The night for fa'afafine to shine

Yup, that's dudes right there

Damn. Wow.

Wow and damn.

In all my years I don’t think I’ve seen anything quite like the Samoa Fa’afafine Association’s annual beauty pageant.

A huge crowd attended the Fa'afafine beauty pageant in Apia

It’s not just that the contestants were wonderful and, it must be said, disturbingly attractive. It’s also that there was a crowd of about 6,000 people. Grandmothers, children, families were in the audience. As one of my American friends said, there was total societal buy-in. The contest was held as part of Samoa's 50th Anniversary of Independence celebrations.

As I’ve written before Samoa’s fa’afafines are males raised from a young ages as females and are considered the third gender in society. They are not outcast or closeted, but an everyday part of life here.

And tonight they celebrated in grand, extravagant and outrageous style. The evening had a bit of everything: drag queen exuberance and campiness, talent, Carnival, emotion, public service and pure, raw talent. It was a romp.

The costumes were elaborate

As another friend explained to me tonight, in Samoan culture women cannot be objectified, nor can they publicly behave in a raunchy way. So, on a night like tonight, the fa’afafines provide a sort of communal outlet. Sex can be laughed at. Risque is funny. You can get your jollies, as it were.

The beauty pageant consisted of four segments: evening wear, costumes, swimsuit, and talent. The roars of appreciation grew the longer the competition ran, until it reached almost deafening crescendos.

It was an extraordinary night. I still don’t get the whole fa’afafine thing, I’ll be honest. To someone who doesn’t spend much time in Samoa it’s an awkward and often intimidating phenomenon – some of these dudes are big. But everyone seems at peace with it. It is part of the culture and the natural rhythm of the place.

And tonight it was the turn of the fa’afafines to shine. And shine they did, like outrageous, streaking (in both senses) supernovae.

Apia gets her groove on

Getting Apia ready


Like an anxious hostess, Apia is getting her house in order for the biggest party in the country's history: Friday's 50th Anniversary of Independence.

Banners are being strung, flashing lights hung along the entire bayfront, fences are being painted and wooden shelters sawed, erected and their roofs thatched.

It's all go here.



Thatching roofs for Independence.

Even over the din of the cicadas the sound of hammering and chainsaws resonates from the beach front.

On Friday downtown Apia will come alive, with more than 10,000 of her 180,000 people expected to take part in a parade past the parliament grounds. UB40 will be playing a concert at the national rugby stadium and foreign dignitaries will be streaming into the Pacific Island nation. It's been 50 years since Samoa became the first Pacific nation to become independent, having been a colony of New Zealand's since World War I. Before that it was German Samoa and before that the Brits and the Americans were here.

Two weeks of holiday have been declared and Apia is positively brimming. Usually folks head out into their villages when they don't have to work. This week the villages are heading into town.



Not everyone was happy to have their picture taken.


Everyone is excited. "Are you here for Independence?" I've been asked a dozen times. And when I say I am, a big smile is my reward. I'm sure most people here had to do some research as to who UB40 is or was, especially anyone under 25. I guarantee you not everyone is as excited as I am to be able to see them - not even my friend who flew in with the band today.

It's going to be a wild and busy time for Apia in the spotlight. There is everything from canoe and Fautasi races to a Fa'afafine Association Beauty Pageant and a step group and Naval band from the United States.

The Samoans seem geared up for a party. A group of desolate-looking buskers drew a crowd of several hundred in the blinding lunchtime heat today. They were more audience than the band seemed to want to handle.

All the while the paint goes on, the lights go up, the Samoan flag flies proudly everywhere. And everyone, it seems, is wearing a smile.

Exorcising the ghosts of WW II

Frank Zalot Jr.

For 68 years Frank Zalot Jr. had nightmares. The screams of his drowning shipmates haunted him nightly.

A "friendly invastion" of U.S. service people had come to New Zealand in 1942 to protect her against a possible Japanese invasion. In June of 1943 Zalot was part of a training mission off the Kapiti Coast of New Zealand. It was a mission that went horribly wrong. The landing craft that Zalot was on was being battered by a storm that brought with it gale-force winds. It ended up being capsized by a giant wave. Zalot and his comrades in all their gear were deposited into the icy waters.

