Where are all the Kiwis?

Meeting new people in a foreign country can sometimes be a difficult task. Often times there are language or cultural barriers to such an introduction or simply not knowing the best places to go to do so. In Queenstown, however, this is only an issue if you want it to be. The first friends that one usually makes upon their arrival to this little oasis here are people that are staying at their same hostel. The hostel provides for a great way to meet other like minded people because you are all essentially doing the same thing, looking for a cheaper place to stay. Some stay in hostels long term because the rooms are relatively cheap and although there is absolutely no privacy in a hostel, there is also no lack of someone to talk to. More importantly for most longtermers, the hostel requires no bond, aka deposit, to move in. Shorttermers stay for more varied reasons, from the casual backpacker just passing through town to the soon to be local staying until a house becomes available. Just walking into the common area of the hostel is usually enough to find you someone to do something with for at least the day if not a long tern traveling buddy. Almost all of my friends here in Queenstown I met either at Deco, the hostel that I stayed at back in the spring (or fall depending on your hemisphere), or through someone that I met at Deco.

Even outside of the hostel, meeting people in Queenstown is a non-issue. I went out for breakfast this morning with a Deco friend and two others met through a Deco friend. We sat there enjoying our eggs and bacon and bemoaning the fact that it was Australia Day and that the shouting and horn honking were likely going to continue unabashedly though out the day. Several of the local shops and restaurants had even gone so far as to hang up yellow and green (did you know that those were Australia’s colors? Weird, huh? I thought that the flag was red, white and blue.) balloons and make a special Australian menu. My mistake was to be wearing a yellow t-shirt, which meant that every time an Aussie passed me there was either shouting or horn honking. This is why it is so important to invest in Advil (aka ibuprofen). After about my fourth cup of coffee some girl came and sat down at the patio table next to ours and that is all it took. She was having breakfast on her own so we bought her a drink and she joined us for the rest of the afternoon.

The decision was made to go lugeing after breakfast. Now in order to go lugeing you have to take a 10 minute gondola ride up one of the hills, put on a glorified bike helmet and ride another chair lift even farther up the hill. Once you have arrived at well over 700 meters above Queenstown, you are instructed to sit down on what looks like a sled with wheels and a handle bar. If you let go of the handle bar, it slams on the brakes and catapults you off the luge and onto the concrete track where you will immediately be run over by a seven year old in his own luge. Pulling back on the handlebars slows the luge down enough that you can go around the excessively sharp curves without dieing. Once you get the hang of it, you can lean your body all the way to one side and take the curves at full speed on only two of the four wheels. At that point, however, you have luged one too many times and should really find another way to spend your time in Queenstown. Its actually really fun but not having planned to go lugeing this morning, I woke up and put on a cute little summery knee length skirt, fabulous for walking around and sitting by the beach not quite so fabulous for speeding down a hill on a glorified trashcan lid. Needless to say at one point there was a serious wardrobe malfunction that would have made even Janet Jackson embarrassed. This wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t a touristy area, which means that there are cameras all along the course that take souvenir photos of your lugeing adventure. But don’t fret, after slamming on the brakes and almost causing a five luge pile up on the advanced track, I got the skirt back under control before rounding the next curve to where the grandparents wait to watch the kids come down the track. I wonder how the Duggars would have handled something like this?

Five silly Queenstown girls decided that it was time to get in shape and the best way to do that would be to hike up a mountain. The five included two English, one Scottish, one French and one American who were all experienced, even if lately lazy, hikers. There were two hairdressers, one chef, one waitress, and one hopefully some day to be employed so that she will be able to continue to pay the bills girl. The plan was simple. All were supposed to meet at 10am at Morven’s cabin near the base of the trail to begin the day. The text messaging began around 9:15am with everyone having an excuse for why 10am just wasn’t going to work. Mine happened to be that the washing machine that contained my only towel and only set of sheets was taking longer than expected and if I didn’t put them out on the line to dry before we left for the hike they would never be dry before I needed to use them that night. Even so, I was only 15 minutes late and the first to arrive at the cabin. After another half an hour of waiting, Morven and I decided to walk up to Jayne and Morgan’s house which was also near the start of the trail to see if we could hurry them along. It was there we learned that Becky, who lives the farthest away at about 5 kilometers outside of Queenstown, hadn’t even left her house yet. Lets just say that the hike didn’t get underway until well after 11am.

