BUCKLANDS BEACH: THE EDGE OF THE EARTH

On Friday, two days after Christmas, I took a break from reading my academic books and opted for the biography of Wallis Simpson, Duchess of Windsor, instead. I borrowed this book from the Botany Branch of the Auckland libraries because I was curious about how she wandered into the path of an English Royal, King Edward VIII, who was forced to abdicate the Crown because she was considered unfit to be Queen. Although I hadn’t advanced far into the book, I understand that she comes from a distant line of Royals, who arrived in New England. It got me thinking about the life trails down which our ancestors’ wander, which oftentimes push their scions off what would have been their normal paths, to venture into a new life over which we have no control. Our histories, indeed.

After several hours of reading about Wallis Simpson, I helped myself to two glasses of pinot gris, a light and airy variety from the Five Flax wine corporation, on sale at Pak N’ Save. Believing that the lightness of the flavor meant it was also light in alcohol content, I was soon proven to be wrong. I became sleepy halfway through the second glass, decided to take a snooze, and woke up with a touchy hangover. A headache that throbbed in the middle of my forehead informed me that I should have probably spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, but I ignored this warning and opted to go on one of my solitary long walks to reach the edge of the earth: Bucklands Beach. I was hung over in the middle of the afternoon, but I couldn’t ignore the sun, which blazed against the blue, blue sky, calling to me through my bedroom window to come out and play. I could hear the riroriro tweeting outside, but I couldn’t avert my eyes from the bright blue sky. I imagined this glorious display was a different scene from New England, where my family is boarded away indoors, safely tucked away from the grey, snowy days of December winter. Friday was the perfect day to walk.

Bucklands Beach is actually not very far from Burswood. It’s only about 9 km, which translates to almost 5 miles in the American metric system. It was the same distance from Sunderland, Massachusetts to Hadley, the next farming town over. On the map, Bucklands is a discreet peninsula that juts out into the ocean and, I soon discovered, is also part of a string of interconnected beaches (Eastern and Half Moon Bay) that can be walked if one stays along the coastline. Bucklands can also be reached by crossing the Bucklands Beach Road.

After walking the same linear road for about half an hour, Bucklands Beach Road eventually trailed gently to the left, where soon-after I came upon a sign for the Bucklands Beach Reserve. Believing this trail would take me directly to my destination, I followed the concrete footpath. Just beyond, I found the long staircase. In the distance, I sighted water. I had arrived, I thought. A short distance further, I was along the esplanade and could see people bobbing in the water or riding their speed boats. It was beautiful and I became even more entranced at the sight of the cascading cliff to the right.

A quick reading of the history of this 8 kilometer place by the ocean on Wikipedia reveals that Bucklands Beach shares a farm history with Sunderland, and was the site for European and Maori contact. The Maoris, the Ngaiti iwi, populated this area as early as the 1400s until 1790, and farmed ferns. Wikipedia also claims that the area bore evidence of hangi, underground ovens used by Maoris for cooking. Eventually, this area was bought by European settlers with a combination of needed goods, crops, and cash.

My visit to Eastern Beaches was prolonged by my usual flat white coffee break at Rattai Thai Restaurant. The dinner meal was entirely too luxurious for me, but the easy conversation with the staff at the restaurant and the ocean side view from the table by the door let me forget that I was on a student budget. I could see the Waiheke Ferry cruising by and I deduced after a brief exploration of the Bucklands Beach coastline that the Half Moon Bay Marina is just yonder, the two places connected by a raised ramp that hugs the side of a high cliff. From my vantage point, I could see the boats and the café, where I had enjoyed a pastry and coffee not too many months ago.

The walk back wasn’t as long, but the sun was slowly descending and the air recovering from the heat infusing the afternoon air only a few hours before had turned into a slight chill. Back in my room, I immediately hopped to it, again, meaning back to the grind and finished off the section of the Jeffrey Riedinger book that I was so desperate to complete. Alas. Success.

The path leading to Eastern Beach; the start of the Bucklands Beach Reserve

A not-so-gentle descent to the east of the Edge of the Earth

Neighborhood just a stone's throw from Eastern Beach

Cliff-side scene of Eastern Beach

Boats moored at Bucklands Beach. Half Moon Bay Marina is just across the water.

Bucklands Beach with an unsightly drainage pipe. What goes through there?

More moored sail boats at the edge of Bucklands Beach.

Beach front property at Bucklands Beach.

Gentle street scene at Eastern Beaches. 