Ten sailors drowned that night in an incident that was never much publicized. Zealot was pulled from the water by teachers who saw only his arm sticking out into the suddenly moonlit night. And for all those years that night tortured Zalot.

Then, a couple of years ago, Zalot's granddaughter went to work to find out what had been written about that dreadful night. There was little information out there and what there was, Zalot said, was mostly wrong. So he set down his rememberances about that night and sent them to Kapiti Coast Marine Trust. At last year's Memorial Day services the mayor, Jenny Rowan, read out the names of the dead for the first time.

That night, a world away in his small hometown in Massachusetts, Zalot went to bed, expecting his nightmare. But there was only silence.

This morning, having returned to New Zealand for this special service, Zalot told me, "It really wasn't their screams I was hearing. They were yelling, 'tell our story.' Now that they've heard their names read, I've not heard their screams again."

A memorial to the U.S. sailors who lost their lives

Zalot was one of three sailors from the USS American Legion involved with the June 20, 1943, disaster to return to New Zealand. They were the guests of honor at a ceremony to unveil a special memorial to their fallen mates. The people of New Zealand have been overwhelming in their support and welcome, Zalot said.

Finally, those who drowned have been formally remembered. And the screams in Zalot's head have been put to rest.

Feeding frenzies

When we were in Rarotonga - I never thought I'd utter those words - we could feed the fish from the deck of the restaurant at our hotel. It didn't matter what you threw into the clear blue waters, hordes of fish shot over from all directions. The morsel was swarmed, sometimes batted around like a volleyball. Some fish even came out of the water. Can you see evil fish eye above?

Today I was sitting quite happily, and blessedly alone, on the bleachers waiting for Morgan's rugby game to start. The warm-up act - a highly contested and florid-languaged game - had just finished. As I was enjoying the first quiet moment of a hectic day, the team manager brought over what must have been two seven-pound packages of chips (French Fries, for my American friends) and put them on the row in front of me. It was like Rarotonga all over gain. Within seconds a dozen kids swarmed the bleachers, grabbing at the food. It was all I could do to speedily vacate my no-longer solitary post and scuttle off to the sidelines.

And no, though starving, I did not have the courage to ask for a chip. I might have lost a digit.

The wild horses of Kaimanawa

Today marked the annual round-up of the wild horses (not my picture)

New Zealand's Department of Conservation today began its annual round-up of the feral horses that roam the central North Island. A herd of about 500 of these wild horses lives in the largely uninhabited desert area of the Kaimanawa Range. These hardy, mild-tempered horses have been wild in the area since 1876 and the herd grew to more than 1,500 horses by the 1970s. The government manages the numbers to around 500 to protect many endangered plant species. Any of the horses that don't find homes are, sadly, sent to the abattoir. The horses are marshalled by helicopter. I was surprised to hear that such a large herd could exist in New Zealand. But having driven the Desert Road a couple of times, let me tell you it's wild and desolate country up there.

An old friend in need

Old St. Paul's in Wellington is going through extensive refurbishment

Morgan claims that every morning I’ve driven him to his bus stop before school I ask him if he knows the history of Old St. Paul’s. I’m sure he’s using his teen-aged ennui to exaggerate my middle-aged dementia.

Still, when we drive by with some non-family members in the car, he mockingly asks, “Has my Dad ever told you about the history of Old St. Paul’s Cathedral?”

OK, so I might have brought it up with Morgan on more than one occasion. But have I told you guys about Old St. Paul’s?

As I've written before, a large contingent of U.S. fighting forces were sent to New Zealand to protect her from possible invasion by the Japanese after the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941. The Kiwis had entered the war against Germany early and most of her troops were in North Africa and Europe. Churchill had told New Zealand that Britain would be unable to send reinforcements against the Japanese, who had just declared their intentions in the Pacific.

Between 1942 and 1944 almost 150,000 U.S. troops were in New Zealand, training, watching, and then departing for the horrendous battles of the Pacific from which many never returned. New Zealand and her people provided the last smiles for many of them.

To this day the flag of the 2nd Marine Division, USMC hangs in Old St. Paul's

While the U.S. trooops were stationed all over New Zealand, Wellington played host to many Marines. And Old St. Paul's, which was then just St. Paul's and was Wellington's cathedral, is where they went for religious succor. The magnificent old church was constructed mostly of wood in 1865 and, though on the New Zealand's Historic Places Trust, she is in a bit of trouble now.

