1. Nov. 15, Monday
I hopped back into the train compartment, shivering in the chilly wind and cursing at the delay. A tree fell on the tracks some miles before us, and we were stuck at this desolate station in a deserted small town. "I will let you know, when they tell me, when we'll restart the train," said the old conductor on the microphone with glee in his voice. I had to struggle to understand his Kiwi accent, but more aggravating was his cheerful attitude and the lack of any anxiety or apology in his voice.
The first day in New Zealand got off on the wrong foot. After spending 24 hours continuously on a plane or in an airport, I had a brief lapse of judgment and caved in to Kate's insistence that we immediately take the train from Auckland to Wellington. By now we had already spent 36 hours on the road. No shower, no bed, no change of clothes. Just the thought made me itch all over. Kate had decided to come along when I told her of my plan to travel in New Zealand. She had the courage to jump at opportunities on an impulse. I, on the other hand, had planned this trip for more than two years.
Now I was wondering what I had gotten into. The journey so far had been nothing like the scenic train-ride touted by the advertisements and travel guidebooks. Outside the window we saw wave after wave of rolling hills dotted with sheep of a muddy grayish color. Trees occasionally passed by in addition to pervasive and ugly bushes (later I learned that they were tussocks and flax). It rained off and on through the entire North Island. Kate was complaining of false advertisement by the railroad authority and tourism centers. I was grudgingly chewing on a piece of disgusting, overpriced grilled-cheese sandwich. I should consider myself lucky---the food stock in the dining car had quickly run out as idle passengers waited patiently for the train to move. Some had ventured into the town seeking for a cup of hot soup.
The town looked like a cheap Western movie set. Shabby little houses; dusty, empty streets; hand-written store signs; and a dead silence at six o'clock in the afternoon. Where was everyone? Huddling in front of the fire in their houses? Drinking in the bars and saloons? The passengers looking for hot food came back empty-handed. Apparently every store within a few blocks of the station was closed.
After a two-hour delay, the conductor informed us, with the same unflappable upbeat attitude through the intercom, that the track was cleared and we could get going again. We arrived in a bleak and empty Wellington at almost midnight, took a taxi to the YHA, picked up the key to our room, and climbed into the only two upper bunk beds in a six-person dorm. I was too tired to reflect on our ordeals and fell asleep instantly.
2. Nov. 16, Tuesday.
It was exhilarating to finally see the sun. Our mood was slightly lifted by the sparkling morning. We were both ravenous. The staff behind the counter recommended a cafe two blocks away. I still felt like I was in a haze, but we miraculously found our way against the wind blowing through the empty streets. (First I thought the wind was merely a result of clashing cold and warm air that brought rain yesterday, but later I was told that Wellington was known as the windy city.)
The coffee was expensive, but the pastry on display was dazzling. Ah, the first positive attribute of New Zealand. Too many choices took away my ability to make even one, so the girl behind the counter gave me a recommendation---a piece of bread imbedded with raisins and, oddly enough, fresh grapes. Kate did not like coffee, so she bought hot chocolate and a muffin. I bit into the freshly baked bread: Not as sweet as American pastry, but indescribably rich and buttery. Then the coffee came. In a small brown porcelain cup on a saucer, white foam rose just above the rim, and a swirl of coffee decorated the milk foam. Fancy stuff.
2.1 The Botanic Garden
Things were definitely looking up as we walked through the bustling streets of downtown Wellington. From the back alley of shops and banks and office buildings, an old-fashioned tramcar pulled us up to the top of the hill and straight into the National Botanic Garden. It was the largest “garden” I had seen in my life. Following the map, we made our way downhill, starting at the observatory and trying to hit various featured gardens from ferns to azaleas to desert plants. We walked and walked and walked, occasionally lost in the paths winding through the woods. The trees seemed exotic, but I could not trust my knowledge in botany to determine that they were indeed local and unique.
It was still chilly and too early for flowers, except in the greenhouses (yes, they had several, each excessively large). Their collections were stunning. Just a week before I had seen an orchid display at Washington DC's National Botanic Garden. Wellington's orchids put that to shame. A mind-boggling selection of exotic, almost bizarre-looking orchids of blue, purple, white, pale yellow, golden, crimson, and mixed colors bloomed with a beastly vitality.
Out of the greenhouses, we were once more dazzled by the rose garden. It was arranged in the typical English manner – in an orderly pattern in a round yard, surrounded by terraces with rambling roses climbing up and down the walls and pillars. The 100-odd species of roses, however, gave no impression of the demure, polite, modest English style. The bloom was almost monstrous; the flowers were gigantic and bursting with loud glory. The fragrance was intoxicating. Kate went nuts about the garden. I had to beg, bribe, threaten, and finally drag her away. She vowed to come back the next evening.
Trails wrapped around the garden, where slim young people were jogging. Behind us mountains stopped the sprawl of the central city. Faraway beyond the harbor we could see blue bays (yes, Wellington sits on several bays) merging into the sky. I shook my head with envy: How unfair it was that Wellingtonians live in such luxurious beauty!
2.2. Katherine Mansfield’s Birthplace
At one o'clock, we gulfed down a couple of muffins and set out for Katherine Mansfield's birthplace on the other side of the town. A two-lane motorway was lined with Victorian wooden houses in a quaint residential area, just like any other suburb without a hint of being a historical district. This is part of the city's so-called "Heritage trail." I was again reminded that NZ is a country even younger than the United States.
Mansfield’s father was a successful local businessman. The house was modest, but the yard was large and lovely. It was vaguely similar to Karen Blixen's house outside of Copenhagen, only smaller. The house was decorated with furniture of the same period. The walls were lined with photographs of Katherine and others and narratives about her life and achievements. In the photographs, a woman with dark, penetrating eyes looked at me. The curator, a volunteer, showed us a documentary video on the life of Mansfield.
Moralists got it all wrong. The second half of the 20th century was not a period of moral decline. The level of moral decadence in the first half of the century (or any other time in history) was hardly any higher. The difference was how widely such decadence was known and publicized. Look at the sex life of Marlene Dietrich -- can any movie star get away with her kinds of orgies today?
Katherine Mansfield was not Dietrich, but she was still a wild child. Running away from the provincial colony to immerse herself in the glamor of London at 19, she had affairs, got married in a rush, dropped the husband like a hot potato, got "disowned" by her parents, and shacked up with a young writer John Murray, who became her life-long companion and later her husband. Yet it was obvious that Murray was the least important figure in her life among the three persons who remained close to her. The love of her life was Ida Baker, whom she called "L.M." Her soul mate, on the other hand, was D.H. Lawrence.