Now, the hike that had been chosen for today’s adventure was Ben Lomond, which stands at 1748 meters. Not a bad little trek. I made this same climb back in October with another friend while there was still snow on the ground so I really wanted to be able to see it again now that all the snow has melted. Before, it took us just under three hours to reach the summit where we had a nice little 15-20 minute rest before making our way back down in just under an hour and a half. All in all, less than five hours from start to finish. Today’s hike was to prove a wee bit different. When a group of girls get together they tend to get a bit over-talkative and even giggly which is one of the things that is so much fun about being a girl, but makes climbing a mountain a bit more difficult. It probably has something to do with that whole lack of oxygen thing but a lot more stops are required to catch your breath when you are busy chatting away while trying to hike. It definitely made for a fun hike even if it was an incredibly slow one. The last hour of the hike is a killer with several sections of very steep rocky terrain that you spend more time climbing over and less time actually walking. This was when it became every woman for herself as we all started up at our own pace knowing that if we stopped for very long we wouldn’t have the energy to start back up again. The view at the top of Ben Lomond is well worth all of the effort that it takes to get up there. You have a 360-degree view of the several mountain ranges that surround Queenstown and lake Wakatipu, some of which still had snow at their peaks. It is such an amazing sight but my legs are definitely going to be unhappy with me in the morning.

About three quarters of the way up the mountain, my phone rang. After realizing that it was, in fact, my phone and getting over the initial shock of the fact that we had cell reception on top of a mountain I reached in my bag to see who it was. Clumsily I hit the ignore button but the good news was that it was one of the companies that I had applied to work for calling me about an interview. When I got to the top of the mountain, I called her back and we scheduled the interview for this Thursday. Could there really be employment in my future? Did she know that I was on the top of Ben Lomond when I called her back because it is a tourism company that I am interviewing with and I think that the fact that I was hiking up a mountain when I got the interview should mean brownie points in my favor? And now we wait. But until then, what a beautiful way to spend the day. If only I had remembered to reapply the sunscreen.

The basic spirit of churches all over the world is pretty much the same. What makes them unique are the people that frequent them and the Reverend who leads them. In many small towns the local church is the backbone of the community, involved in almost every aspect of community life. Church buildings range from old stone or wooden chapels to large modern steel monstrosities and every variety in between. And while its not the church building that makes the church what it is, I would always prefer to go to church in an old small stone chapel with its beautiful stained glass windows because it just feels more like going to church should feel to me.

As I have said before, Queenstown is a very small town with serious small town syndrome where everyone knows everyone and everyone’s business. Unlike many small towns, however, with its high density of twenty and thirty something backpackers, its not a very religious community. Now, there are a fair few churches in town, only three of which have a designated church building. The others meet at alternating times in the gym of the local primary school and one has even taken over what used to be a legal brothel over a bar in the center of town until just a few years ago. That might be an interesting one to visit. I wonder if its still painted bordello red inside?

My choice for the past two weeks has been the local Anglican Church mostly because it was in a beautiful old building and I wanted to see inside. It is located on the aptly named church street and built on land donated to the church by none other than Mr. William G. Rees himself, the original founder of Queenstown whose giant statue complete with sheep sits down by the wharf. From the outside its a quaint small stone and wood chapel. On the wooden pews inside there are cushions of varying sizes, shapes and styles which makes for an interesting sitting experience. It was probably a good idea for the majority geriatric congregation to have some padding in order to be able to sit more comfortably and last through the entire service, but when the pews start to fill up, you don’t exactly get your whole bottom on one single cushion. My tushy spent this past Sunday morning one cheek on a thick, fluffy four inch deep cushion and the other cheek on a flat puke green cushion that probably saw its prime back in the early seventies. Needless to say, there was some serious tushy cheek envy taking place toward the end.

