New Zealand, this place, is a wonder, both beautiful and profound. I do not mean profound as in sage-like, I mean profound as in very deep with many things stirring under the surface. If New Zealand were a person, it would be an attractive, trim, be-speckled barista in stylish thrift store clothes with a few hidden tribal tattoos with meanings only (sort of) beknownst to them. Slightly edgy, like a butter knife at a high-end restaurant, they could easily be confused with being from Northern California. Other than their penchant for art and their natural, ruthlessly protected beauty, they are not of much consequence to the world. They are rife with colonial guilt over what their ancestors did to the natives, as demonstrated by keeping Maori words for things as a type of penance. However, not too long ago, they turned a blind eye to the forcible removal of unarmed native protestors desperately trying to keep their tribal lands. They are personable and well mannered, but behind closed doors, there is a bit of resentment towards those that they see only on screens on the other edge of Western civilization. These kiwis sit watching full of silent judgment. They say to themselves, “Hey! Look at us! We can do so much more than you, big guys!” Yet they fail to take into account the mostly homogeneous demographics (forgetting their often exploited foreign labor) and that their country has a fraction of the population with almost none of the global responsibility. While going out of their way to show reverence to their devout feminism, most seem to gloss over that in every city, town, and hamlet in the country, someone lost a brother, father, or husband in the World Wars. Like in too many places the world over, memorials are constructed only to forget. In summation, New Zealand is a natural wonder. It is filled with almost indescribable beauty. Yet, like a secluded hermit, they are very set in their sometimes paradoxical ways. Worth a visit, bring the kids.
