Second Weekend at the Whare

My weekend kicked off to a great start on Friday with the 24 Hour Booksale at the old Regent Theatre. The Regent sits on the Octagon and is a beautiful architectural remnant of 19th century Victorian style. When I went into the theatre on Friday it was to a much different scene than normal, tables slanted down from the entrance all the way to the table-filled stage. Every surface was covered with books and every other open space was filled with people digging through the titles. The books cost between one and 10 dollars and some people even came from abroad for this annual event. After my arms got too full to pick up another book I decided that I probably had enough to last me until I left here, paid a dollar each for the books, and left the Regent with the other bibliophiles, our arms and bags filled with books.

I spent most of Saturday and Sunday out at the Waikiti whare for Noho with my professor Stas, his wife Cheryl, their two girls, and Schaffer. The whare was alive with the weaving students and Roka and Carey’s uncountable children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. (Roka and Carey are the older Māori couple who founded the whare in Waikati after running their home for orphans there. The whare wananga, university, they run is affiliated with the Māori University of NZ which is the largest on the island because of its many small indigenous affiliations. Their courses combine weaving and Māori culture and the instruction is undertaken on Noho weekends.)

We got there on Saturday morning in time for the morning’s karakia, of which I almost remembered all of the words from our previous trip for the call and response. Then as Roka took charge of the weaving students Carey took all of us visitors outside to teach us about harekeke, the flax plant that is integral to the traditional Māori way of life. Before cutting any harekeke he said a small karakia, solemnly addressing the tall spiked plant and gesturing to the sky as he spoke in Māori, asking the plant’s and the atua’s blessing. He showed us different species of flax, instructed us on trimming the plants, and the appropriate methods of transplanting. His talk was interspersed with references to traditional harvesting methods, the gods, and the hilarity of the local Pākehā who didn’t know the Māori methods and were always surprised at their easy effectiveness.

In the afternoon Roka taught us how to make our own kitis, baskets, from kiekie. Kiekie is a vine that attaches itself to trees and sprouts its fronds from the lofty arena of the trees’ trunks. Roka had already prepped the fronds by boiling them for us so we got right into the weaving and in a short time had each made a small purse. It was amazing to sit there and have a master weaver teach me how to fold the kiekie so that the weave was snug and flat. The methods we were using are the same ones that her Māori ancestors used when they wove baskets to carry and store their food. Sitting in the warm afternoon sunshine among the other weavers and using the same natural materials that the Māori used made it seem timeless.

My kiti, still untrimmed

Every few hours we would be called to the wharekai to enjoy a large buffet of food. All the weavers and whatever neighbors or descendants of the family were about came from their different areas to eat together at the dining tables. The main room attached to the wharekai was filled with weaving projects and the sweet smell of prepared harekeke. Numerous relatives and children passed in and out of the whare constantly, and I never did figure out how everyone was related. The young Maori children were especially cute, with their seemingly endless hunger at mealtimes and their constant desire to play games. Every once in a while the sounds of the children playing would be broken by one of the teachers talking to the weaving students in the most impromptu, laidback lecturing style that I’ve ever seen. All of the students were working on beautiful baskets and had a deep knowledge about Maoritanga (Maori way of life), their teaching style is definitely effective and much more in the way of Maori than the mainstream education system.

After spending the night back in Dunedin we woke up early to drive out to the whare to prepare an American breakfast for everyone. I guess they don’t eat pancakes very often because everyone was raving about them for the rest of the day. After enjoying our delicious nutmeg pancakes we went out to the pasture to take a short horseback ride. The little girls were so excited about the horses it was so cute! After their first ride Leah was telling everyone the proper way to get up into the saddle and Sophia was ecstatically telling her mother how she had held the reins all on her own. On my turn on the horses we took them up the hill at a slow plodding pace. When we reached the hill crest the rolling hills were laid out before us, the verdant green slopes filled with grazing white sheep, in what was definitely a classic NZ moment.

After extensive goodbyes and traditional gift exchange we departed for Dunedin in the afternoon with a standing invitation to return whenever we wanted to. Roka and Carey both loved the woven horsehair Nez Perce gifts that my Mama had sent from the States and they gave me a Maori dictionary!