No one takes their own Bible to the Anglican Church because that would just make it one too many books to deal with. When you walk in, before you scope out the pews for any available comfy cushions, you are presented with two books and a bulletin. One book is the hymnal, the other is the liturgy book and the bulletin contains at least two responsive readings that are not attached to the bulletin, itself but are loose and always manage to find a way of falling under the pew in front of me. All of these things you attempt to spread out in front of you on the ledge of the back of the pew ahead so that you can flip furiously through the pages to be able to follow along with the service. I don’t think that I had this much material to organize in law school even. Because its an Anglican church, the hymns are very traditional and the old people in the congregation belt out the ancient tunes at the top of their lungs, occasionally managing to find the correct note before returning back out of key. The responsive readings are also different to any that I have ever heard. We ask God to bless the sheep and the fields and the dolphins and the trees and for the South Pacific Island on which we live (The first thought that came to me after that was “I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair and send him on his way. Get the picture?” Don’t worry I didn’t actually start singing it in church) and for scientists and teachers and doctors and farmers etcetera. Interestingly, however, there is not a blessing for the lawyers. I wonder why that is? And while some churches may occasionally have a prayer in Greek or Hebrew, this church does a prayer in Maori.

At the end of the service, the Vicar picks up a basket of chocolates and hands them out to anyone in the congregation who has had a birthday or other special event during the week before leading everyone in “Happy Birthday to you” where we all try desperately to remember the name of the person or people who had a birthday. Everyone waits in line to shake the vicars hand before leaving the church and I was completely shocked that he managed to remember my name from the week before. The little eccentricities just make the whole experience that much better. But I still may try the Brothel church next week because I just don’t think I can resist.

There are few things in life more charming than an outdoor market. Whether it’s a small town farmer’s market or the overpriced flea market just outside of most major cities, there is just something so quaint and comforting about the whole idea. Actually purchasing something at the market is often times just an after thought. The beauty is in just wandering around the different tables or stalls and people watching. Rarely will you find a more diverse atmosphere. On one side of the market you will always find the ageing hippy trying to sell random trinkets or trippy paintings. Further down there are those sellers who are trying to peddle their handmade jewelry or crafts, hoping that they will be able to drum up enough business to one day move out of the market and into a proper store. While there will always be a few vendors marketing items of actual value outside of the market, they are the least interesting of the bunch and often so overpriced that they don’t sell much of anything.

Market days in Queenstown are no exception. Every Saturday morning, two separate markets spring up on opposite sides of this small tourist town. On the sidewalks and grass at the Wharf, there is the general market that caters mainly to the tourist crowd with its jewelry made out of old New Zealand coins and the soap that is shaped like delicious cup cakes. On more than one occasion, I have seen a small child run up to the cupcake table hoping to buy a sweet treat only to be utterly disappointed when they learn that the pink frosting is just a lie. The setup begins around eight in the morning and the vendors remain until the early afternoon. So many people pass through the wharf during that time without actually buying anything that several of the people manning the tables sit there reading and have to be startled back into the moment when someone decides to make a purchase. Local musicians often times set up in the grassy area and play for the browsing crowds. The best was the tightrope walker who spent well over an hour trying to get the rope tied between the trees tight enough to actually stand on. He wasn’t very good but it made for an entertaining way to spend the morning.

On the other side of town, in the Anglican Church courtyard, the local farmer’s market sets up its tables. This is where you are more likely to find the locals. Unlike many farmer’s market, there is less locally grown fruit and vegetables and more home made baked goods including both a brownie booth and a pie both. Recently, a sausage vendor has arrived. The three proprietors of the sausage stand are all foreign and have decided that they are going to try to remedy New Zealand’s apparent inability to produce decent sausage by making it themselves. In only their second week, they have already developed quite a following and there is always a line in front of their stand. My favorite, however, has to be the coffee vendor. Where is he getting those coffee beans because I am pretty sure that coffee is not a native New Zealand crop? But there he sits, selling his bags of coffee.