I did not know much about Mansfield, but had heard of whispers of her homosexuality. The biography confirmed the rumor. (Geez, who wasn't homosexual among the renowned English writers of that time?) She was attracted to women and probably had affairs with women in her younger years. Ida Baker, however, denied any physical intimacy between them, despite her life-long, unconditional devotion to Mansfield. But Mansfield also desperately wanted a husband, a houseful of children, and white picket fences, in a word, a picture-perfect family life like that she remembered growing up. She never attained it.
DHL understood her, emotionally and artistically, and probably sexually as well, since both were married homosexuals who sincerely wanted to have a “normal” family. Now I could see more than a shadow of Mansfield in the characters in Rainbow and Women in Love. Mansfield and DHL admired and hated each other passionately. I suppose there is no love more pure and platonic than that between a gay man and a lesbian who found an intellectual and artistic equal in each other like they were. Their relationship was tumultuous at best. Mansfield and Murray were invited to live with DHL and his wife Frieda (whom he had “stolen” from his professor), but the M's ran away shortly. Only God knows what went on in that household, considering that Murray was young and rather good-looking. I imagine even Alfred Kinsey would be interested in an interview with the foursome...
One of the books on display made me chuckle. It was written in English by a Chinese scholar and was essentially a compilation of famous Chinese literary critique of Mansfield. Included was Xu Zhimo's essay describing his visit to her home in London. His words were saturated with adulation for her beauty and elegance. Well, at least we know what company Xu was keeping in England.
3. Nov. 17, Wednesday.
We debated and debated, and finally accepted the YHA staff's recommendation to take a Wellington Rover bus tour for NZ$35 that would take us to the attractions on the outskirts of Wellington. The bus would drop us off at certain places if we wanted to linger and see the sights. Early in the morning, a midsize van came to pick us up. The driver/guide was a tall young man with an open smile and slightly crooked teeth. He introduced himself as Jason, and suggested a few stops where we could stay and walk for a couple of hours (!) and get picked up later.
3.1 Victoria Park
The first stop was the Victoria Park. We got off the van at the top of the hill overlooking the harbors along the coast. Kate tried to memorize the name of all the bays and mountains in sight. I was busy snapping my camera in the gusting wind. "Is it always this windy?" I asked Jason, the guide.
“Yes. The cold air from the south is channeled through these narrow bays and waterways and gets accelerated. Wellington is known for being windy.” He then pointed in a certain direction, “Cook Strait is out there, and beyond that is the South Island.” When British settlers first landed their ships in Wellington, they docked in the bays and cut down the trees to build houses. The trees we saw had been almost entirely replanted later. Wellington has not ballooned into a vast urban sprawl like Auckland thanks to its surrounding geography: the sea on one side and the mountains on the other. Dots of houses scattered the mountains and overlooked the sea. How lucky these people are, I thought with jealousy, to have the ocean view.
But Wellingtonians do not have to be rich to own a piece of the ocean view. Almost everywhere in the city and suburbs, one can easily capture a glimpse of the blue waves through their windows. Jason drove us through various residential areas that were supposedly lower middle class but surrounded by hills and trees and faced the water.
On the way out of Victoria Park, he stopped at the roadside and pointed to a corner of the woods. This was where some scenes in the movie Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring was shot, when Frodo and Sam were chased at night and hid under a huge ancient tree. The city insisted that the film crew not harm the trees and plants in the park, so Peter Jackson had his crew move a fake tree into the park, then shot the scene and took it away.
3.2 Red Rock Walk and Devil's Gate
At 12:15 pm, we left the van at the Oriental Bay for the "Red Rock Walk,” a walking track by the shore outside of Wellington. The guide said it would take us 45 minutes to get to a seal colony, at which point we should return to our starting point and be picked up in two hours. He assured us that we had plenty of time to complete the Walk.
The landscape here, said the guide, was like the surface of the moon -- rocky, barren, and utterly deserted. At first we saw some withering vegetation by the side of the trail, but the ground became all rocks and gravel, and the grass became thinner on the hills. A dusty gravel trail tucked between the sea and rising mountains extended far into infinity.
The sea was of an ominous, deep blue-gray. Fat, slimy, brown arms of seaweed floated with breathing waves like a colony of octopuses. The sun was blazing, and the wind blowing. There was not a ghost in sight. A deafening silence surrounded us. I had a feeling that everyone in the world had disappeared except us, that we were the last two left on earth.
We walked and walked. The shore rolled around hill after hill, bay after bay. I was getting tired. The road was sandy and rough. The trail seemed endless. One bottle of water was quickly consumed. The desolate scenery was both fascinating and a little scary. Where is the seal colony and the stony marker? If Kate were not walking beside me, I would almost certainly have turned back.
Finally, we saw a middle-aged white man climbing out of a pick-up truck by the road. Right before us was an uphill climb where protruding rocks on both sides of the track formed a kind of gateway. It looked intimidating and eerie. I remembered that Jason had mentioned something called "The Devil's Gate." This must have been it. I could not think of a more fitting name.
We stopped to ask the middle-aged man whether we had reached the seal colony. He said yes, but did not simply stop there. He walked us up the slope and crossed the Devil's Gate (we were exhausted and overwhelmed by the scenery, but pretended to be brave and energetic) and then pointed at the jagged rocks and splashing waves beneath, “I saw three seals down there just a few days ago, but I guess they've all gone to the South now for mating.” I stared at the crashing waves, desperately trying to spot a rolly-polly body that might be the last seal, but there was none. The man returned to his truck and pulled out a can of beer, and sat quietly to enjoy the eerily desolate scenery. Perhaps this was how New Zealanders pass time.
The walk back was more difficult, for the wind grew stronger. At one point, I could barely keep my eyes open against the sand and dust blown in my face. I almost lost my footing and become a splat on the rocks like a fly on a car's windshield.
It took us 2 hours and 15 minutes to complete the roundtrip. When we finally arrived at the pick-up spot, I was hot and exhausted. “The time you gave us was all wrong,” I protested, "the estimates are for you fit and athletic Kiwis, not us sedentary couch-potato Americans!" He just laughed.
3.3 Ataturk Memorial
As spent as we were, we decided to take yet another walk, the Eastern Walkway, because of Jason's strong recommendation for its beautiful scenery. “Three ups and three downs, then downhill all the way. It takes an hour at most.” Somehow I did not quite believe him.
When he dropped us off at the starting point of the Walkway, he said to me, “At the top of these stairs, there is a memorial. I'd like to know what you think.”
I was a little startled by the serious tone in his voice: “A memorial for what?”
He refused to answer directly, "Take a look for yourself. Let me know what you think about it later."
