Big City turned Small Town Girl

One of the things I found most frustrating when I first moved to Hawera was its small size. After living in Seattle, I was used to stores being open on the weekend, all weekend, and being able to get things whenever I wanted. Luckily, I quickly acclimated to the small size and began to appreciate that I could do all my errands in a short span of time down the center street and only during the week or on a Saturday morning. Okay, there might only be two gifts stores, a few hardware stores, one stationary store, and two clothing stores, but I knew where they were and that I could usually find what I needed. The beauty was that I could accomplish most of it over a lunch hour. When I moved to Hamilton, I was thrilled with the conveniences, variety, and choices I could find. It felt like I was back home. Yet, the twenty minute travel time to get to these new conveniences has soon become tedious. I had forgotten the need to factor this time into finishing my errands. This became very apparent when I came back to Hawera for one final weekend to clean up my flat, turn in my car, and tie up some loose ends. Within the span of two hours, I had my vision checked, ordered new contacts, put some money into a short-term CD, got my hair cut, browsed through a few shops, paid my final rent, and turned in my car. Oh, how I’m going to miss this small town.

Weekend Rendezvous

Shifting house, as they call moving down here, is exhausting. Loading a truck full of things I’ve collected over the last 18 months (embarrassingly a lot more then I thought), hauling it four hours north and then unloading it and spending three days unpacking is tough work. Okay, really, I’m just complaining here. They reality is that I’ve had a lovely time not working and setting up a new home. Letting all my creative talents loose, I’ve made a new set of curtains, recovered some dining room chairs, and rearranged everything possible in the townhouse much to Jason’s surprise every night when he comes home from work. So to decompress from all this hard work, Jason and I decided to take a short weekend excursion to Akaroa. A small wharf town located about 90 minutes outside Christchurch on the Banks Peninsula of the South Island, it is well known for its French heritage. Originally discovered by, surprisingly, the French in the early 19th century, it was actually founded by the British in 1840 when they beat the French in a sail-off from Russell in the North Island to stake their claim to the area. Being the good sports that they are, the British allowed the French to put their stamp on the area, thus giving Akaroa its distinctive French flavor. Unfortunately with time, and the ever expanding desire for prime recreation real estate, the town has lost a lot of its original charm and been overrun by vacation homes. One actually owned by a US congressman. However, we did manage to brave the cold (with the help of some newly purchased merino/possum gloves and hat) taking a two hour Dolphin cruise (which unfortunately didn’t materialize in any dolphin sightings due to rough waters and brisk southerlies) and walking the self-guided tour of the town’s historic sites. On the flip side, the benefit of the cold materialized in some snow-kissed mountains to greet us Sunday morning as we looked across the harbor from our room. Although the businesses didn’t find the cold appealing, many closing down for the winter season, we still managed to find some fine eating establishments that were open, even if the one renowned French restaurant in town said “au revoir” for the season. Despite these few hitches, the town was beautiful and the weekend very relaxing. Now, back to work…

X is for Xtra

There are times that I get really frustrated with the infiltration of text spelling into standard New Zealand language. Take the roundabout signs around Hamilton. In a bid to get drivers to inform other drivers of where they intend to go, they’ve posted signs asking that you “IndiK8” where you’re going. I’m not kidding. The Transport Department has spent a lot of money to post these signs. So you can imagine my frustration when I was attempting to set up my wireless broadband yesterday and couldn’t connect to the internet simply because I was spelling “extra” the traditional way, instead of with the truncated version. It only took two and a half hours, three Telecom representatives, and two Dynalink representatives until a light bulb went off in my head to “IndiK8” my “mist8”. Honestly, I don’t mind if the New Zealand population wants to pronounce words with a British dialect, but please spell words using the proper English language. If nothing else to maintain my sanity, but perhaps the educational level of future children everywhere.

