Of Zealandia and Second Chances

This text is still a rough draft. I will certainly update it, but not today.

So there I was, sitting in an airport taxi on Samoa, being driven to the airport. Her husband was behind the wheel, and she was sitting next to him. He did not speak English, so she came along. She was talkative. Very talkative. And I was her “bro”. Every second sentence started that way.

Of course, at some point, the catalogue of questions came.

What, you do not have a wife? Why do you not find one? Here? The women here are wonderful. You go to work, and they cook and iron for you. You do not have to worry about anything anymore.

My objections, that I am European and prefer things a little less traditional, she countered by saying that she was emancipated too. Besides, she was a matai, the holder of a Samoan family title. She had four children. The two older ones lived in New Zealand or Australia. The nineteen year old had a beautiful girlfriend, who was now pregnant, and she was not yet ready to become a grandmother. The twenty seven year old still did not have a girlfriend, but he wanted to become a priest.

I know that excuse. I also have a relative who, according to his mother, is supposed to become a “priest”. You know what I mean. Homosexuality is not exactly welcomed everywhere in the world. But I do not know her son. I only know my relative. A priest, sure.

Samoa made me think. No, not in the sense that I suddenly desperately want children after all. It was something else. Maybe it had already started earlier, on another island. Over the last few weeks, I kept noticing how little one actually needs to be happy. Especially in fragile systems like the islands of the South Pacific.

Of course, I have not seen them all. There are still the Cook Islands, Bora Bora, Tahiti and many others. But at some point, enough is enough, and these flights across the South Pacific in Boeing 737s, there are more pleasant flights, truly. I have seen what I wanted to see. And at some point, not that much fundamentally new is added anymore. What I saw was sometimes like an eye opener. This journey was not only a journey across islands. It was also a journey inward. I thought a lot. An incredible amount. And that was good.

Now I am sorting things out.

So, in a way, I have now travelled the eighth continent.

Wait. The eighth continent?

Yes, the eighth. Zealandia. The part of Gondwana that broke away, sank, and now lies almost completely beneath the South Pacific. Roughly a thousand metres below the surface of the water. Only a few mountains still rise above it. New Zealand belongs to it, and so does New Caledonia. Fiji perhaps, although the geological spirits argue about that one. Vanuatu, Tonga and Samoa definitely do not. They are part of another story.

And, as is my way, I compare. I build myself a ranking. What was the best? What touched me? What would I recommend? What less so?

My personal South Pacific ranking, at the moment, looks like this:

1. New Caledonia

2. New Zealand, South Island

3. Samoa

4. New Zealand, North Island

5. Tonga

6. Vanuatu

7. nothing

8. Fiji

New Caledonia stands out for me. I think if you read my texts, you quickly notice that I fell in love with Nouméa. That island is enchanting. With its French capital, its light, its lagoon, its contrasts. Of course New Caledonia has problems. Of course it differs significantly from the other islands. Of course there is a people there that feels left behind. And still, I thought it was magnificent.

So magnificent that I definitely want to go back. With a bicycle. To explore the rest of the island, the parts I did not get to. I surely still have one or two good years in which I could do something like that.

The underwater world was the best I have seen so far. The reefs were still full of coral. Only the transport there was not always reliable. I will probably always keep that catamaran tour in my head. It was insane.

One negative point? The coffee. Disgusting. The French can do many things. Making coffee, apparently, is not one of them, at least not for me. I have no idea what they are doing there. Maybe I have also become too Italian in that regard.

Then number two: the South Island of New Zealand.

Queenstown. Yes, I lost my heart there too. Wherever you look, it is beautiful. Mountains, lakes, light, wind, vastness. Today, the big toenail finally came off, the one I probably loosened on the Greenstone Track. A small souvenir from the journey. I definitely want to go back there too, preferably also by bicycle. I think there are still a few open spots on my inner map.

Samoa moved me in a different way. The people there. Their pride, their love, their sense of community, their awareness of nature. That touched me. If I ever have the time and the opportunity, sure, I would return. But it is not quite the same must as New Caledonia or the South Island of New Zealand.