My curiosity was aroused.
Up the narrow wooden steps, in a cove by the mountains and overlooking the blue sea, among the trees and grass, stood a modest monument made of white marble.
On the marble floor carved these words:
"Those heroes who shed their blood and lost their lives, you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehemets to us where they lie side by side in this country of ours. You, the mothers who sent their sons from far away countries wipe away your tears, your sons are now lying in our bosoms and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they become our sons as well."
From the explanations by the monument, I saw the word “Gallipoli.” The little history I knew about Gallipoli I learned from Peter Weir's movie “Gallipoli.” During WWI, Australian and New Zealand young men were drafted into the army of the British Empire to fight for "King and Glory." Gallipoli, a peninsula in Turkey, was the field where one of the bloodiest battles took place. Because of the incompetence and indifference of the British commanders, thousands of young men were fed into the flames of machine guns needlessly. I still remember the movie's last shot -- a kid so young, so full of life, who loves to run, was sailing into the hail of bullets.
What was this memorial intended for? An attempt to glorify war? I carried my question up and down the trail.
The view along the Eastern Walkway was, to put it mildly, breathtaking. To our left was the green mountains, to our right the sharp slopes falling straight into the sea and the bays, ports, and towns beneath. I saw two rabbits crossing my path and numerous exotic birds. We were exhilarated despite physical exhaustion.
We were picked up later at a sleepy suburban town by the sea.
"What did you think of the memorial?" Jason asked me.
“I'm not familiar with the events in Gallipoli. What exactly happened? I know many Australian soldiers were killed there in WWI because of bad commanders, but I don't know the fall out.”
“A lot of Kiwi soldiers died in Gallipoli too,” he explained. “Later, people began to question the purpose of the whole thing -- the war, the deaths -- and they realized that it was a tragedy and a tremendous waste of lives. So we and the Turkish people got together and built this memorial. The memorial was named after Ataturk, who was the general leading the Turkish army at Gallipoli and later became the first President of Turkey."
For a moment I thought I would embarrass myself by weeping in front of a stranger, but I kept my composure.
“How remarkable.” I muttered quietly. He did not understand what I meant. I struggled with my explanation, “How remarkable that something good came out of the horrible tragedy.” But this was a lie. I meant to say how remarkable your people were. Such generosity and forgiveness I had never seen. I had not known humans were capable of such noble kindness toward their enemy.
So this is the story of the Ataturk Memorial. It was built there because of the site's remarkable likeness to the landscape of the Gallipoli Peninsula. Turkey reciprocated by naming a part in Gallipoli “ANZAC” (Australian and New Zealand Army Corps). Every year, the Turkish ambassador would come and read these words:
“... You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country...You, the mothers who sent their sons from far away countries wipe away your tears, your sons are now lying in our bosoms and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they become our sons as well.”
3.4 Chocolate Fish Cafe
"That was Peter Jackson's house."
“What? Where?” I craned to see a blurry, nondescript pretty house like any other along the coastal highway. It was nice, but hardly striking or particularly gigantic.
“It looks just like his neighbors' houses.” I said with suspicion.
Jason explained that many Kiwi movie stars such as Naomi Watts had bought million-dollar houses along this coast by the road on which we were driving. It was certainly a beautiful place, but not vastly more beautiful than any other spots in Wellington, nor was it particularly secluded from the public.
That's OK, Jason explained. Even with his international fame, Jackson could still walk down the streets of his hometown and not be mobbed by fans. Everyone except Liv Tyler preferred such laid back treatment by Kiwis (apparently she was disappointed by not getting mobbed by fans...). When Tom Cruise filmed "The Last Samurai" in NZ, he brought 11 bodyguards with him, but he kept only 3 and sent the rest home because there was simply no need for bodyguards in this country.
We stopped at a cute small cafe by the roadside. Its walls were painted in white and powder blue and decorated with shiny shells and glittering stones. It looked like a little doll house. The place was practically empty. The waiters and waitresses cracked jokes with Jason and each other; everyone was laughing convulsively.
Although the real attraction was its ocean view and dining tables on the beach, the Chocolate Fish Cafe was now famous for being the unofficial headquarters of the LOTR crew and Peter Jackson’s favorite boardroom for meetings. Being a semi-native of Los Angeles, I thought surely once its reputation had spread, this place would have exploded with tourists and the cafe would charge ten bucks for a cup of coffee. Such things do not happen in New Zealand, I was told. People simply don't think like that, nor do they flock to a cafe just to rub off a whiff of celebrity. Jackson had walked over from his house to the cafe for dinner merely two nights ago. He was shooting King Kong in Wellington at the moment.
A waiter who looked exactly like a cuddly teddy bear came over and gave Kate and I each a chocolate fish -- a popular candy bar made by Cadbury.
“Can I take a picture with you?” I asked. What I really wanted to do was squeeze him.
He smiled shyly. “I look horrible in pictures.” I begged. He said yes, and grinned from ear to ear in the frame.
Surely the purpose of taking us here was to boost business. I fully expected to be encouraged to buy a muffin or cookie and a few chocolate fish here. Instead, Jason dragged us away before I could even get coffee. "A bunch of comedians," he chuckled.
The wind finally died down, and the afternoon sun softened its flares on the calm water. The van drove back into the city. Jason uttered with quiet pride, "I traveled overseas for a couple years after college, but now I'm happy at home. This is the best place in the world."
I was to hear the same thing again in Christchurch, Queenstown, and Dunedin. And I would come to learn that this was the truth.
Part II. Christchurch
1. Bus Tour and the Guide with Tattoos
“... Then they cut off their heads and ate them.”
I instantly turned my attention back to the tour guide, a lean young man of the type they call "Black Irish," with raven hair and eyebrows and matching dark eyes. He was what I would consider handsome. His voice was hoarse from chain smoking, but he showed no sign of slowing down his running commentary.
It was difficult for me to simultaneously gaze at the scenery from the bus window and listen to the guide’s narratives of the Maori--British war in the 1800s, especially sitting in the back of this clanking beat-up bus. Well, it was a free tour, so I could hardly complain about it.
"The British army was quite shocked and sent another troop armed with the best rifles. The Maori warriors killed and ate them all, too." His eyes lit up like a boy describing his favorite toy gun. I chuckled. He pulled up one sleeve and showed us his tattoos of spirals of typical Maori patterns. The guys on the bus all went “ahh” and “ooh.” He explained his tattooist was an "official" Maori one who would do the faces only for real Maori people. Traditionally, a Maori man, especially an aristocrat, would have his whole life carved on his face, which records his birth, status, and achievements. Certain symbols must be earned by his bravery on the battlefield. Obviously, if my tour guide could get these tattoos on his face, he would. The Maori people, he said with pride, were the only native people who were never defeated or conquered by the invading colonialists. They fought ferociously against the British and earned even their enemy’s respect. In the end, a treaty was signed, but they never actually lost the war.