No matter which market that you visit in Queenstown though, the people watching is superb. Every stereotypical kind of person visits Queenstown from the super wealthy European traveler staying at the St. Moritz to the South American backpacker who lives in a one-bedroom cabin with nine other people to the exceptionally rare native Queenstowner pushing a stroller through the crowds. One of my favorite ways to spend a warm, sunny Saturday morning is by sitting in the ice cream shop on the wharf with a cup of coffee and watch the people milling about and trying to guess where they are from and what they do back home. More often than not, you can figure out where they are from and they’re general economic status just by what they are wearing. The Asian tourists always have a camera strapped around their necks while most of the European tourists look like they got dressed to go hiking with cargo shorts and boots. The fanny pack, known as a bum bag here because fanny refers to a certain delicate area of the female body, is often sported by the over fifty male wearing tall white socks with his shorts. The tourists almost always are wearing either hiking boots or sneakers while the locals are wearing regular shoes, though few but me are brave enough to wear heels to walk around town because of the number of hills in the area. Worse than the hills though are the coble stone streets so I have resorted to keeping a pair of flip flops, aka jandals, in my purse for foot emergencies. Comfortable feet or not, with the backdrop of the Remarkables mountain range surrounding the crystal clear waters of lake Wakatipu, there is really nothing more relaxing than a Saturday morning in Queenstown, except maybe any other morning having a coffee in Queenstown.

Ok so I may not have a job just yet, but according to my network of sources I may soon be getting loads of interviews. That sounds like a good start at least. What it appears is going on is that several employers are intrigued by my, shall we say, interesting resume. More than one potential employer has asked people that know me whether or not I am actually a lawyer and it seems that they would like to meet this so called lawyer who is applying for jobs as a waitress or, even funnier, a hotel cleaner. Well, if it gets me in the door then I guess that’s good enough for me. I will just have to win them over with my stunning smile and charming personality, if only I actually had a stunning smile or a charming personality. Maybe I can fake it.

What is even more amusing, however, is that I am apparently not the first lawyer to run screaming away from the practice of law and end up on the other side of the world desperately trying to hide from any and all questions about tortuous interference with business relationships or res ipsa loquitor. Back in October, I shared a room in the hostel with a girl from Taiwan who had left her legal practice as a litigator to come to New Zealand and work in a factory. She said that at first it was hard going from having been respected at work to being the low man on the totem pole, so to speak, but that after the initial shock had worn off, she found that she enjoyed working in a stress free environment even if it came at a considerably lower pay rate.

As I sat in the meeting with the employment agency this morning trying to once again explain why I had not actually become a full time practicing lawyer after law school, she told me that I wasn’t even their only client who had done the same thing. It turns out that several offices in the Queenstown area like to hire former lawyers because of the alleged attention to detail and ability to “think outside the box.” They must not have been to the law school that I went to because if anything we were taught to only think inside the box and to follow precedent like it was the law. Well technically it is the law but you know what I mean. I digress. Hopefully this love of former lawyers will extend to me and I can get a nice cushy desk job at a reasonable rate of pay. Just about anything will pay better than being a waitress or a cleaner. Its not exactly like working for the skydive or bungy jump companies but it’d do for now and as long as it allows me to live in this absolutely gorgeous locale and occasionally go out and play in it, its perfect.

Warning: this post contains a tiny bit of a rant against Americans. I promise that I love America and Americans, most of the time.

One of the interesting things about Queenstown when I was here back in the spring was that there was a lack of Americans. No one was certain why exactly this was, but many suspected that it had something to do with the economy. The recession in the US meant that many Americans were not traveling as much and Americans, in general, don’t do the working holiday thing so Queenstown was almost completely devoid of Americans until I arrived, affectionately being known as American Steph (there is another Steph in our friend group hence the need for the distinction). In fact, the entire time that I was in Queenstown the first time, I met only three other Americans, two of whom were a couple in their late fifties from north Alabama staying in my hostel. It’s such a small world.

