Waitangi Day-on the treaty grounds, the march ended with a "haka" greeting from teenagers, along with a 20 minute back-and-forth in Maori between the kids and the leaders of the march. The "haka" is a sight to behold--even the University of Hawaii football team got into the practice of doing it before games, with the majority of their players being of Polynesian descent. It is famous worldwide largely due to The All Blacks--New Zealand's official religion, I mean, New Zealand's national rugby team employing it as an intimidation/psyche up routine prior to its matches. Check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Zvs4T4RU30&feature=relatedPretty cool, huh?
It might be akin to how Confederates used to yell as they were charging Union positions back in the Civil War or how American Indians used to yell before attacking whitey and withdrawing to casinos--it's designed to intimidate. And because Maoris themselves are big people, one can see how it would work. I'm going to incorporate it into my life by doing it at important moments--before asking for a pay raise, when I ask a woman out, or when I can't decide which cereal to buy.
Check the face of the guy in the middle, as well as the two girls up top on the left. Now imagine a 250lb guy doing this with an instrument in his hand designed to decapitate. www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haka
The end of the march on the treaty grounds. I think that flag is emblematic of the Maori motto: "White people need not apply." Saw a couple dozen Maori gang members who were kind enough to grace the special day with their presence. Reminded me of the 00's version of the 80's gangs in L.A.--many of them are affiliated with colors. I half expected Sean Penn to show up to bust some heads together. I would've taken a picture, but let's just say we tried not to make eye contact.
The march around the flagpole. Just prior to this, my roomie and I excused ourselves from the march--at this point, the march becomes a symbolic gesture of defiance toward the police-guarded flagpole and, well, the only things I would like to symbolically defy are ATM fees, older Asian women with drivers licenses and America's love affair with the word "like."
The fuzz.
The flagpole ringed by the po-po. And eager cameramen hoping their careers are propelled by a violent confrontation. Alas, no such luck. Maybe next year.
Stunning landscape behind the media. That is the new H.M.S. Canterbury off in the distance in the sea on the right. The old one was scuttled and is now a diving site. The new one looks like a half-finished rhombus on water. Not exactly the most aerodynamic or discreet thing sailing the seas these days. It basically obscures the view of the horizon from 1000 miles away.
This is where I removed my very white rear-end from the march, ambled down in front of the horde to take pictures as if the Maoris were exhibits in a zoo. I essentially fulfilled about 6 different stereotypes by doing this.
There was an American flag present among all the Maori independence flags up at the front. You can see it in this picture. The Stars and Stripes had a picture of an American Indian Chief on it, however, and said, "California, U.S.A." One gets a real good insight into how the Maoris view themselves and their historical role in New Zealand's history when Sitting Bull's image is conjoured up for the masses. At this point, were anyone to ask, I'm Canadian. You would be too if you saw how big Polynesians are.
Marching! Land for Maoris! Justice for my people! 
Still marching. Half-tempted at this point to start reciting Dr. King's "I Have a Dream" speech, since by this stage I'm half-Maori.
The H.M.S. Canterbury anchored off in the distance. A UFO in the left foreground. Russell is just off the picture on the right, where the hills are. If you look closely, you can see Los Angeles in this direction. Or at least some of its smog.
Approaching Waitangi.
This is Bonnie, the ex-cook at the Garden Bar in the back of the restaurant. She's saying, "nooo" as I try to take her picture. Ah, vanity. She and Fiona, the dishwasher in the kitchen, have left my life as they began their travels around the country just a week ago. But they left me a better man: more resolute and bouyed with character from all the rejections I endured from them. Thank you girls.
Your humble blogger trying on the Swedish cook's uniform. As you can see, he's the size of a viking. Between lunch and dinner shifts, he loots and pillages the town and hones his weapons for war.
That's me during a lunch shift. You know, contemplating the mysteries of the faith, ruminating on the boundaries of existentialism in a scientific universe, doodling...that sort of thing.
That's Fiona, our dishy, or dishwasher, who made me fall in love with Asian girls all over again. And Charlie, an occasional helper in the kitchen and a man of the town, with the uncanny ability to talk without moving his lips, making it nearly impossible to understand what he's saying.
The Viking and the French Chef...the title of one chapter in my forthcoming autobiography, "How You Too Can Avoid a 9-5."
The march around the flagpole. Just prior to this, my roomie and I excused ourselves from the march--at this point, the march becomes a symbolic gesture of defiance toward the police-guarded flagpole and, well, the only things I would like to symbolically defy are ATM fees, older Asian women with drivers licenses and America's love affair with the word "like."
The fuzz. The man.
5-0.
Guarding the flagpole.
In years past, there have been attacks on the flagpole during the march. Government officials have been jostled and egged. This year, it was docile. I'd like to think attitudes have matured. But I think it was the intimidating presence of that lady right in the middle of the picture. That body says, "not on my watch, Bubba."
