Remember a couple days ago when I commented on the ongoing battle between the trees and the houses? Well it seems that the trees have the law on their side. Apparently it is illegal to cut down a tree that is over 2 meters tall in Auckland. Why? I have no idea. It's not like the trees need any help. BUT... In the neighborhood where Nan and Pop live, unless it is already existing, you are not allowed to grow a tree over 2 meters. You wouldn't wanting a tree to get in the way of someone's view of the lake, now would you?
This is a tree I found while roaming Auckland with Nana and Pop. I named it Donny. I liked it. It was HUGE! It's branches stretched all the way across the road. I have no idea how old this tree is, but I would like to find out.
It's been a couple days and some things have changed. I thought I better update. On Sunday Nana and Pop came to Auckland and we drove around and showed me all the sights to see. Queens street, harbor bridge, all that good stuff. Nan knows her way around there pretty good, that was her old stomping ground. We visited the house she grew up in. Built 110 years ago by my great, great, great, grandfather for about 100 pounds, now its worth about $2 million. Not because it's a great house, but because it is right on the ocean. More than likely if it was sold now it would be pulled down and a new, modern house would be built in it's place. Sad, but it's the truth.
We stopped and visited with Aunty Margo, my Nan's sister. and then Jennifer, my Nan's cousin, they both live in Auckland. It was good to meet some of my relations, cause I don't think I have ever met them.
The drive back to Rotorua is about 4 hours. I was really tired and wanted to but my head down and sleep the whole way, but I enjoyed looking out at the scenery so much that I forced myself to stay awake the entire drive.
There is so much thermal activity here. This land is literally made up of thousands of volcanoes. This picture is a cone of a volcano, the dirt around it has eroded away and has left just the cone that is made of more solid rock. It's basically a pillar of rock jutting up out of the ground. and they are all over the place. There are hills all over the place. Small ones, big ones, they seem to come up no where. They are in fact, also volcanos. The poor country looks like it has broken out in a bad case of acne. Pictures just don't do it justice.
Aunty Tracy and Uncle Mike look just like I remember them, but their kids Kelsey, Mikey and Hamish and grown up a lot. They were really shy at first but we are doing better. Now they might even talk to me! I have started teaching Hamish piano and he is doing really well!
Well I think that we are almost caught up now. More later I guess.
I look out the window and I see the neighboring field. It is overgrown with plants and bushes. Emere tells me most of it is bamboo. This fascinates me, though she can't understand why. I always thought bamboo would be taller and more... chinese and certainly not so common. I look farther down the hill and I see more plants and trees, as far as I can see there is green. And sandwiched in between the trees are houses. I know there must be more houses than what I can see, this is Auckland after all, but they are obscured by the native foliage. I am in the middle of a battle between the houses and the trees. I think the trees are winning. You know what? I think I miss the brown.
Right now I am waiting for Nana and Pop to come pick me up. We will be going down to Rotorua. I will be glad to get out of the city and into the country where there is hopefully a little more room to breathe. But it will be sad to leave the Josephs. It has been wonderful staying here. I don't miss my family as much because I have been here. Hopefully I will be able to come back sometime. It has been so easy to be here because the Joshephs have the same principles and standards to my own family. It's interesting to me how similar the two homes are because they are both built from the same stuff.
What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life
in our bodies, we are determined to rush
to see the sun the other way around?
This is a quote from Elizabeth Bishop's poem Questions of Travel. (want to see the whole poem? click here!) While I have some spare time on my hands I have been thinking about this poem. This line struck me because lots of the time I am one of those people who rush. Is it childishness? I think so. But that is not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes a little childishness can be good for us. Must we always take things so seriously? Think of a child. So full of life. Of wonder. Of adventure. Always busy. Always doing something. Squeezing as much as they can into a day. Never looking back. I hope I will be able to have this sort of childishness as I discover this wonderful country. I hope I will be able to fill my days with everything good in my rush to see the sun the other way around. Elizabeth Bishop, I defy you. I will rush. I will fill. I will love. The sun will go around. And it will be great.