Well the winds must have changed because it is blowing in the Americans from all directions. Long gone are the days when you would never here an American accent while walking down the streets. The ones that are here now tend to travel in packs, sauntering slowly down the street and blocking the sidewalks. But, they spend money in Queenstown, which is what allows people like me to be able to live and hopefully work here, so I wont complain about the American tourists any more. However, now they aren’t just vacationing here, they are doing working holidays here as well. When did America find my little international oasis? I was convinced that no other Americans would be here doing what I am doing, and yes I know how selfish that sounds.

The first American that I met after getting back into Queenstown was a girl from Alaska who was looking at my house at the same time that I was. She ended up moving in so now not only are there other Americans here in town but I am living with one. And not ten minutes ago my Brazilian roommate Michelle came in the house to tell me that we are probably going to be getting a new roommate on Sunday. He is apparently from New Jersey. Really? So, I came to the other side of the world only to live with people from home. I guess it could be worse. God bless the USA!

One of the reasons that I chose to take my bar trip to New Zealand last year was because I decided that if I was going to be traveling by myself it would be a whole lot easier if I could at least speak the language. Officially, New Zealand has two national languages, English and Maori (pronounced M OW (like cow) REE). Although Maori is an official language it isn’t actually spoken by most of the population and therefore the knowledge of English is sufficient for everything but the ability to pronounce many of the town names in the north island which has traditionally been the Maori stronghold in the country. Even so, the only Maori pronunciation that you really need to know is that a “wh” makes the “f” sound. This makes for some very entertaining town names such as Whakatane, Whakamaru, Whakapapa and Whakawerawera. I am going to leave you to work out for yourselves why those names are so funny. Wait for it. Bingo. Native English speaking 10 year olds the world over and I find that hysterical.

Now, George Bernard Shaw said that the England and America are two countries separated by a common language and New Zealand would work into that equation just as well (as would Australia and I am going to throw in a few of their words too just for fun). Let us begin today’s lesson, class, with the word flip flop or sandal, if you will. You all know that a flip-flop is a lightweight, often times, plastic shoe that you slip onto your foot. In New Zealand, these are referred to as jandals, short, I am told, for Japanese sandals. Even better, in Australia they are called thongs; yes thongs. Can I borrow your thongs is, in fact, a socially acceptable question to ask in Australia. But enough with the vocabulary lesson for today lets move on to a quick kiwi speak pronunciation guide. A rather tasty fast food meal here in New Zealand is fish and chips, or as it is pronounced in Kiwi speak, fush (more like fuss than push) and chups (like up). It’s the letter “i” that seems to give the people of this country such trouble. Six tends to sound like sex and sex like six, which can make for quite a confusing conversation for the uninitiated. Imagine if you will, that you ask a gentleman for the time and he responds that it is sex o’clock. Of course, you are rightly horrified and make a disgusted face because all you have done is ask for the time. How dare he… oh, right! He isn’t being a presumptuous jerk. He means six o’clock. He just can’t speak properly. A word of warning however, Queenstown being the party town that most vacation destinations are, he could really mean sex o’clock. This only applies to Kiwis, not the English guy at the pub who says the same thing.

But it isn’t enough in Queenstown to be able to translate Kiwi English. You must also be able to speak other varying forms of English from Australian to Irish to English to Scottish to Welsh and occasionally even American English. Some of these come more easily than others. Those from southern England tend to have the English accent that we have all heard on TV and in movies and are not too difficult to decipher. Northern England, on the other hand, can be at times incomprehensible and it seems that no matter how long they have been away from Yorkshire, the accent still remains as thick as ever. Scottish is an acquired skill, one that you will not, however, be able to pick up by watching Braveheart, as a real Scottish brogue is significantly different despite Mel Gibson’s best efforts. Irish really depends on what part of Ireland the person is from but I get all of my Irish accent translation knowledge from Danny Bhoy anyway (Fiddle dee dee potatoes).