The church, which was closed in 1964, is undergoing extensive repairs. The costs have spiralled $70,000 beyond budget. New funds are desperately needed to save one of Wellington's most important - and oldest - buildings.

"The church is like a book. It tells a story not in words, but in timber, brass and stained glass windows," said OSP manager Silke Bieda in the Dominion Post.

The old church is still consecrated and used for many public events. Losing such an incomparable building is beyond imagination. But the community will have to focus its powers to keep OSP alive. In a country that, because of the devastation of earthquakes occured or earthquakes feared, is losing so many of its heritage buildings, OSP 's plight should come as a clarion call.

In this, the 70th anniversary of the arrival of those Marines in Wellington, keeping the history of Old St. Paul's alive is especially important - for Americans, Kiwis and all lovers of things past. To make a donation see historicplaces.org.nz She is indeed an old friend in need.

Incident at the Cadbury factory

Cadbury factory in Dunedin

When Amy and the boys went to Dunedin in December they visited the Cadbury Chocolate factory. Amy managed to fall down the stairs. She was hurt quite badly, but assured me that wine wasn't involved.

I've harbored sneaking suspicions to the contrary ever since.

Today I feel bad about that because another, much more logical explanation than alcohol for the stumble has come to light.

It was ghosts.

I'm sorry to be writing about Dunedin ghosts two days in a row (see post below). But one goes where the news is. Today the Otago Daily News reported that two tourists claimed to have been pushed around by ghosts at Larnach Castle.

The man said he was standing in the music room with his wife, when "something came in between us and pushed us".

Though Larnach Castle has long been thought to be haunted, Amy and the boys reported no otherworldly experiences when they stayed there. Amy was quick to mention, however, that they stayed in the stables. I've never heard of an unhappy horse coming back to rattle its reins at people, so she probably has a point. Still, perhaps the ghosts of Cadbury - thinking they hadn't done the job properly - hitched a ride with them in their snazzy rental car.

Or it could have been the wine.

A haunting, haunted place?



Dunedin at sunset

The only otherworldly sensation I experienced in Dunedin was a haunting reminder of old Glasgow or Edinburgh. This week, though, the South Island town is engaged in feverish discussions about the most recent sighting of the ghost known as the Grey Lady.

Two students at Cumberland College believed they saw the apparition in their residence hallway. Their story has sent many of the students into a panic with dozens of them sleeping with their lights on. A chaplain was asked to reassert the presence of God. Even a kaumatua, a respected Maori tribal elder, was called in.

The Grey Lady has been a part of Dunedin's myth for more than 140 years. It dates back to now-closed Queen Mary Hospital, which opened in the 1850s. The ghost was said to be that of a woman who had had her child taken from her after she was declared an unfit mother. She died shortly thereafter and, according to the legend, took to haunting the nurse she held responsible and who resided in what is now Cumberland College. Back then it was still a nurses' home.

In a tale that has hit the national airwaves, the two students said they saw a dark figure, noticed an awful smell and felt "a cold whoosh of air" pass them. That set town tongues a-wagging.

Not helping matters much are some Cumberland College students who have taken to wandering the halls at night with pillow cases over their heads in an unsympathetic effort to, shall we say, lift the spirits of the place.

One person making the most of this boon is Andrew Smith, the owner-operator of a local Dunedin ghost tours operation. He's been widely quoted in the national media. Though he seems a likable enough fellow, with a sensible head on his shoulders, he certainly seems to be making hay from this situation.

I certainly found myself transported by sights and sounds when I was in Dunedin, but it was more by nostalgia than wraiths. Wandering the streets there of an early morning, I could have been in an old and odd hybrid of Glasgow and Edinburgh. It's not just the names of the streets, the heraldry on the grand old buildings of a familiar architecture - not even the barely detectable burr in some of the locals' diction. No, it was the surroundings. The old Scottish immigrants who were the backbone of the city could really have been forgiven for thinking they'd sailed around the world only to end up back in the home country. The dampness. The screech of gulls on a rainy evening. The rolling, brush-covered hills. The darkness of the inhospitable ocean. The majestic statue of Robert Burns. It all has sheen of Scotland to it.

As for the Grey Lady, I'll let others tell her tale. A lot of ghost experts seem to have arisen overnight.