Cardboard warfare, diving, lectures, and tramping

The usually studious daytime quiet is broken with war cries. Half-nakedstudents wearing cardboard armor are battling it out on the grassy lawn next to the Leith Stream. I joined the crowds of people drawn to the spectacle by the guttural yells of the “warriors”, standing at theoutskirts of the “friendly” skirmish and making sure to stay clear of the sweeping strokes of the numerous weapon-like instruments that the two sides are using to assail each other. It was very entertaining to watch the attackers mount their attack on the defendants pounding their assortment of weapons as they charged the waiting line. Nurses wearing short white dresses and armed with Gatorade bottles made the rounds of the“battlefield” following each wave of attack. The two cardboard and duct-taped “armies” must have gotten pretty tired as the war drifted across campus for a few hours.

I twist around in the water, doing flips, spins, and diving. As I somersault I have to remind myself to breath smoothly and continuously, kicking my fins over my head. Flipping over onto my back I watch the huge bubbles from my mouthpiece drifting up to break the surface of the pool. After a few pointers and short demonstrations I had gotten into the 4 meter deep pool of Dive Otago to practice the basics of scuba diving. It was really liberating, like free diving during snorkeling. I only wishthat there had been some aquatic life to frolic with.

One of the biggest differences with classes at Otago is the differing lecture styles of the each lecturer. Not all of them are professors and in all of my classes we usually don’t have the same lecturer twice in a row. But it wasn’t until this last week that I finally appreciate the way lectures are conducted at Willamette where interaction is the basis of all classes and professors always stop to ask for questions. I was sitting in a small lecture hall for my Pacific Studies course, only about 20 students had shown up for the lecture, most likely because they have become increasingly boring. About halfway through the lecture on the culture of the island of Mangaia I realized that I had some questions about what wewere talking about and that the lecturer hadn’t stopped for questions yet. So I waited until an appropriate break and then raised my hand to ask. I waited patiently with my hand in the air for a few minutes until thelecturer looked right at me and then continued with his lecture. He didn’t stop for the rest of the lecture or ask for questions at the end. So I still don’t know the answer to my question about the political structure and geographical boundaries of traditional Mangaia society and have decided that I appreciate the lecture style at my university.

On Saturday afternoon I went up the valley to hike Mt. Cargill with somefriends. It was pretty foggy out, but it wasn’t cold at all, so even though we couldn’t see anything past the hillside it was really enjoyable.The fog surrounded the path, forming a wall of whiteness that served as a calming barrier. On the wayup to the peak we stopped off at Organ Pipes, a basalt formation that required a bit of climbing to reach the top. (They are not unlike the Devil's Causeway in Ireland, except smaller.) From the small platform formed by the tops of the vertical stone columns we could see the native bush covering the hillside beneath us as the sun pushed the fog aside. Theair was filled with birdsong and little fantails swooped through the air around the top of the Pipes.

Otago Museum

A moa skeleton.

Moa were one of the many bird species that became extinct after the Polynesian's arrival on Aotearoa (NZ). Prior to the introduction of Polynesian species, there were no large mammals on the islands of Aotearoa.

Among the other animal skeletons were some penguins...it's hypothesized that NZ is where all penguins originated from. The local yellow-eyed penguin supports this hypothesis with its small, relatively undeveloped build.

One of the most beautiful parts of the museum were the Tangata Whenua rooms. The wooden carvings were especially beautiful and characteristic of Māori culture.

How a traditional wharepuka, sleeping house, was arranged

A waka- a traditional canoe like the ones Māori ancestors voyaged to NZ in

Māori carvings from a marae (Māori traditional center)

Autumn Architecture in Dunedin

The Quad (on campus)

How New Zealand does their Best Western hotels

One of the classy student flats near where I live

And why am I not living here?

Student flat on the way to my Māori lecture

A nice Dunedin home- odd that it's so close to the campus...

Another Dunedin home- a second example of a place where students obviously don't live

Music to My Ears

I had a very musical past week. On Friday evening I was in Circadian Rhythm listening to a local jazz group. The slightly wizened Kiwi musicians bouncing around to the beat of their music in the cheerfully painted Indian cafe. Sunday night I attended an orchestra performance called "Russian Masters" at the Dunedin City Center. I enjoyed Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, and Beethoven (Russian?) while sitting among a sea of elderly people in their finery in the lavish performance hall. Sunday afternoon I went to a Polish celebration of Chopin's life, replete with the Polish ambassador to New Zealand, children dressed in traditional Polish garb, and a piano performance. Wednesday's music performance was Hungarian Masterworks for Piano Four Hands. The two professors who played for us were exquisite together, their hands running up and down the keyboard, flawlessly overlapping and pounding in perfect rhythm.

The Chopin Celebration