The flagpole ringed by the po-po. And eager cameramen hoping their careers are propelled by a violent confrontation. Alas, no such luck. Maybe next year.
Stunning landscape behind the media. That is the new H.M.S. Canterbury off in the distance in the sea on the right. The old one was scuttled and is now a diving site. The new one looks like a half-finished rhombus on water. Not exactly the most aerodynamic or discreet thing sailing the seas these days. It basically obscures the view of the horizon from 1000 miles away.
This is where I removed my very white rear-end from the march, ambled down in front of the horde to take pictures as if the Maoris were exhibits in a zoo. I essentially fulfilled about 6 different stereotypes by doing this.
There was an American flag present among all the Maori independence flags up at the front. You can see it in this picture. The Stars and Stripes had a picture of an American Indian Chief on it, however, and said, "California, U.S.A." One gets a real good insight into how the Maoris view themselves and their historical role in New Zealand's history when Sitting Bull's image is conjoured up for the masses. At this point, were anyone to ask, I'm Canadian. You would be too if you saw how big Polynesians are.
Marching! Land for Maoris! Justice for my people! I haven't felt this safe as an American abroad since never. Usually the most hated nationality (called "bushism"), here I am among hundreds of Maoris and I've got an Englishman right in front of me! Say "hello" to England, the country responsible for this march! And, who do I see, but an Englishman with a bandana on right in front of me: my roommate.
I told Mark, if anything were to happen today, it was every man for himself, which meant there was a 99% chance that I would yell something like, "he's English! He did it! He's right here! It's his fault! His fault, I tell you!" as I ran for the woods screaming my national anthem.
Mark and I made the newspaper the following day. In a half-page photo of the marchers, you can see us in the crowd. I've hired an agent to field all the calls from Hollywood, now that I've been discovered. You should see the groupies, though.
Still marching. Half-tempted at this point to start reciting Dr. King's "I Have a Dream" speech, since by this stage I'm half-Maori.
The H.M.S. Canterbury anchored off in the distance. A UFO in the left foreground. Russell is just off the picture on the right, where the hills are. If you look closely, you can see Los Angeles in this direction. Or at least some of its smog.
Approaching Waitangi.
This is Bonnie, the ex-cook at the Garden Bar in the back of the restaurant. She's saying, "nooo" as I try to take her picture. Ah, vanity. She and Fiona, the dishwasher in the kitchen, have left my life as they began their travels around the country just a week ago. But they left me a better man: more resolute and bouyed with character from all the rejections I endured from them. Thank you girls.
Your humble blogger trying on the Swedish cook's uniform. As you can see, he's the size of a viking. Between lunch and dinner shifts, he loots and pillages the town and hones his weapons for war.
That's me during a lunch shift. You know, contemplating the mysteries of the faith, ruminating on the boundaries of existentialism in a scientific universe, doodling...that sort of thing.
That's Fiona, our dishy, or dishwasher, who made me fall in love with Asian girls all over again. And Charlie, an occasional helper in the kitchen and a man of the town, with the uncanny ability to talk without moving his lips, making it nearly impossible to understand what he's saying.
The Viking and the French Chef...the title of one chapter in my forthcoming autobiography, "How You Too Can Avoid a 9-5." Just to go on record: Bernard, the French chef on the right, is the coolest boss in town and probably the coolest Frenchman you'll never meet. I'm tempted to forgive France for World War II after working for him, but I won't.
My friends, from the left: snapper, gurnard, flounder, trevally, and John Dory. On top: crayfish, still alive and kicking. I had one jump off the tray after I had presented it to a table. They're fiesty when they first come out of the water and before we can refrigerate them for a few hours to calm them down. But it's fun to freak people out when I show up at tables and his antennae are moving around and I have a hand on him so that he doesn't flip off the tray. This one is smiling: ah, vanity.
Emilia from Argentina. She and her boyfriend helped us out for a month or so before going back home.
Zee Gables.
A tall ships race in the bay. The view from the restaurant.
Ditto.
Seeing all the boats everyday makes you want to get one. It's a pretty good life, spending your days on the water. They say the two happiest days of a boat owner's life are the day you buy your boat and the day you sell it.
My friends, from the left: snapper, gurnard, flounder, trevally, and John Dory. On top: crayfish, still alive and kicking. I had one jump off the tray after I had presented it to a table. They're fiesty when they first come out of the water and before we can refrigerate them for a few hours to calm them down. But it's fun to freak people out when I show up at tables and his antennae are moving around and I have a hand on him so that he doesn't flip off the tray. This one is smiling: ah, vanity.
Emilia from Argentina. She and her boyfriend helped us out for a month or so before going back home.
Zee Gables.
A tall ships race in the bay. The view from the restaurant.
Ditto.
Seeing all the boats everyday makes you want to get one. It's a pretty good life, spending your days on the water. They say the two happiest days of a boat owner's life are the day you buy your boat and the day you sell it.
No comments:
Post a Comment