Caballo Blanco has run his last

Like many who read Christopher McDougall's "Born to Run," I became fascinated by the mythical figure that was Caballo Blanco, or Micah True. He lived and he ran in the Copper Canyons of Northern Mexico where he could be close to the Tarahumara and their secrets for seemingly unending running. Last month the ultrarunner went out for a run and never came back. His friends found him lying dead in the wilderness he so loved.

The New York Times has written a truly wonderful story about the man and his life. He was an exceptional man who lived a life unique.

Kegs, eggs and a soccer game

Kegs and Eggs

The "tyranny of distance" that separates New Zealand from the rest of the world has been considerably reduced by new technologies. But time is still time, and when something happens in Europe it happens at an inconvenient time in Wellington.

Luckily for us soccer fans, Wellington institutions - read pubs - rose to the challenge and provided an outlet for the Champions League final between Chelsea and Bayern Munich. True, that outlet involved us being in the bar by 6 a.m., but what's a fan going to do? I swear to God, when I got my job in St. Augustine, Fla., I had to drive an hour to an Irish bar in Jacksonville to get two-week-old newspapers to find out how my Glasgow Rangers had done. Long distance calls were expensive and, in any event, my grandmother had no idea how the Gers were doing.

Yes, that's the primitive time I grew up in. There was no internet, no texting, and the wires just plain didn't cover British soccer. That's all changed of course and nowadays I have the ability to follow my Rangers in real time, even if real time isn't convenient. But when it comes to a European Cup final - the tournament that matches the best teams from the continent - you need visuals and you need company.

Even if it's at 6 a.m. So I invited some friends to join me at a local pub in downtown Wellington at that incredibly antisocial hour on a Sunday morning. What are you going to do?

I booked a table and invited some friends. Having been breathalyzed an extraordinary amount since arriving in New Zealand, I hated being out with the drunks and took a circuitous route to the bar. I just didn't feel like the hassle this morning. It's awesome in a very creepy way to go to a bar and await the sunrise, especially a bar that is packed to the rafters. It's like life got turned upside down.

But we do what we have to do. We watched and extraordinarily thrilling game and, for a few hours, those of us in New Zealand felt a part of Europe. And we got beer with our bacon and no one judged us. That's worth something.

NZ is rugby and rugby is NZ



There always seems to be a view with the rugby in New Zealand



Gumboots and stubbies

It's winter now in New Zealand, and that means rugby. It is difficult to think of another country whose culture is so closely tied to a sport as New Zealand's is to rugby. In every village and town the young and the old turn out to play or watch the game at this time of year. From the large crowds of the professional game to the few parents who watch their kids playing, rugby is front and center.

There are 520 rugby clubs in New Zealand, a nation about the size of Colorado. In many of the smaller towns, the rugby club is the center of the community. There are parties there and socials, even weddings and birthday celebrations. You watch a game, have a couple of pints and then spend the rest of the evening socializing.

Obviously this rugby passion was on high display during last year's Rugby World Cup in New Zealand. Every second house, it seemed, was flying the flags of the participants. Towns adopted foreign teams and decked out their high streets to announce their support. Seeing Namibia's flag flying over a small town in the farmlands of Taranaki - with Namibian coffee and food on sale at the local cafes - will always stick out in my mind. What the hell must the Namibians have thought? Crazy Kiwis.

Gumboots and defensively held brollies on the touchllines.

But the World Cup is a thing of the past - and the Kiwis proud champions. Now it's back to normal. And normal still revolves around the game. From primary school to old guys past their prime playing for a regional club, rugby is the game they socialize around.

Even before the Europeans arrived in Aotearoa, the Maori played a game called ki-o-rahi, which has many similarities to rugby. The Maori and their Pacific Island brethren are fierce and fanatical rugby players and New Zealand's national rugby team, the All Blacks, perform a traditional Maori war dance, the haka, before all their games. Rugby is not viewed as a colonial imposition in New Zealand. It's not an upper class game, as it is in the northern hemisphere; it is not the working man's game, as soccer is in many parts of the world. It is everybody's game. Even the Kiwi women are the four-time defending rugby world champions.

This is why New Zealand, a tiny land with just over 4 million people, can so utterly dominate this sport, thrashing nations with much larger populations. It is their identity and success is a national priority.