First day in ChCh (as the locals would abbreviate it), we took this bus tour from the hostel to see the sights around the vicinity of the city. The woman driver took us up and down the rolling mountains and valleys that were covered with patches of purple, bright yellow, and red wild flowers. The narrow road wound over and around mountains with furry young green, then tumbled down into the sea, which was an unusually pale powder blue.
We stopped at a suburban beach town anchored by a shopping mall. Despite the perfectly blue sky and beautiful sun, the spanking new department stores and spotless sidewalks were pathetically empty. It was noon on Friday, but there were only a few groups of tourists hanging around. No slacking teenagers or bored housewives seeking minor thrills. Directly facing the entrance was an endless strip of vast and equally empty sandy beach. Along the sidewalks, various exotic flowers bloomed in rambling madness as if to defy the orderly pattern they had been planted in.
The only crowd was found in the ice cream parlor at the street corner. I was torn among at least four flavors, but finally decided on Kiwis' favorite hokey pokey. It turned out to be just vanilla with little crunchy caramel balls imbedded. Like the pastries and muffins and yogurt, NZ's ice cream is incredibly rich but not nearly as sweet as their American counterpart. I suppose the cows scattered all over the hills could proudly own up to that.
The young Irish tour guide stood by the bus waiting for us with a cigarette dangling on his lips. He could have walked right out of “Rebel with a Cause.” I asked him if I could take a picture of his tattoos, although the truth was that I thought just as highly of his natural look. Contrary to his extroverted, motor-mouth persona in front of the crowd, he said as little to me and other individual passengers as possible and even appeared a little curt. On the ride back, he continued with his tireless animated narration, basting in the young passengers’ admiring attention. I wondered secretly whether he really liked this job. Perhaps he did like it, but was only annoyed with the people.
2. Arts Center and Rutherford’s Den
Christchurch is well known for its arts. The somber stone buildings of the former Canterbury University Colleges now house galleries, artists’ studios, arts and crafts schools, a theater, and arts and crafts shops. In the cavernous chapel-turned-gallery, Jesus and the Saints on the stained glass window looked down on the modern paintings being exhibited on the floor. If I had a few thousand dollars to spare, I could take home a landscape of Canterbury or a Maori-influenced abstract. Or, for a hundred dollars or so, I could pick up a hand-knit wool sweater or a piece of wood carving sold at one of the studios in the Old Chemistry building. But my pocket was empty and my suitcase small, so I simply wandered from room to room, watching the local artists weaving, carving, chiseling, and painting, almost oblivious to the spectators.
I was told that three or four artists would share a studio and take turns to man the shop and work for two days a week. Because the studios/shops are subsidized by the government, an artist must apply for a spot in the Center to work and do business.
On the courtyard of the Arts Center, an open market gathers every Saturday. This allows vendors and locals who could not get into the Center to sell cheaper and cruder pieces of greenstone carvings, small jewelry, bone carvings, pottery, clothes and wool products, and, of course, food. I love all open markets. Wandering among the crowd and the stalls while munching on a piece of Irish soda bread with raisins I bought from a sweet old woman was pure delight, even if I couldn't afford the fish-hook-patterned ornaments sold by the Maori women. On the sidewalk a street performer in Irish green clothes was teasing the crowd.
The only section of the school that was preserved was “Rutherford’s Den.” I recognized Rutherford’s name, and the explanation on the wall recalled vaguely the nuclear physicist I had learned in high school physics. I had no idea that Rutherford was the son of a New Zealand farmer and had studied here in Christchurch before going on to Oxford and became a Nobel Prize laureate. He was a simple and unassuming man, typical of this country, but he was also a brilliant scientist. The lecture hall was empty with the pictures of Rutherford and his professors hanging on the wall. On the podium still placed instruments of experimentation. The wood floor creaked under my foot. I walked down the steps and stroked the smooth chairs and desks. It looked almost like the lecture halls I had sat in.
3. Gallery of Art
ChCh is well known for its decorative arts. The sharp, modern building that is the Gallery houses expensive works of local artists, most of whom have gone on to bigger fame in Australia, Europe, or the United States. I am not knowledgeable enough in art to recognize most of the names, but I could certainly feel an influence of design and practicality in most of the works on exhibit.
Currently, they were showing an exhaustive retrospective collection of Jeffrey Harris, who is known for an introspective, intensely emotional style. His subjects are often himself or his own family members; his topics explored his own inner conflicts or family tensions. His colors are bright and conflicted, sometimes tumultuous. In the endless self portraits, his gaze pierced out of the frame and into the viewer's mind.
Kate really disliked Harris' paintings. She never has much interest in western art in the first place and even less patience for modern art. So she went to the cafe by herself, leaving me with the obscure, unpleasant, and sometimes disturbing or assaulting images around us. I couldn't say I liked Harris, but I nevertheless found him distinctive and ... interesting. (Thank God for the versatile word “interesting.”) “I can see that he is constantly struggling internally and searching in the depth of his own soul,” Kate argued, “but a higher intellectual state would be to live in peace with oneself. He obviously lacks an emotional calmness and philosophical clarity that I often find in Chinese art.”
I could not find words to adequately express my dissent on the spot. My thought was: Art cannot be judged by whether the artist has reached enlightenment or the seventh level of karma or such philosophical greatness. Lowly human instincts and desires often make better drama than great thoughts or inner peace. A good artist is not a philosopher or a self-help guru; he needs not be smart, wise, virtuous, kind, intellectually superior, or morally unimpeachable. He just has to be able to arouse in the viewer an undeniable gut reaction.
I grew up accustomed to only classical paintings and sculptures, so modern art seemed bizarre and silly to me for a long time. Now, however, I find modern art rather ... interesting. Its greatest contribution is the diversity --- the diversity of media through which ideas are conveyed to the viewer by the artist, and the diversity of the ideas themselves. In my opinion, a common failure of modern art is its single-mindedness and detachment from art's intention to appeal to the recipients. Many works of modern art are too intellectually driven. These works often have one theme explicitly stated, like Andy Warhol's critique of commercialization of modern art and society in general. Once you get the concept, it's over. I like art that is ambiguous and complicated and allows different people to interpret it from different angles for different reasons. It is neither a directly appeal to one's primary senses, like blocks of colors, nor an equivalent of a Ph.D. thesis.