End of an Era

As the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. And so my 18 months at Ruanui Health Centre came to an end last Friday, the 13th. While traditionally a superstitiously ominous day in the states, my New Zealand constituent proved this theory incorrect. I will admit that for many weeks I was convinced my goodbye would consist of a large boot out the door. A gumboot, no doubt, but a boot nonetheless. Boy was I wrong. Very unbeknownst to me, a celebration was in the works for weeks. After confidentially admitted my angst with not getting a send-off to my favored nurse, Ann, on the Thursday a week prior, she kindly reassured me that things were happening and I should hear something soon. The next day she walked into my office at lunchtime for our traditional midday catch-up with a menu in hand and asked me to pick a dinner meal. I was to ask no further questions. As my final week dragged on, I was greeted by many social visits from patients wishing me well in my journey and displaying their gratitude. Gratitude often came in the form of food, which relieved me of any cooking duties for the week. Thus came Thursday, a rather busy day in the clinic as an announcement was placed in the local rag, Hawera Star, confirming my departure from the clinic, and many patients clamored to make final appointments and call to resolve outstanding issues that had been lingering for the past 18 months. A dinner date of 6:30 had been set by the clinic for my farewell feast. So, after rushing to the gym for my 10K training run, I arrived outside Old Mac’s restaurant and was greeted by Dale, one of the receptionists, and a blindfold. After a look of horror came across my face, Dale agreed to guide me into the establishment without said blindfold in place if I promised to close my eyes. Agreeing to the same, I was lead cautiously to what I presumed was the head of the table and my right hand placed into another’s that felt oddly familiar. At once I opened my eyes to a restaurant full of colleagues and the familiar face of my boyfriend, Jason. With squeals of laughter, the clinic delighted in my expression of absolute shock at seeing Jason sitting at my side, having driven four hours down from Hamilton for the event. The evening was full of fellowship with colleagues and friends, many departing gifts, and accolades from staff towards me, and me towards staff. There were also a few threats towards Jason to take good care of me or else! (Believe me; you don’t want to mess with Maori women.) If my departure had been marked by this surprise event, I would have been very satisfied, but more was in store…

If you remember afore mentioned announcement in the Hawera Star, it was actually an invitation for patients to come and join in a final joint farewell. I knew there would be food, as all New Zealand functions, and especially those sponsored by Maori organizations, involve sustenance of some sort. What I didn’t know was the extent to which the clinic staff and the community would go to support such an event. Busily working away in clinic, I began to hear the faint chant of people singing around 12:30. I walked out of my office to nearly 30 patients sitting happily in the waiting room, collectively singing traditional waiata, or Maori hymns. You can imagine my surprise that this many people would turn up to wish me well. Most were kaumatua, or elders, all were over 60 years old, and every single one of my elder boyfriends was amongst the crowd. There were many speeches by clients and more gifts to be had, several hand crafted. I was made an honorary Maori princess, and a collective decision was made that a picture of me was to be placed on the wall (a tradition that is usually not undertaken until someone has passed away). Again, Dale was in rare form, compiling a slide show of my journey from the states to the little town of Hawera, the celebrations had during my time, and my found farewell to Hamilton. There were many tears shed by both patients and myself alike. After all, these people sought me out as patients, but gradually became my friends. So, as all good friends do, we said not goodbye, but see you next time, and hugged in acceptance that while we must separate now, hopefully our paths will cross again in the future.

Vacancy

The final countdown has begun. In just over a week I will finish my 18 month journey at Ruanui Health Centre and move north to Hamilton. Over the last month I’ve had numerous patients come in to have their final visits and say their goodbyes, many acknowledging their appreciation with hugs and a few with small tokens of gratitude. In a lot of ways it’s been really sad. Not only have I gotten to know these people as patients, but also as friends. Many have taken me under their wing, guided me through the journey, made sure I was well feed, taught me the intricacies of New Zealand life, culture, and language. One particular patient epitomizes this all encompassing support: June. She’s a lovely 83 year old, short-statured woman who in many ways reminds me of my grandmother. Weekly she would call me at home and see how I was doing. She directed me to all the wool shops in the country so that I was well supplied for my knitting hobby. Monthly she would invite me to dinner and update me on all the gossip of the town and of her neighbours living in pensioners flats. Last night I attended my last dinner at June’s flat. It was a sad event in retrospect because I’ve come to enjoy these visits. True to form she cooked me a lovely dinner, we discussed all the gossip and afterwards we sat in front of the electric heater, drinking our cups of tea and knitting. However, this night was special because it added another phrase to my New Zealand vernacular. Having finished the meal, I mistakenly let out a small eructation. Quite embarrassed by the whole thing, June simply looked at me, smiled, and replied, “Better to have a vacant home, then an unwanted tenant.” Oh, June, how I’m going to miss you.