Island a couple of weeks ago, (Taupo and Tauranga) to play concerts with Alexa Still. Alexa is an internationally-known किवी flautist now living in Sydney. The concerts were exciting enough but there was also a wonderful visit to a Maori school with Alexa, Richard Nunns—a man who made it his life’s work to learn to play traditional Maori instruments—and the NZ String Quartet. Our little group of white outsiders (Pakeha) were welcomed with a pohiri: a ceremony that included forceful introductory speeches, a Haka, some marvelously intense singing and concluded with the traditional Hongi—pressing of noses. (Google for in-depth cultural immersion information…)

[The pohiri (powhiri in some places) is the traditional Maori welcome ceremony which takes place usually when going onto a marae (sacred meeting house). The purpose of the pohiri is to remove the tapu of the Manuhiri (visitors) to make them one with the Tangata Whenua (Home people). It is a gradual process of the Manuhiri and the Tangata Whenua coming together.]

The Lost in Translation aspect of this had to do the visceral aspect of feeling so very foreign. We were all bound up in an ancient ceremony of survival/greeting, not as observers but as the vital focus and it was overwhelming. As Gertrude Stein might have or did put it: “We are here, we are not there…” The utter intensity of this was of the calibre (sic) of the experience that puts you on the verge of tears and laughter simultaneously…

It is strange to look at our beautiful calendar from the Metropolitan with scenes of NY and see Memorial Day, the beginning of Summer in the states, as we enter into the very long nights and short days of Winter. Here we are: one sprouting, dual-citizenshipped offspring having entered teenage-dom and the other about to leave the single digits, having, as her expressed goal, to reach the triple digits! One violinist having a signed a contract for teaching at the Uni, one pianist gearing up to record some piano works by a dear friend.

Kia Ora!