Any time I have ever traveled, I have always had a sense of what it meant to be home. A desire to explore, see new places, and meet new people, sure; but never any doubt in my mind where home was. Until my trip to Whangarei, New Zealand.

To be honest, I’ve never given New Zealand much thought. Always seemed like a small country out in the middle of nowhere with not much to offer but beautiful pictures in some tourist magazine. Most of which doesn’t interest me in the slightest. “Grass huts and dirt floors”, I’d tease; along with, “Nobody cares about New Zealand”.

I was wrong. Way wrong. New Zealand was much more than I had ever imagined and far greater an experience than I can honestly describe.

Here in the States, we pride ourselves as being so different or well developed than other places on the globe. But while in New Zealand, I found more similarities than differences. While in Dhaka, it was easy to know and feel like I was in another country. While in Mexico, the same; easy to know you’re in a country that you can and will eventually want to leave. But while in New Zealand….my world blurred. It felt like I was simply in another State of the U.S. . Stores were named different, costs of things were different, packaging looked slightly different; but yet, it was the same. “Bunnings Warehouse” is their “Home Depot”. The names are different but they are nearly the exact same store. The employee uniforms are green instead of orange.

Sure, they drive on the opposite side of the road. They use kilometers and the metric system for measurements. Which made it nearly impossible for me to know how fast I was going in a car or read a tape measure. Ordering a simple black coffee proved to be a bit of a chore. But none of those things were something that couldn’t be easily adapted to or overcome; and so my sense of belonging remained just as strong. It wasn’t like I had to learn an entirely different language; it was just slightly different.

The most interesting part of my trip was the people. People from New Zealand are waaaaay nice. They talk a bit different. Sometimes I’d have to ask for words to be said again, because they’d say them so fast that it would sound like one thing to my ear, but mean something entirely different. I really enjoyed meeting people. Loved hearing their stories. For me, I find it to be the most fascinating part of traveling. Learning about someone else, their life, how different or similar it is than mine. People say, “Oh if these walls could speak”; or “What stories that mountain could tell if it could talk”, yet they pass by people on the street who can talk and who do have stories to tell. Pieces of a different life, different history than our own. Standing right there….just waiting for someone to ask them to share it.

I met Wild Colonial 53. A fifth generation New Zealander who lived in Australia for ten years with a wife and kids, until he lost them and came back to New Zealand. He was Munted (drunk) pretty good when I talked to him; but he loved to Karaoke, and said the longest he’d been off the “Piss” (alcohol) was five years and that was only because he’d been locked up.

 

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I met “Big John” too. Big John is a Regional Karaoke Champion. He travels all over New Zealand singing Karaoke. We even sang a couple songs together. Big John hasn’t had a drop of the Piss in over 36 years.

 

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The “Maori” are the Island natives of New Zealand. Unlike in the States, with the American Indians, the Maori actually have a voice in the goings on of the country. In fact, “Maori” is actually an official government language in New Zealand; and many of the streets and locations are Maori words. I found this interesting, because in the States, we kind of view our “Native Americans” as the “losers”. I’ll admit to hearing, on more than one occasion, that “They’d still be living in some Tee-pee on the prairie if it wasn’t for the White man”. So to see a country embrace its native culture, as much as it has, was encouraging.

Then there was Kayla. The woman who extended the invite to come to Whangarei, New Zealand and who made the trip possible…

 

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For months prior to the trip, Kayla helped me know what to expect when I got there, what some of the pitfalls of living there would be, and how to speak some of the local slang and pronounce the Maori words. I’d like to think that I was a fairly good student. However I soon learned that her kids nicknamed me “Jacoba from Orygun”; along with the expected teasing of my inability to pronounce things right. Which, btw, it’s incredibly important, if you’re gonna try to be slick and say, “Wanna Hiding?”, to get it right. Trust me. You don’t want to muck that one up.

We played board games; “Mousetrap”, “Checkers”, and a game called “Stupid Deaths”. We strung lines of “Wool” (Yarn) all over the house to create an obstacle course for the kids to run through as we timed them. She invited her family over, cooked a roast and had a back porch bbq; with engaging conversations.

 

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Kayla and her Ma (Pam), made a heck of a fire. They refused to use my suggestion of pouring a bit of gas on it; and instead just worked at it until they got it burning well. That was a bit of fun and made for Dave (her dad) and I taking the piss at their expense.

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I didn’t want to leave. I could have easily stayed. And I think about that….that was just a new feeling for me. Everywhere I’ve ever gone I’ve always looked forward to coming home. It was five days. Two days travel and five days there. FIVE days….it was just too short. But I couldn’t have known when I booked the trip that the longing for home wouldn’t be there. I couldn’t have known that the “fit” of another country would feel so easy. That feeling was foreign to me.

So I think about my time there, the people I met, experiences I had, and I know that they’ll forever be in my memory of a brief moment in time; one not captured by many, that will always make me smile. And I hope and pray that the memory of me, the “Dumb American”, will be in the hearts and minds of the people I encountered while I was there. Perhaps I’ll be mentioned in the stories they tell.

When I left Dhaka, my guide, “Satar”, started crying when we gave our goodbyes. At the time, I didn’t understand why he was crying. I had been there two weeks. He said, “Because we have become such good friends and I know I will never see you again”. I comforted him and told him I’d be back. That was over ten years ago. I’ve never been back.

Now I think about that moment with Satar and I get it. I understand what he felt all those years ago.

Sometimes connections with places and people take time. But sometimes, when the circumstances border on the extraordinary….connections happen faster and carry more meaning. It is in those times that the feelings of loss are the same as those acquired with time.

 

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