Even after you have mastered the differing dialects from all of the native English speaking countries, your work is still not through. To truly be able to fully assimilate into Queenstown, you must also be a master at understanding English from non-native English speakers. This is oftentimes where the greatest challenge lies. Being a typical American, I speak only English and the tiniest bit of French, not even Spanish. Two of my roommates, on the other hand, are a Brazilian couple (Michelle and Carlos) and speak very little English. They are so nice though and we all attempt to have a conversation each time that we are home together. Michelle has only been speaking English for four months and I must admit that she is doing a whole lot better than I would be doing in her shoes. We were watching Oprah today (don’t judge me, I am unemployed and you are supposed to watch Oprah when you are unemployed and home during the day) and she was doing so well with English that it has inspired me. I think that I am going to attempt to learn to speak Portuguese. Actually, let’s be honest, its not likely that I will learn any Portuguese but right now it sure does sound like a good idea. The Brazilians are such a fun people! Think of all the salsa dancing and carnival. Doesn’t that sound like fun? When Michelle speaks in English she comes across as a bit shy and soft-spoken, but all of that changes when her husband walks in the door and the Portuguese comes out. She is loud and full of life going ninety miles a minute. I love it! I just with I had a clue what she was talking about.

Queenstown, New Zealand and its surrounding area has a population of around 11,000. Of those 11,000, I would venture to guess that at least 2,000 are backpackers who came here on a holiday and just haven’t managed to leave yet. Why haven’t they left? Several reasons. The reason that many write home to mom and dad is that they have fallen in love with this place, either its natural beauty or its many adventure sports. A very few have fallen in love in this place. Although, love here is like love in University. It may be passionate and meaningful from day one, but it rarely lasts through the summer. The biggest reason that many backpackers end up staying, however, is one that they don’t often share with friends and family. A not insignificant number stay because they don’t have enough money to go anywhere else. It’s not the case that Queenstown is less expensive than other areas of the country, just the opposite, in fact. It’s not that they are able to make more money working in Queenstown. Again, just the opposite is true. What seems most often to happen is that any money that is made above and beyond the ordinary living expenses gets used on a big night out or one of those adventure activities that draws everyone in here like a moth to the flame to begin with. Those things that everyone loves most about Queenstown are exactly what is keeping them tied to this place.

That being said, there is still a relatively high turnover of people, which also makes for a relatively high turnover of jobs. Theoretically, this means that finding a job here is simple. Yes and no. It is by no means difficult to find a job in Queenstown. There are adverts for jobs everywhere. You can get a job as a cleaner in a hotel by walking into any job agency as long as you aren’t so drunk that you cant stand and you don’t smell like you have been living in a trash can, although I am certain that some places don’t even require the latter. Here is the problem. Distraction! There are so many other things to do here that for some reason finding a job keeps falling down on the priority list. Goal one upon arriving in Queenstown was to find a place to live. Done within the first two days. But goal two was always supposed to be finding a job to be able to pay for that cute little house without having to dip very far into the savings account. So, why then have I managed to go almost 5 days now without even beginning to look for a job? I will tell you why. The sun has been out and the skies have been blue and there are mountains to be climbed and lakes to be walked around and people to see and talk to and beaches to be sat on and parks to be sat in and finding a job just keeps getting pushed to tomorrow.

Well today is tomorrow, the fourth tomorrow, that is. I have resorted to bribing myself with the purchase of a new blow dryer as soon as I find a job (I blew my original one up not 24 hours after I arrived. It was a very painful experience as I was overly attached to that poor blow dryer and will miss it dearly. Its death was meaningless and stupid and I will never forgive myself for forgetting to use the voltage converter). So, today is the day that I will conquer the Queenstown job market once and for all. Beware all you available positions… I’m coming for you!