But that's the business end of it. On a day-to-day basis, rugby is in the genes of the people. One of the most wonderful aspects of New Zealand rugby is the Ranfurly Shield, known as the Log o' Wood, a trophy any team has been able to grab since 1904. It's based on a challenge system, as opposed to being awarded at the end of a season - even a small, amateur club can challenge the holders. If they win the game, they win the cup and bring it home to wild receptions.

Each holder has to accept at least seven challenges a year. Even though there are professional contests that are worth more, the Ranfurly Shield fills the holders with a sense of pride. The current holders are Taranaki, and the last time I was up in New Plymouth everybody was walking a little taller. The newspaper had changed its masthead to add a picture of the Shield, the mayor was wearing a Shield pin and signs and banners were everywhere.

Even the injured come back on to shake hands



Morgan, left, with a team mate


All of this is a long way of explaining one of the things I'm going to miss about New Zealand. Communities are brought together by their love of rugby, unlike the divisions caused by, say, soccer in the U.K. The teams play hard - they look as if they want to kill each other during a game - but then drink beer together in the clubhouse and have a good laugh about life. Morgan, who at 15 is starting for his school's 2nd XV, has had the amazing honor of being part of this culture. He's toured with his team in South America and all over the North Island. He's learned to play hard while respecting the opposition.

It's a tough, even brutal, game that creates a lifetime of bonds and Morgan has been privileged to play the game in its spiritual home - even if his bruised coccyx and painful back seem to say otherwise. To this day I'm still in touch with rugby buddies from Kelvinside, Strathallan and the University of Georgia. We will always have our warriors' tales from the days when we were younger, fitter and didn't give a damn about health insurance.

I am drawn to the game here, and have stopped by to watch many random matches I just happened to see as I was driving by. I know what the players are feeling, love to hear the banter from the knowledgable spectators, the smell of Ralgex, and the trill of the referee's whistle drifting into the air. I enjoy watching the battle of wills between opposite numbers, and the shows of courage from players competing in the arena.

I know Morgan will look back on his days in New Zealand and think, "Bloody hell, what a ride." I certainly will, and I've just been standing on the sidelines here. New Zealand sure loves her rugby.

Gandalf comes to school

I picked Morgan up from rugby practice the other day. I asked him how his day had been, as one does. He said that he'd had a good practice, that he'd done well in his Geography test, that McKellen had shown  up in his music class, that he'd played a good guitar solo.

"Wait a minute," I said. "Go back to McKellen."

"Yeah, Sir Ian McKellen," Morgan said. "You know, Gandalf?"

"Yes, I've heard of him," I assured my son. "I'm just wondering why he was in your class."

"He was there to talk to us." Duh.

It turns out Sir Ian McKellen spent a bunch of time at Morgan’s school the other day. Gandalf has been in Wellington on and off since filming of “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy began; he’s here now for “The Hobbit.” McKellen has been a highly visible presence in Wellington and pops up at all sorts of places, from charity cricket matches to the opera.

So it’s not that unusual to hear of a McKellen spotting. He visited a number of classes at the school and took questions. McKellen, who is a well known gay-rights activist, was asked about President Obama’s personal endorsement of gay marriage and other “gay” issues. Morgan, who met McKellen twice, said his answers were thoughtful, insightful and wide-ranging.

I asked Morgan – who goes to an all-boys school – whether the students, who are in their teens and in that towel-snapping mode, were giggly or otherwise disrespectful. He assured me they were not and that, in fact, McKellen had been a magnetic guest. I will point out quickly, because I know how up in arms folks get about such things, that McKellen was responding to a question, not spouting a gay agenda trying to convert the students to a debauched gay lifestyle. He was there to talk about acting and the arts.

And he did telll them many astonishing things about the arts, things that Morgan will remember forever.

McKellen at the cricket match to raise funds for Christchurch

There are many things I love about New Zealand, as well as a few that drive me a little bonkers. But I wondered in how many other countries such a thing would have been possible. In fact, one of the things McKellen talked about was that when he was growing up in England, homosexuality was a crime. Morgan found that somewhat unbelievable.

I suppose what I really liked was how matter-of-fact Morgan and his classmates seemed to be about this. It was no biggie. When I asked him how he thought a similar situation would have gone down in other places, he shrugged and said, “pretty much the same, I guess.”