My favorite piece in the gallery was a painting called The Fall of Icarus by Bill Hammond.
It instantly reminded me of scenes in Miyazaki's anime film "Princess Mononoke." The tone of the colors, the forest, the half-human creatures, the mythical theme, and the rain falling from the sky. The painting is obviously based on an old Flemish painting, “Landscapes with the Fall of Icarus,” in which the center of the drama was pushed deep into the background. The poor young man who flew too close to the sun fell into the sea unnoticed, while life went on as usual in the foreground. In Hammond's painting, however, the on-lookers of the tragedy are bird-men standing on tree branches, silence dripping like the rain. Are they men who dream of possessing wings (like Icarus) or birds who have a mind and a soul and live in a kingdom of fairy tales? I gazed at the painting, completely mesmerized. Reading the commentary by the painting, I realized another oddity -- both Miyazaki's movie and Hammond's painting had a component of environmentalist theme.
Wandering around, I took up a chat with the young gallery worker who gave me a brochure at the front desk. He was almost a kid, with freckles around his nose and wildly curly brown hair. He said he graduated from college as an art major, as I suspected, and enjoyed working at the gallery. “Beats waiting tables,” he shrugged with a smile. I asked him whether he had plans for a full-time career as an artist. He said he wanted to go to Australia, or even farther away to New York, like so many other local talents. New Zealand is too small and too provincial. It is hard to make a name for oneself. Opportunities are scarce. For example, his girlfriend, a singer, just got a contract in New York. He loved Christchurch more than anywhere in the world, but his eyes brightened at the mention of bigger prospects. I understood his dilemma. In a place like Sydney or New York, the competition is fierce, but buyers and agents are also abundant. One is more likely to be discovered there. “But,” I thought aloud, “if one has talent, usually he will make it. Time has changed since Van Gogh. The market is bigger, and communication is fast and global.” I wished him good luck.
4. The Java House (a Postcard)
Mon ami,
First congrats on your wedding in December. I mailed a gift to you today; hope you receive it soon.
At this moment, I'm sitting on the upper floor of The Java House, a little cafe in Christchurch that's cute beyond words. I'm reminded of my grandmother's attic. When I was little, it was my favorite place to hide and pass an entire afternoon. I could see the roofs of neighbors' houses and a piece of sky. Munching on a cookie, I could hear the ships blowing their horns not too far away. Now the house is long gone and the place is a subway station, while I am thousands of miles away from Shanghai. But the same setting sun is shining through the window. I could see the ceilings of other buildings around us. American pop music is playing softly in the background. The streets outside are almost empty.
The upper floor is decorated more like a living room than a cafe. At the far corner two teenagers are making out in a worn but comfy couch. I am the only other customer in this place, but I’m pretending not to notice them. The ceiling is painted with the color of the sky with clouds and dots of birds.
On my table are a jar of hot chocolate and a bowel of muesli with fruit. Yeah, a jar, probably for jam originally. I dropped the marshmallow in it a few minutes ago, and now it just about completely melted in the thick, fragrant liquid. Damn, it's rich. All the baked goods are incredibly rich here -- scones, muffins, cakes, brownies... I had no idea what muesli was before I came to NZ. Apparently it's the European version of granola or cereal. Also rich, of course. One could really get addicted to the food here.
A few young women just walked in. The girl behind the counter is making coffee. The espresso machine hisses and gargles. People take coffee very seriously here, I've learned. They sit down and sip it from elegant porcelain cups with matching saucers, never running in and out with big paper cups and plastic lids. It took me a while to figure out what they mean by "flat white," "tall black," "macchiato," etc. Besides hot chocolate, latte is my favorite--very pale, a little sweet, and, of course, rich and creamy. They like to make deliberate patterns on the white foam with a swirl of coffee or chocolate. At the last cafe I went to, my flat white was topped with the shape of a Christmas tree. The girl here made a spiral for me.
Somehow this seems to be the perfect place for writing postcards to my friends, who seem (and indeed are) a world away. I feel like I'm living in a dream. My mind is perfectly still except for a calm joy of nothingness. I am so tempted to slump in the couch at the other corner and fall asleep right now, but afraid that when I wake up the entire NZ would vanish in a puff and I'd be back in my routine.
A sentence enters my mind, which I saw on a piece of abstract painting at the Art Gallery yesterday: “There will never be a moment like this is...” To this sentence I would add, “but this moment will live on in my memory for the rest of my life...”
Give my greetings and congratulations to Steve and tell him he is the luckiest groom in the world.
From New Zealand with best wishes,
jun
Part III. Dunedin
Between Christchurch and Dunedin, I spent a few days in Queenstown. Unfortunately there is not much to write about. There were the herds of backpacking youths loitering in front of “The Station,” waiting for various buses to go bungee jumping or jet boating. Then there was the half-day bus tour to visit several LOTR filming sites in nearby areas including Glenorchy and the Paradise Valley. And the unlikely captivating magic of the mountain range called "The Remarkables," which stubbornly refused to let me preserve it on film -- its snow-capped peaks remained hidden behind clouds and mists from the evening I arrived to the moment I left Queenstown. Very little happened in the small, transient, crowded lakeside resort. I did not jump off the bridge with cords tied around my ankles, nor did I roll down the green hills suspended in a giant, inflated plastic bubble. I am simply too chicken for the thrills that marks this place. So below I describe Dunedin, a city on the east cost of the southern end of the South Island.
1. Elm Lodge
The bus arrived in Dunedin on a stormy evening. It was late spring in New Zealand at the moment, but apparently no one told Nature about this. The wind tore at my coat and the rain slammed in my face as I got off the regional shuttle in front of the Elm Lodge, a backpackers' hostel recommended by both my guidebook and the hostess at a Queenstown hostel. I viewed the quiet (or perhaps "deserted" was a more accurate descriptor) residential neighborhood and the unassuming adobe with some skepticism. It seemed too far from the city to be fun and too humble to be comfortable.
Fingers almost frozen, I fumbled with the doorknob and thought how fitting that I was greeted with this kind of weather in Dunedin, the twin city of Edinburgh (Dunedin *is* Edinburgh in Gaelic). It was on an even colder and stormier evening that I had stumbled into a hotel in Edinburgh some years before, half a world away, with the same hope for warmth and shelter. Come to think of it, that was even the same time of the year, although the seasons are exactly the opposite. Edinburgh did not disappoint and remains a city close to my heart. I had had a private fond expectation of Dunedin as well. Would I still like it in the next two days?
