Boys to Menz
At what age did you start your first job? Well, if you’re prowling the streets in the idyllic island of Waiheke (pronounced Wah-he-key), labour laws seem to take a backseat. Here, we stumbled upon a wee lad, barely seven or maybe eight, charming the socks off young ladies with his magic tricks. By lunchtime, he'd conjured up close to $50! When Ayana, in her infinite curiosity, asked why he was doing this, I, in my best parental wisdom, proclaimed, "To make money!" But any attempt at a teachable moment went out the window faster than you can say "squirrel," as Ayana's attention promptly darted elsewhere.
There's a certain charm to the North Island of New Zealand. In fact, I think they're some of the friendliest people this side of the southern hemisphere. Case in point – as we prepared to bid adieu to Wellington for the quaint charms of New Plymouth, a Good Samaritan swooped in to pick up our luggage and neatly pack them in the back of our car. This prompted Kasia to eye him with suspicion, as though our suitcases full of dirty laundry were prime targets for a daring thief. Note to self: maybe tone down the paranoia about thieves and pickpockets with the kids - at least in New Zealand.
One thing that's stood out to us the most in New Zealand is how admirably overzealous the Kiwis are regarding waste disposal. They have compost bins everywhere, recycling containers for cardboard and paper and of course, not just glass – but they require you to dispose of your glass based on color type – brown, clear, or green. Unbelievable! One poor young kid got viciously told off by his Dad for putting the wrong glass bottle into the wrong container – his clear Coke bottle in the brown container. I guess it was brown when it was full. We were all taken aback as it sounded like he'd just committed murder.
Despite their Kiwi laid-back demeanor, which rivals that of their Aussie counterparts, the barefoot escapades continue to persist in New Zealand. I often find myself pointing out members of the barefoot brigade to my girls, who have grown accustomed to the sight and now simply roll their eyes in disbelief, as if to say, "Seriously, Dad?" But what truly steals the spotlight in Kiwi land is the sight of some folks doing their grocery shopping in housecoats and fuzzy slippers—creating quite the spectacle at the self-checkout line. There's casual, and then there's "I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-now-I'm-buying-milk" casual. I can't help but be in awe of the carefree nature of their shopping attire.
From our Wellington escapade, we landed in the quaint coastal gem of New Plymouth, where we were embraced by the incomparable Virginia. Her friendship with Grandma Betty, affectionately dubbed GG (i.e: great-grandma) by our girls, began on a European bus tour back in the '90s – a time when scrunchies reigned supreme and the Macarena was all the rage. Despite being separated by oceans, they kept the bond alive through old-school letters and sporadic visits. While GG missed out on our global gallivanting, we could almost hear her chuckling from above as we swapped tales and sipped gallons of English Breakfast tea with Virginia. From lakeside strolls to feasts fit for royalty, Virginia's hospitality knew no bounds, proving that friendships can withstand the test of time and generations. It's wild how a random bus encounter decades ago set the stage for our kids to connect with GG's globe-trotting pal on the flip side of the planet.
We jaunted from one end of the north Island to the other, landing in the charming seaside haven of Waihi Beach (pronounced Wah-hee). Picture turquoise blue waters stretching to the horizon—a sight so stunning it would make a mermaid blush. During a brisk stroll around town, I stumbled upon a peculiar building called the Menz Shed. Intrigued, I waltzed in like I owned the place, only to find a gaggle of retired blokes shooting the breeze and tinkering away on community projects. Lucky me, I arrived just in time for morning tea and biscuits, but alas, my cell phone was left behind at the AirBnB in a moment of digital detox. Cue Janice's frantic calls, imagining I'd been kidnapped by a gang of wandering sheep looking for a new shepherd - because true fact - there are more sheep in New Zealand than there are people. Little did she know, I regaled my newfound Kiwi mates with tales of my Canadian and Ghanaian roots, much to their amusement and my ego's delight. Interestingly enough, everyone seemed to have a Canadian connection, including a chap who tied the knot in Toronto five decades ago. Despite the Menz Shed moniker, these lads were boys at heart, ribbing each other mercilessly and reminding me, in no uncertain terms, that I was just a hapless Canuck in their midst.
The notion of a volunteer fire brigade doesn’t exactly set your socks on fire. But little did we know, Waihi Beach was hiding a not-so-secret secret up its sleeve. Picture this: it's the ungodly hour of 3 am, and out of nowhere, a wailing air raid siren pierces the silence. Janice practically pole-vaults out of bed, frantically shaking the sheets like she's auditioning for a role in the new Beetlejuice movie. She's convinced we're under attack – because clearly, who wouldn't want to take over Waihi Beach? It's practically paradise! Turns out, the real culprit behind the late night madness is the spotty cellphone coverage in this neck of the woods. So, someone with a good sense of humour thought it'd be a brilliant idea to unleash a full-blown air raid siren every time someone needs a hand from the volunteer fire brigade – no matter how absurd the hour. And here's the kicker: the first person to reach the station gets the VIP ticket – first dibs on driving the fire truck to rescue whoever is in distress. Just another gem I learned from my Menz Club morning session.
Not having a car in Toronto has turned me into a chauffeur extraordinaire here in New Zealand - I've racked up more miles in the last two months than a delivery driver during the holiday season. At times, navigating the roads here is like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube blindfolded. Cruise control - forget it! In New Zealand, it's about as handy as a screen door on a submarine. Hairpin turns, 180-degree spins with a side of ocean views, and a surprise peacock crossing sign keep you on your toes – or should I say, on the edge of your seat? And don't even get me started on the one-lane bridge showdowns with oncoming traffic; it's a real-life game of chicken. As if that weren't enough, there are more orange construction cones littering the landscape than there are Kiwis – and I'm not just talking about the birds. Construction - just like at home - seems to be the national pastime here.
In the end, while the roads of New Zealand may be chaotic and unpredictable, they've gifted me with memories and stories that will last a lifetime. So here's to embracing the adventure, orange cones and all, as we navigate the twists and turns of Kiwi life with a healthy dose of humor.