So, I moved in to my new place today and I love it! (I posted the pics on facebook) But that’s not what you need to know right now. What you need to know is that to my surprise, I have a TV in my room. Well you probably didn’t really need to know about that either, but here is something that you should know that will shock you. There are only three major channels in New Zealand. When I say that there are only three channels, I don’t mean that its like in the US where there are the four major network channel that you can get without cable or satellite and hundreds of other channels available. I mean that even with the TV hooked up into a satellite dish thingy, there are only three channels. Now, rumor has it that if you pay a fortune for SKY TV you can get five or six more channels, but still, that’s it. However, the lack of channels is not really what I wanted to tell you about other than as background information for why what happened was even more shocking than it should have been.

While unpacking my stuff in my new room (Which is fabulous! Did I mention that yet?) I turned on the TV (cause it was there and I could). I flipped through my three channels before settling on channel 2. Why? Who knows. All three channels were doing the evening news and I guess the reporters on channel 2 just looked a little bit more genuine or honest or something. Regardless, I left it on channel 2. After a little while, the news ended and surprisingly, Extreme Makeover Home Edition came on next. Ok, that’s kind of odd I guess because I am in New Zealand and watching an American TV show, but whatever, they don’t have that many Kiwi programs to choose from so its inevitable that there will occasionally be an American program on. Here’s the kicker though. Extreme Makeover was doing a home for a family in Mobile, Alabama. What?!? I just left that place to come to the other side of the world only to watch my hometown on TV! They even showed the USA football team and cheerleaders and I saw people that I knew. Is this really happening? Is Ty really driving down Airport Boulevard? The world is getting entirely too small and I am now officially afraid. Its frightening that only the second time that I have turned on the TV since getting back into New Zealand, that the show is about Mobile.

For those who aren’t that familiar with Mobile, you should just know that there are less than 350,000 people living there and while it is a lovely little city, it’s not exactly the kind of place that makes it on TV even in the US that often unless there is a hurricane. The fact that it was on TV, not only in the US, but also in New Zealand is a hard concept for me to grasp. And the fact that I was actually watching the TV at the exact moment that it came on in New Zealand is even more shocking! That’s it, no more TV.

After some consideration, it became apparent that the title of this blog, “Where are all the kiwis?” may need some explanation. First of all, New Zealanders, whether they be the native Maoris or of European decent are lovingly referred to as Kiwis. Why Kiwi you may ask. Are they small, round, brown and hairy with green insides like the fruit? While some of them actually may be round, brown and hairy, the term kiwi refers not to the delicious fruit that mixes so lovely with strawberries and bananas in a smoothie, but to the kiwi bird. Sadly, the yummy kiwi fruit isn’t even grown in New Zealand.

So, what on earth is a kiwi bird and why would they name a bird after a fruit that doesn’t even grown in New Zealand? While the latter, I’m afraid, I have no good answer for; the kiwi bird is a small, brown, flightless (or so I’ve been told) bird that is native to New Zealand and has become somewhat of the mascot of this country. Its strange, however, that they have chosen the kiwi to represent their nation being that it is almost completely extinct in the wild and can only be viewed in kiwi nature reserves or on the many tourist souvenirs that are sold on every street corner. Sadly, the kiwi bird seems to be disappearing from all but the hearts of the locals.

Finally, and most interestingly, “Where are all the kiwis?” refers to the fact that there seem to be very few native New Zealanders actually living in New Zealand. It seems almost everyone that you meet, at least in Queenstown, is foreign. The population of Queenstown is 25% Brazilian. Brazilian?!? Why? Are the kiwi people, like the kiwi bird, becoming extinct? Or are they simply hiding somewhere in the North Island? In total, I have met maybe seven people who were actually born in New Zealand. Of those seven, three have spent more of their lives living outside of New Zealand than within. In contrast, since being in Queenstown, I have met twenty-one from the UK, eleven from Australia, five from France, four from Brazil, four from Canada, two from Holland, one Romanian and one other American (I apologize in advance if I have forgotten anyone or put you in the wrong category). It is understandable that being a tourist town, Queenstown will have a high percentage of foreign residents, but doesn’t it also follow that at least some Kiwis would still be here? This is one of my quests while here, to find out “Where are all the kiwis?”