they’d just, boom, take a picture or two and move on. Instead of looking,
I mean.”
They were interrupted by two young men bearing napkins and
pens, asking for autographs. Drew signed good-naturedly, but turned away with a
firm “Cheers,” leaving them with no choice but to return to their seats.
“It’s a scenic country,” he continued, as if the
interruption had never occurred. “Everyone wants to post their photos and show
their friends back home.”
To his relief, she clearly sensed his desire to ignore the
attention he had attracted. “But how exciting is it, really, to look at
somebody’s pictures?” she asked. “That’s what I was wondering. How interesting
is it to see somebody in front of a fern tree? And then in front of an ocean
view? And then in front of a rock?”
He smiled. “Reckon they don’t think they’ve been on holiday
if they don’t have the photos to prove it. But I’m more like you. I’d rather
just look. People talk too much too, don’t they?”
“Yes!” she agreed. “Exactly! They pull up in their car, walk
onto the beach, talk to each other about it, take pictures, and then drive
away! What’s the point of coming to New Zealand if you aren’t going to walk, or
swim, or kayak, or something?”
“On behalf of my country,” he said solemnly, “I have to be
grateful for every tourist who comes here, however they want to enjoy
themselves. Maybe,” he teased, “they’ve heard it’s easy to drown here.”
“You aren’t supposed to keep reminding me,” she told him
loftily. “I’ve moved beyond that. I asked about safe swimming beaches and am
now fully informed. In fact, I went for a swim this morning at one of them.”
“You need to be careful, still,” he warned. “Especially
swimming alone.”
“Duly noted. I swam parallel to shore, and stayed close.
Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson. I can’t always count on a handsome prince
to rescue me. I’m trying my best not to be a damsel in distress anymore.”
At his suggestion, she ordered the snapper, which came
fileted and pan-fried, crispy and delicious. She exclaimed, and he nodded.
“Heaps of snapper in Waitemata Harbour, too, in Auckland.
You can stand right on a dock or a bridge and catch them in summer.”
“Is the water clean enough, then, that there are so many
fish right there by the city?”
“Not perfect yet, but yeh, not too bad. Nothing like pulling
a big snapper out of the water and filleting it for your tea. That’s what the
North Island is supposed to be, you know.”
“What? Your tea?” she asked, confused.
He laughed. “Nah. A fish, hauled from the sea by Maūi.
He used blood from his nose for bait, and a bit of his grandmother’s jawbone
for a hook.” He chuckled again at her expression. “His brothers mutilated the
fish after he caught it. That’s why the surface is rough and the shape is so
flattened. When you look at a map, you can see it. Lake Taupo is the eye. The
Maori name for the North Island is Te Ika a Maūi, the fish of Maūi.”
“That’s quite a legend. How did you know that?”
“Everyone knows that. The South Island is Te Waka a Maūi
—the canoe of Maūi. And Stewart Island, at the bottom of the country, is
Te Punga a Maūi —the fishhook of Maūi. Have a look at the map, and
you’ll see it.”
“You pronounce the names so easily,” she wondered. “And some
of them seem quite long and complex. Do you learn these things in school?”
“It’s a bicultural society. A fair few Kiwis have some Maori
blood. Loads of intermarriage over the years. And the Maori language, the
songs, the legends—they’re part of our heritage, even for Pakeha—for Europeans,
like me. If you’d ever watched any New Zealand sport, you’d know that we sing our
anthem in Maori first, then English. And don’t tell me you’ve never heard of
the haka.”
“No idea. What is it?”
“You’ll see, when you go to Rotorua. It’s a chant, a
challenge. A bit hard to
I mean.”
They were interrupted by two young men bearing napkins and
pens, asking for autographs. Drew signed good-naturedly, but turned away with a
firm “Cheers,” leaving them with no choice but to return to their seats.
“It’s a scenic country,” he continued, as if the
interruption had never occurred. “Everyone wants to post their photos and show
their friends back home.”
To his relief, she clearly sensed his desire to ignore the
attention he had attracted. “But how exciting is it, really, to look at
somebody’s pictures?” she asked. “That’s what I was wondering. How interesting
is it to see somebody in front of a fern tree? And then in front of an ocean
view? And then in front of a rock?”
He smiled. “Reckon they don’t think they’ve been on holiday
if they don’t have the photos to prove it. But I’m more like you. I’d rather
just look. People talk too much too, don’t they?”
“Yes!” she agreed. “Exactly! They pull up in their car, walk
onto the beach, talk to each other about it, take pictures, and then drive
away! What’s the point of coming to New Zealand if you aren’t going to walk, or
swim, or kayak, or something?”
“On behalf of my country,” he said solemnly, “I have to be
grateful for every tourist who comes here, however they want to enjoy
themselves. Maybe,” he teased, “they’ve heard it’s easy to drown here.”
“You aren’t supposed to keep reminding me,” she told him
loftily. “I’ve moved beyond that. I asked about safe swimming beaches and am
now fully informed. In fact, I went for a swim this morning at one of them.”
“You need to be careful, still,” he warned. “Especially
swimming alone.”
“Duly noted. I swam parallel to shore, and stayed close.
Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson. I can’t always count on a handsome prince
to rescue me. I’m trying my best not to be a damsel in distress anymore.”
At his suggestion, she ordered the snapper, which came
fileted and pan-fried, crispy and delicious. She exclaimed, and he nodded.
“Heaps of snapper in Waitemata Harbour, too, in Auckland.
You can stand right on a dock or a bridge and catch them in summer.”
“Is the water clean enough, then, that there are so many
fish right there by the city?”
“Not perfect yet, but yeh, not too bad. Nothing like pulling
a big snapper out of the water and filleting it for your tea. That’s what the
North Island is supposed to be, you know.”
“What? Your tea?” she asked, confused.
He laughed. “Nah. A fish, hauled from the sea by Maūi.
He used blood from his nose for bait, and a bit of his grandmother’s jawbone
for a hook.” He chuckled again at her expression. “His brothers mutilated the
fish after he caught it. That’s why the surface is rough and the shape is so
flattened. When you look at a map, you can see it. Lake Taupo is the eye. The
Maori name for the North Island is Te Ika a Maūi, the fish of Maūi.”
“That’s quite a legend. How did you know that?”
“Everyone knows that. The South Island is Te Waka a Maūi
—the canoe of Maūi. And Stewart Island, at the bottom of the country, is
Te Punga a Maūi —the fishhook of Maūi. Have a look at the map, and
you’ll see it.”
“You pronounce the names so easily,” she wondered. “And some
of them seem quite long and complex. Do you learn these things in school?”
“It’s a bicultural society. A fair few Kiwis have some Maori
blood. Loads of intermarriage over the years. And the Maori language, the
songs, the legends—they’re part of our heritage, even for Pakeha—for Europeans,
like me. If you’d ever watched any New Zealand sport, you’d know that we sing our
anthem in Maori first, then English. And don’t tell me you’ve never heard of
the haka.”
“No idea. What is it?”
“You’ll see, when you go to Rotorua. It’s a chant, a
challenge. A bit hard to
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