A ruddy-faced, sandy-haired young man received me with a smile and handed me the key to the women’s dorm. I dragged my suitcase upstairs; the wooden stairs squeaked under my feet. This was an authentic old house. The sizable dorm room was looked a little stuffy with three oversized bunk beds. The window overlooked a sea of roofs sloping down to the waterfront. It seemed that every Kiwi city I had been to was built between hills and water with ridiculously beautiful scenery. The wind howled. Far away beyond the sea, the clouds broke a little; a strip of clear sky was dyed pink by the setting sun.
Sitting in the middle of the other five women's belongings and luggage, I unpacked as much as I could. Darkness fell on the city, and lights spotted the view outside the window. My stomach growled and reminded me how ravenous I was; so I walked down to the ground floor to hunt for something to warm myself up. In the kitchen, young men and women clustered around the stoves and the pantry. The entire place smelled of dinner. It was amazing how one modest house could contain so many people. On the countertop and wooden shelves were saltshakers, sugar jars, tins of tea, and bottles of dried spices. Plates and bowls were clattering and clinking all around. Posted on the wall a note wrote: “Help yourself with the herbs in the garden.” Another note said: “Wash and dry your dishes and utensils after use.”
It was growing darker outside, and the rain pounced the windows ferociously. A black cast-iron fireplace was burning hot. Groups of backpackers each occupied a corner of the three dinner tables, some eating, some reading, some playing chess, and a couple of loners worked on crossword puzzles. The chairs were worn, the paint was peeling, the furniture was chipped. The room was stuffed but quiet, shabby but cozy.
I picked up a notebook on the table and opened it. On the cover it was marked 2004. Page after page, there were notes in different languages left by people who had stayed at the Lodge. A lot of Japanese, a lot of German, some Scandinavian, some French. Finally I saw a page with traditional Chinese written on it. Then another page with Chinese handwriting, then a few more. One log was written by someone from Taiwan, another from Hong Kong. I flipped to the end, but found no writing in simplified Chinese.
One Chinese traveler recorded the places in NZ he and his friend had visited. Another described the attractions in Dunedin. I had a mental image of young backpackers trekking with friends or spouses on their first trip abroad. The notes in English and Chinese, and half of those in kanji Japanese almost unanimously praised Elm Lodge for its home-like atmosphere. One particular comment from a Chinese traveler moved me the most:
"I have been traveling in Australia and NZ for three months now. This hostel is the closest to home I have been to. The friendly hosts and the cozy house comfort my lonesome heart. I am desperately homesick, yet I know I am always destined to be a wanderer."
The red-hot coal crackled in the fireplace. The heat made me drowsy. I put down the pen and strolled into the living room next door. About eight or nine kids scattered around in sofas and on the floor watching TV. I groped my way to the last corner on a couch and snuggled myself in. An Aussie comedian was cracking jokes on a talk show. I laughed along with the others.
It was true. This humble old house, full of temporary residents, was a place just like home.
2. Cadbury Chocolate Factory
The first time I read about the factory and its tour in the travel book, I slammed my fist on the table and exclaimed, “That’s my destination!” Chocolate, my favorite food in the world, my obsession and addiction, the source of happiness and cure of depression, the incomparable heavenly substance. Ah, what else can be as fabulous as my good ol’ chocolate?
The factory stood on a busy street between the city center and the waterfront. The otherwise ordinary building was painted on the outside in the signature Cadbury palette of purple and yellow. Entering the front door, I was almost knocked down by the intoxicating aroma of cocoa. I could feel my face transformed into a broad irrepressible grin.
A young woman dressed in yellow-and-purple uniform led the tour. She first handed everyone a piece of chocolate fish – a fish-shaped candy bar with a milk chocolate shell and pink marshmallow inside. I remembered the Chocolate Fish café in Wellington.
We watched a video of the factory’s history, visited their assembly line, climbed the stairs to watch the “chocolate waterfall,” read the process of manufacturing Cadbury milk chocolate, but most important, we received several additional samples from the tour guide. Finally, the tour ended at the obligatory destination – the gift store. Contrary to my plan, I did not go crazy and clean out the store and my wallet, because Cadbury had milk in just about every product, while I am a die-hard fan of dark chocolate. The darker, the better. Nevertheless I picked up a couple of king-sized chocolate bars not found in the United States.
The milk chocolate made in New Zealand, although sweeter and “whiter” than I like, still tasted better than American chocolate candies. It is particularly creamy and rich. In fact, every kind of food in NZ is creamy and rich, from scones to hot chocolate drinks to ice creams. I realized this fact after the first few trips to Kiwi cafés and bakeries. Every city I had been to was littered with cafes, like Starbuck’s littering DC suburbs. Yet the cafes in Wellington, Christchurch, Dunedin, and Rotorua were all simultaneously similar and distinctive. They all had a casual and charming feel, but Wellington’s cafes were impeccably decorated and fashionable, Christchurch’s were thoughtful and stylish, Rotorua’s were rowdy and generous with American-sized portions, while Dunedin’s cafes were modest, homey, introverted, and had an air of almost indifference. On the walls and scattered at corner tables were flyers: alternative rock bands playing at so-and-so clubs, poetry reading at so-and-so cafés, Yoga workshops, vegan societies, lesbian organizations, etc. For a moment I thought I was back in Dupont Circle. By then I was hopelessly addicted to the cafes. I spent breakfast, lunch, and dinner at whatever cafes I happened to pass by. Invariably, almost every place I went to had chocolate brownies or gooey chocolate cakes that warmed my stomach and lifted my spirit. I was perpetually floating in a decadent black dream, a narcotic haze, my senses saturated with unadulterated high.
The next morning, Kate and I were walking to Baldwin Street, known as the steepest street in the world according to Guinness World Records. We were puzzled by a smell in the air that perpetuated throughout the city. It was like … roasted sweet potatoes from our childhood. But surely there could hardly be such street food in New Zealand. Besides, what humungous stove could emit the aroma so strong that we smelled it street after street in the morning breeze? Finally, I remembered something I heard the previous day at the Cadbury Factory tour – It was the smell of roasted cocoa beans from the factory!
3. Wildlife Tour
Like Cadbury Chocolate Factory, seeing penguins was also a longtime dream of mine. I signed up for an “award-winning” wildlife tour as soon as I arrived at Elm Lodge.
On Sunday evening, a van picked Kate and me up at Elm Lodge along with other tourists staying here and at the YHA. We set out at 5 pm because penguins can be seen on land only in the evening. It was drizzling and foggy with a chill in the air, but the gray daylight was expected to last until 8 pm or so. The tour had a driver and a guide, both female. The guide was an extremely young woman with an apparent background in biology or zoology. She described the ecology on Otago Peninsula and pointed out various birds and plants along the way. When I chatted her up, it turned out that she was in her early thirties and worked for the animal documentary programs of BBC. This tour was her moonlighting job. I uttered a few words expressing my jealousy which was not entirely facetious.