Everything is different here. I was expecting that. But still it is a little ... tiring... I guess you could say. It is tiring cause I can't relax. I am on edge a lot of the time, I am not completely comfortable here yet. They ask me how it is different and, honestly, I can't answer. Everything is. the houses. the people. the food. the shops. the roads. the cars. the money. and I could go on and on. Please don't misunderstand me. Different is good. It is exactly what I wanted. And I don't regret wanting that. I rejoice in the differences, because without that I would never learn. But I cling to the few things that are the same. These keep me sane. But what I was wondering was, How long will it be until it isn't different any more?
okay right now I am suffering from a lethal combination of sugar and jetlag. I highly suggest you don't try it. But I am determined to stay up all day. Supposedly it's better that way. I thought it would be best to start off this adventure on a good foot, I hope I will be able to continue blogging regularly. but i will see how this goes, it is a little hard to type right now, my fingers aren't working very good for some reason... I guess I will start at the beginning. I woke up monday morning feeling... slightly anxious, to say the least. The rest of the day I wandered around putting the last minute things in my bag. About noon I was feeling nauseous and was thinking That I am an idiot. Drove to Calgary. Was a typical drive, with kids shouting and yelling and plenty of 'are we there yet?'s. but all the sweeter because I knew it would be the last. Ate at the airport with the fam jam. and then it was time to say good bye. That was tough walking away from them, and i will always remember looking back and seeing them all standing there, smiling at me. I was grateful that there was no one to watch me wipe away my tears as I walked around the corner. American customs? consider yourself owned. Although about half-way through the line in said customs I had a panicked thought that I had forgotten my portable hard drive. There wasn't time or room to look for it though and nothing to do if I didn't have it. But never fear! That wonderful man who worked for customs was kind enough to find it for me when he pulled the entire contents of my bag out! apparently my make up brush looks like a container of liquids when turned at a certain angle. okay I have a feeling this could be a long post so I will speed it up a little. Calgary to LAX: hmm okay. Plane was 45 minutes late, so I barely made my connection. I sat with a wonderful lady who slept from take off to landing. Ya I was a little jealous. LAX to auckland: could have been better. Was sitting next to the most humungous man I have ever seen. To say he was big would be an extreme exaggeration. but it was okay. I just spent the next 11 and 57 minutes literally hugging the wall of the plane in order to avoid getting squished. was slightly worried as my bags took a very long time in coming. but eventually they did and I escaped from the airport relatively unharmed. And just to rub it in. For lunch I had a fish burger and chips with a fijoa and raspberry slushie. My apologies if some of this doesn't make sense, and for my random punctuation and sporadic capitalization. but I desperately need to sleep.
I learned of this poem through a friend, who thought it would be applicable to me as I travel.
I loved it the first time I read it. And each time I do so again I learn more from it.
I guess that is the beauty of poetry then huh?
Questions of Travel
There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams
hurry too rapidly down to the sea,
and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops
makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion,
turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.
--For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains,
aren't waterfalls yet,
in a quick age or so, as ages go here,
they probably will be.
But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling,
the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships,
slime-hung and barnacled.
Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?
Where should we be today?
Is it right to be watching strangers in a play
in this strangest of theatres?
What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life
in our bodies, we are determined to rush
to see the sun the other way around?
The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?
To stare at some inexplicable old stonework,
inexplicable and impenetrable,
at any view,
instantly seen and always, always delightful?
Oh, must we dream our dreams
and have them, too?
And have we room
for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?
But surely it would have been a pity
not to have seen the trees along this road,
really exaggerated in their beauty,
not to have seen them gesturing
like noble pantomimists, robed in pink.
--Not to have had to stop for gas and heard
the sad, two-noted, wooden tune
of disparate wooden clogs
carelessly clacking over
a grease-stained filling-station floor.
(In another country the clogs would all be tested.
Each pair there would have identical pitch.)
--A pity not to have heard
the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird
who sings above the broken gasoline pump
in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque:
three towers, five silver crosses.
--Yes, a pity not to have pondered,
blurr'dly and inconclusively,
on what connection can exist for centuries
between the crudest wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden cages.
--Never to have studied history in
the weak calligraphy of songbirds' cages.
--And never to have had to listen to rain
so much like politicians' speeches:
two hours of unrelenting oratory
and then a sudden golden silence
in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:
"Is it lack of imagination that makes us come
to imagined places, not just stay at home?
Or could Pascal have been not entirely right
about just sitting quietly in one's room?
Continent, city, country, society:
the choice is never wide and never free.
And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home,
wherever that may be?"