The North Island of New Zealand? Wellington was great. Truly great. The rest of the island? Yes, good that I went there. But my heart stayed more in the south.

What these places had in common: little plastic waste, good roads, a certain consideration in traffic. Samoa was sometimes borderline in traffic, but even there I never had the feeling of complete neglect.

Between Vanuatu and Tonga, it comes down to nuances. I will remember both fondly. Vanuatu, the football mad people. Tonga, with its truly excellent coffee. On both main islands, there was too much plastic waste for my taste. Maybe it is different on the other islands. I was only on the main island each time, and of course there is so much more.

And then Fiji.

Ah yes, Fiji.

In front of the Bula curtain, it is probably beautiful. Many Australians love it there. Resorts, friendly greetings, palm trees, smiles, music on the plane, plastic avoidance, tree planting, a wholesome South Seas world. But behind that curtain, it became difficult for me. As soon as I moved even a little away from the tourist path, I saw things that did not fit that image. Dirt, rubbish, a lot of staging, and again and again the feeling that, as a traveller, you are mainly seen as a source of money.

Maybe I was unlucky. Maybe I was in the wrong places. Maybe I saw too much behind the scenes. But Fiji did not become a place I will remember fondly.

And now I am back in Australia.

Back in the land of enormous space, supermarkets, good coffee, and this strange mixture of casualness and hardness. I am willing to give Australia a second chance. To look at it again, with different eyes.

And yet there is something that occupies me.

Is this society really as open as it likes to see itself? Or is it more racist than it wants to admit?

I landed, had a driver to the hotel, and already in the first few sentences it was about Fiji, about Indians, about crime, about mistrust. It was not the first time I had heard things like that here. Sometimes it is Asians who are supposedly to blame for high property prices. Sometimes it is migrants who supposedly ruin entire suburbs. Yet often it is much simpler and much more uncomfortable: it is investors, perverse incentives, greed, and legislation that gives tenants surprisingly little protection.

I had a one year rental contract myself. At the end of the year I was told: either you move out, or you pay fifty dollars more per week. It was that simple. No foreigners were to blame for that. It was simply greed.

I also heard sentences while travelling that stayed in my head. On Vanuatu, an older Australian tourist said to a young man working at the Blue Lagoon, roughly, that she could hardly see him because his dark skin blended into the background. It was probably not even meant maliciously. That was exactly what made it so unpleasant. That matter of factness. That lack of shame.

In many situations, Australians avoid directness. Just not with things like this. Suddenly people speak very openly. About others. About people who do not belong. About groups who are supposedly to blame.

And at the same time, people like to look down on the United States. They consider themselves more relaxed, better, more reasonable. I am not so sure.

Some forms of humour also irritate me. One example for me is YeahMad, an Australian comedy show in which people tell each other jokes and try not to laugh. Sure, humour may be dark. Humour may touch boundaries. But what unsettles me is the matter of factness with which people there repeatedly laugh about ethnic groups, disability, Judaism, the Second World War, or other sensitive subjects. Not every single joke is equally bad, and maybe I do not understand every cultural nuance. But the accumulation bothered me. To me, it did not feel like clever satire. It often felt like cheap degradation. And what is striking: people can laugh very harshly about others. About themselves, much less so.

Maybe I am too strict. Maybe I collected too many wrong moments. Maybe I was tired, sensitive, overloaded with impressions. Possible. And still, these observations remain.

Also this battle cry that echoes everywhere: “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi, oi, oi.” For many, it is harmless, a sports chant, a national joke, a moment of community. For me, by now, it sometimes sounds unpleasant. Too loud. Too self assured. Too much like “S/8g H%&l”, things we heard a hundred years ago. Maybe I am simply too German in that regard, maybe I hear historical echoes in this kind of national chanting faster than others do, but that is exactly why my warning lights go on whenever a collective “we” becomes that loud.

Maybe that is unfair. Maybe I need to see Australia differently once more. That is exactly why I am giving this country a second chance.

The taxi driver was already another impression.

In that sense.