The road became narrower and bumpier as our van drove into the peninsula. Residences gave way to vast green pastures, sheep, trees, and wild flowers. Again I was seized by the impression that I had arrived at the end of the world. One side of the road always sloped into the sea, sometimes on the left, sometimes on the right. Sometimes we could see the foaming gray waves on both sides of the narrow peninsula. The drive maneuvered on the edge of cliffs with a sure hand.
“It must be expensive to live on the peninsula.” I commented on the occasional little houses hidden in the bushes. “It’s so close to the city yet feels so far away.”
“Amazingly, no,” replied the guide. “It’s not really expensive. I live on the peninsula myself and commute to work every day. I’m also surprised that it’s not more expensive to live out here than in the city.”
After half an hour, we entered a narrow dirt road. The guide hopped off the van to open a gate before a farm. To get to the wildlife reserves on the beaches, we first had to cross private land owned by local farmers, who probably had long-term contracts with this and other tours.
The van finally stopped at the end of the road, but we still had a way to walk down the hills toward the sea. Sheep clustered and wandered all around us indifferently, some fluffy with dirty fur, others were recently shorn and looking skinny. I stumbled after the group and fought the strong wind. Thankfully the rain had almost stopped. The cloud cast heavy and low above us. The sea roared relentlessly. The few trees in sight grew their bare and pathetic branches sharply skewed in one direction, because the wind always came from the south. They reminded me so much of the Leaning Tower of Pisa that it was almost comical. I had long dreamed of walking on the Scottish Highland, and this was precisely how I had imagined it would look.
After an exhausting trek, we ended up peaking over hanging rocks above the rocky shore, overlooking a seal colony beneath. Forty or so rolly-polly fat bodies were lying on the rocks motionless, as if they were all dead. Occasionally one of them would stir slightly. These were the laziest bunch I had ever seen, until we came down further and saw the sea lions lying on the sandy beach. The sea lions were much larger and heavier than the New Zealand fur seals. From far away, they looked like sacks of potatoes that had been carelessly dumped on the sand.
This herd used to have forty or so sea lions that were all males, explained the tour guide. This beach had not seen a female sea lion for a decade. The guys had to make do with each other. Usually one could see a big guy lying with his arm around his boy toy (i.e., a smaller male sea lion). Just last year, however, a girl appeared among them. It was great news and caused considerable excitement among local biologists. This year, a young female was born and this colony was more prosperous than ever. Today we were in luck, for the precious queen was here lying in front of our eyes. She had gray fur in contrast to the dark brown fur of the male sea lions. Next to her was the biggest guy in the entire herd. Not far away, two smaller males were seeking comfort in each other’s arms.
The tour guide instructed us to quietly sneak around the sea lions on the beach to reach the penguins’ reserve. “Don’t be deceived by their size and lazy looks,” she warned us. “They are surprisingly agile and very, very strong. Don’t get too close to them, and, if they make a move toward you, run! I’ll do something to distract him.” We eyed her slight frame with obvious skepticism, to which she shrugged, “Don’t worry. I’m the professional and I know how to handle it.”
Fortunately the sea lions did not even lift a figure when we passed by. From the beach we climbed back up the grassy hills on the sheep farm and entered a small shack. Each of us pulled out a pair of binoculars (provided by the tour) and searched up and down the hills. Soon the guide pointed at the beach and said, “There comes one.” Everyone rushed to the window facing the sea: Indeed, a small, erect black figure was hobbling toward us the hills from the sea. Aha! The famous yellow-eyed penguin, one of the rarest species of penguins in the world. They are so named, of course, because of the distinctive yellow stripe around the eye.
Although Homo sapiens are not genetically predisposed to be monogamous in mating, penguins are. A penguin’s “marriage” lasts a lifetime of at least one of the partners, and a couple share their child-rearing responsibilities. One stays in the nest to hatch and protect the eggs, the other goes to sea during the day fishing for food and brings it back to feed his or her partner and the chicks. Unlike other species of penguins, yellow-eyed penguins like to live in loose groups but not too close. They prefer to have their own “nuclear family” and keep a moderate distance to their neighbors.
At the moment, a penguin (I could not tell whether it was male or female) stood on the hillside and sang a few indecipherable notes. Its partner, still a short way from the nest, replied in the same dialect. I wondered if their exchange went something like this:
“Honey, you’re home!”
“Yeah, had a rough day out there. The sea was restless and the current was strong, but I managed to bring home some fish for dinner.”
“Great. Tomorrow is my turn to go out to sea. I’m so bored from being stuck at home watching the eggs.”
“Hey, don’t think it’s a piece of cake out there. Watch out for the sharks!” (I had no idea whether there were sharks lurking in this water.)
I suspected that our fascination and affection for penguins owed much to their biped stature – a rare trait in animals that penguins share with humans. As soon as they leave the sea, in which they swim as fast as any fish, they walk on land like men do, albeit slowly and a little unsteadily, but the clumsiness only adds to their cuteness along with their tuxedo-like look.
Infatuated with these adorable creatures, we snapped our cameras in a frenzy for half an hour or so. Finally, the tour guide reminded us of the bus waiting – we had another stop at the royal albatross colony. It was 7:30 in the evening, but the sky and the sea had almost the same gray tone as they did two hours ago.
Our uphill climb back to the bus, however, was unexpectedly held up by a bandit on the path.
As we approached the fences that separated the sheep farm and the wildlife reserve, the trail was blocked by a stubby little “man in black.” An adult yellow-eyed penguin stood smack in the middle of the narrow path, blocking the exiting gate. We had to pass the gate to get to the main road where the bus was, but to do so we would have to walk within a few feet by the penguin.
Not willing to scare the bird, our guide motioned us to stop and wait. She had warned us before the tour that these penguins are very shy and easily startled, thus keeping our silence and distance was necessary not to disturbed them. So we stood around, holding our tongue and expecting the penguin to see us and flee. A minute passed, then another minute, and five minutes. We grew a little impatient, but the penguin showed no intention to move except occasionally casting its eyes around. I was certain it had seen us, yet it paid no attention and merely stroke its feathers, seemingly lost in deep contemplation of some philosophical question. Another group of tourists appeared on the opposite side of the fence, lead by another guide, obviously also conducting a wildlife tour and on their way to the penguin reserve. They also paused to wait for the penguin to leave.