SUMMER IN BURSWOOD

Single-legged birdhouse, a quiet contemplation in still waters,

Hidden by bull rush grasses, visible only to the enquiring pedestrian;

Single-legged birdhouse providing refuge to the riroriro;

Who swoops in from the left, and ascends up high,

Above igneous rocks that yield to carpets of wild Yarrows.

With strings of high-pitched mating calls, announcing her arrival,

Riroriro flirts spontaneously with the tuis and korimakos;

Wings flap furiously, blurred comingling of grey, yellow, and black feathers, 

As they vie for the other’s affection.

Camille Tuason Mata, Manukau, New Zealand 

(c) 2013

Birdhouse in standing water 

Drainage catchment for urban storm water runoff

Run-off catchment 

Household landscaping 

Canal that's part of the urban storm water run-off system 

This water system runs throughout Burswood Subdivision 

Riroriro bird

SECRET GARDEN

A few steps beyond, across gentle undulations of manicured lawn grass,

A sharp precipice overlooks a sonorous symphony of native jungle,

Bursting with revelations of green, brown, orange flora, distinguished by names unfamiliar;

In the armpit of this rapture, a discreet path is cradled,

Scrupulously guarded by the stout lemon tree, its yellow bounties

Pungent after-thoughts in the winsome breeze;

This path, each step guided by lavenders and water lilies,

Descends into the shadows of foliage, winding along the edge of a bog;

This path enters a secret garden, a somnambulistic space undeterred

By place or time, silence broken only by the melodies of bird calls,

And the gentle humming of mosquitoes;

Single, purple ti leaf plant, a punctilious presence in the biomass,

Feijoa tree on its last breath, prefacing the screened canvas of climbing beans,

Threatening to erupt across the vertical wall;

Οver-sized courgettes, discreetly nesting in the soil,

Obscured by the fuzzy leaves of its host, in this secret garden.   

Camille Tuason Mata

Copyright (c) 2013

Manukau, New Zealand

Genteel butterfly clinging on for dear life against the harsh wind

Native plant - I tried finding the species name, but couldn't. Anyone?

Lemon tree standing guard

Bog winding its way through the Burswood subdivision

Metal screen of purple beans threatening to overtake the fence

Beans up close

The wooden bench from where I listen to the musical symphony of birds, insects, and rustling leaves.

"MONTHUS HORRIBILUS"

Queen Elizabeth christened 1992 as her “annus horribilus.” That is what November represented for me, my “monthus horribilus,” the reason I couldn’t blog even when I wanted to. What was appearing to look like a smooth transition into my fieldwork turned out to be, disappointingly, a month of navigating through the red tape, attempting to interpret the language with the aid of an advocate at the international students office in order to answer questions about the required length of the doctoral program and the time I am able to submit my PhD thesis. What appeared to be settled before I even re-applied to transfer turned out to be saturated with question marks. Although the statutes clearly state that the provisional year is allowed flexibility, I presume to take into account the different circumstances of PhD students, I’m discovering somewhat unsettlingly that there’s much that is taken for granted because transparency isn’t always honored here. Or, perhaps it is, and there are individuals who just want to make life difficult for others because they can.

A former classmate once complained to me that he never understands what’s in wait for him in New Zealand, as he is later often told the opposite of what was agreed upon at the time of discussion. I sympathized with him then, as I sympathize with myself now, mainly because I’ve prepared as much as I can for my fieldwork. At this juncture, nothing more needs to be done and nothing more can be written until the data is collected from the field. I use my experience from previous fieldwork expeditions to guide me on the design of my research, the instruments for data collection, and the identification of my participants. Based on the work I’ve produced in this first year of study, I have all the information I need to begin sending out letters informing the relevant people at the research site that I’m coming to do my field research.

Of course, if the administration at Massey University had followed the guidelines and assisted me with another supervisor, who actually possessed the doctorate qualification required to supervise a PhD student, I wouldn’t be spending the last part of October and the entire month of November fighting for the right to graduate within a reasonable amount of time at my current university. I can’t help but feel that the incentive to keep me here longer is driven by the fact that I’m funded entirely by loans, with the exception of some research funds to off-set the cost of study. Personally, I feel that the administrative and academic staff should be more knowledgeable about the regulations so that students worry only about producing the academic standards expected of them to pass the PhD examination.  

In the meantime, I go for walks to release some of this anxiety, paid for four sessions of acupuncture treatment to re-align my chi energy and help me to cope with the bureaucrats, and tend to the garden I’ve created in a small block in the back of the house. After four days of rain, with the sun peeking out from behind the clouds on occasion, the vegetables look drunk from all the water. I’ve had to harvest the Chinese vegetables early – they don’t seem to grow well in clay soil – but the tomatoes and silver beets look very healthy. They won’t be ready until late summer.