We lurked for a few more minutes. Low chatters began to rise among us. Even our guide chuckled with surprise. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she whispered. “This guy is bold!” Finally, the guide of the other group decided to risk walking around the penguin on the nearby grass as quietly as possible. Still the penguin simply ignored them. Our guide shrugged and followed the same way out. Again she emphasized that we should made no sudden movement or sound. One by one we filed through the gate. At one point I was no farther than five feet from the penguin, the closest I had got within the proximity of any animal on this trip. I had to resist the urge to pet it, and others showed the same longing on their faces. But we held ourselves back and continued on with our journey.
I turned around one last time when I was half way up the hillside. The little rascal was still standing there!
4. Farewell, the Other Edinburgh
Indeed, the similarities between the two cities, Edinburgh and Dunedin, were eerie. As young a country as NZ is, Dunedin feels the “oldest” among all the cities I visited. The stone walls of cathedrals have the same dark smoke stains as those in Edinburgh. The sea on the horizon reflects the same blue sky. The streets also wind up and down. The first night at Elm Lodge, I asked the host/manager how long it took to walk from the Lodge to the Octagon (ie, the city’s center square). He said with a smile, “5 minutes to Octagon, 10 minutes back.” I soon learned how true this statement was. It was a heck of a climb to return to the Lodge.
In fact, the world’s steepest street, as claimed by Guinness’ World Records, is right here in Dunedin. Kate and I got up early in the morning to climb Baldwin Street alongside a busload of little old Japanese ladies. A big black car roared past us just when we almost reached the top. Kate was so startled that she screamed. “Must be an obnoxious American tourist,” I thought. The middle-aged man behind the wheel stopped at the top and made a joke to us before rushing back down the street—it turned out that he was an obnoxious British tourist.
In the morning, I came down to an empty kitchen soaked in sunlight. Everyone else was still asleep. I made coffee and sat on the wooden bench and read newspapers. All was quiet. Only then did I see that the garden was green and flowers were blooming despite the storms and the morning chill. It was spring after all. I often say that I’m not a poetry person, but at this moment I was reminded of Yeats’ words “peace came dropping slow.” At this moment I knew I was going to miss Dunedin, miss this particular morning, sitting in the kitchen with the sun’s warmth on my back, and remember the fireplace and hot porridge in the long nights of winter and rain.
Part IV. Sketches
1. The Story of Bea's Daughter.
Traveling alone has the advantage of easily hooking up with other travelers and swapping stories. Sometimes the person sitting next to you at the edge of the world may turn out to be your neighbor at home. On the day-trip bus between Queenstown to Milford Sound, I started chatting with three "mature" tourists who turned out to be American, then discovered that all four of us are involved in the drug business. No, not illegal drugs, but legal ones. The couple sitting behind me worked for FDA's field office in San Francisco, while the woman sitting next to me, Bea, had recently retired from the pharmaceutical industry, where she worked first as an employee then as a consultant in regulatory compliance.
Bea was actually traveling in New Zealand with her sister-in-law (her brother's wife). They both turned 65 this year and decided to treat themselves with a 5-week trip in New Zealand. Even with two more weeks than my itinerary, Bea admitted that they had to cut out items from their plan because of the lack of time. Ah well, I said, we'll just have to come back next year. No, she replied, we need to buy a vacation house here and emigrate!
It is not difficult to get life stories out of people if you have the patience and curiosity. I was fascinated with Bea's own life, but she never gave me all the answers. She let it slip that she was a housewife until her early 40s, then somehow, perhaps suddenly, decided to go back to school and get a Master's degree. Then she went on to a fabulously successful 20-year career in the pharmaceutical industry including leading, consulting, and lecturing in the States and Europe. I stole a glance at her left ring finger -- nothing. Is she divorced? Widowed? Still married but just not wearing a ring? I never found out.
But she spent most of our journey together talking about her daughter. So I learned, more or less, the life story of Bea's daughter, whose name she never mentioned. To address her in some way, I would just give her a made-up name Iris below.
Iris was an idealistic young woman. After receiving a college degree in engineering, she joined the Peace Corp and went to a remote, poor village in Nepal to help them with water sanitation projects.
She lived with a local family. They had no running water, hot shower, or flush toilet. People relieved themselves outside the house. They had to burn dried cow dung for fuel because the deforestation in the area was severe. Iris could have lived in the nearby small town with her fellow Peace Corp members, where the condition was slightly better, but she chose to stay with the locals despite the language barrier.
"I tried to send her everything I could think of." Bea said. "The postage cost more than the goods. She asked me to send her vegetable seeds, so that she and her friends could teach the locals to plant and harvest them for food, but it was almost impossible to grow anything there in the Himalayas. I also sent her clothes, soap, toilet paper, stationary, foods, anything I could think of. She had almost no source of vitamin C in her diet. I sent her whatever I could, even broccoli. The people there had never seen broccoli in their lives.”
I shuddered at the thought of living in such conditions. A worse thought than actually living there myself would be watching my own child in such terrible hardship. “You must have been very worried,” I probed.
“Of course I was, like any mother would, but she was too strong-minded to do anything except what she wanted.” Bea shrugged. “She did call me once a month from the Peace Corps office in town, but the long-distance telephone signals were not always clear. And she had to call me collect. All the kids there called their parents in the States collect.” Indeed, the idealism of children means costs to parents.
“But the people she lived with were incredibly sweet.” Bea continued. “The family she lived with were so poor that they had nothing, but they wanted to give me a gift badly when I visited Iris. So they offered me the most valuable possession they had, which was the broccoli I had sent to Iris and she had given them. She had to explain to them that I had ample access to broccoli in the States.”
“You went to visit her?” I asked with disbelief.
“Yes. And I was quite shocked by the primitive living condition.”
“You didn’t drag her home immediately when you saw it?” I said, only half jokingly.
“No, as much as I wanted to,” she smiled. “I knew Iris is much smarter and far more sensible than I had been at her age. She knew right and wrong; and she knew what it was that she wanted. I was never really worried about her.”
At one time, Iris fell ill with severe diarrhea. Dysentery was suspected. She was hospitalized for a month and almost died. After recovery, she remained in Nepal until the end of her commitment at the Peace Corps and returned home after two years. Bea told the heart-wrenching details with perfect composure. I stole a glance at her, but detected not a hint of distress on her face. Such is the curse of having children, I thought. You have to live with the realization that they are their own people and have their own responsibilities and life choices, yet they tear open your heart and drive you crazy with every scratch and stumble because they are also your flesh and blood.
“When
看来中等人家也这样。
这篇号称写完了，可是被掐掉些段落吧？主贴放不下的话，建议放在上方回贴里。 
Nice and clean. 