With his generation, perhaps.

The fact that Newsweek decided to put a halo over a picture of Obama on its cover and ask whether he was “the first Gay President” suggests we’ve got a long way to go.

Now understand I’m not trying to make a point about gay rights, though I suppose by definition I am. I just think it’s important that we can address issues in a civilized and rational manner without name-calling, shouting and trying to block out the other side.

To be able to have a calm discussion about such things with my son after something that occured at school was wonderful.

And, oh yes, it was Sir Ian McKellen. Yeah , that guy.

The word that can't be spoken

Nipple. Nipple. Nipple. No, my blog has not been attacked. This is for my cyber-friend, and blog god-mother Jen Kirk Dinoia, who has been going through an outrage.

Young, free and Kiwi

I don't usually like posting other people's videos. But this one is funny and touches on so many of the important themes of the day - from Pavlova theft to planking to the rivalry with Australia - that I was sorely tempted. Then I saw the traffic cone up the tree, and it was love at first sight. So here it is. It is a nice little taste of New Zealand, plus it mentions my blog - sort of. 

Beer-drinking bride catches grief

It had to happen, of course. The beer-drinking bride, see post below, got into trouble. But she's not taking it lying down, basically saying that had she been drinking a glass of wine instead of a bottle of Tui, nobody would have made mention of it.

I like her no-nonsense attitude. Katrina Hayman, who was married last year, was taking part in a Bride of the Year contest in the farm country of Taranaki. She herself is a pig midwife. I'm not making that up - I don't have a fertile enough mind for that. Pig midwife? Really? Who knew?

Anyway, the picture of her enjoying a pre-contest bottle of beer ended up on the front page of the newspaper in New Plymouth. She did not object to the picture, saying it's just who she is.

"I don't like to portray myself as someone I am not," she told the paper. "A lot of females drink beer and it's just I felt more comfortable having a beer than having a wine."

And yet, according to the paper, organisers have called for an apology, many callers have expressed their displeasure and online commentators have slammed the photo as "disgusting."

Life is too short, people. It really is. Let it be. Let her be herself. She's kinda cool.

(Update: This espisode has gone into full scandal mode in New Plymouth, with the editor of the newspaper having to explain his decision. The organizer of the Bride of the Year show has complained, perhaps rightly, that she would like to have seen a photo of the winning bride on the front page, as opposed to the one that ran. A video of Katrina Hayman in the aftermath of the beer incident has also been posted.)

Two candid Kiwi pictures



Getting over pre-event nerves for Bride of the Year, Taranaki Daily News

I absolutely love this picture. It ran all over the country today. Katrina Hayman, who was married last year, is trying to calm some jitters before taking part in Taranaki Bride of the Year contest this weekend.
It reminded me of one of my favorite New Zealand pictures that has never seen the light of day. My parents and I were heading to Queenstown in December. I pulled over at a scenic overview to take a picture of the two rivers meeting at Cromwell. Soon I was surrounded by these young ladies on their way back from the Cromwell races, one of Central Otago's big days out. I think both pictures are surprising, fresh. Celebrations.




A Day at the Races

 

A view to a kill



Fort Dorset looking out over Breaker Bay

I've rarely lived in one place long enough to become familiar with its soul. But we've done so much exploring in Wellington, that I believe I get the place. I think I know what makes her tick, what her story is, who her people are. Yet there is always room for discovery. On this morning's run I took a left at the Pass of Brenda instead of heading straight down into Breaker Bay, as I usually do.

And what do you know, I stumbled across the rest of Fort Dorset. Not that I knew there was more of it to discover. I'd imagined that the gun emplacements at Seatoun's harbor entrance were all that remained. But there was a whole new world up here in the newly dawned day above Breaker Bay. I can't describe how powerfully emotional it is, just as the sun is rising over a glorious bay, to scramble through the decaying spirits of a dangerous time gone by - a time when the world was filled with horror and uncertainty - and to feel, as I did there on the high point, as if I were the only person alive in the world.



Magazine at the south end of Fort Dorset



Seventy years ago World War II was raging. But until the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor it had been fought far from New Zealand's shores. Most of her fighting men were in North Africa and Europe. But with the Pacific becoming increasingly strategically important, the Kiwis suddenly realized they were more than a little exposed on the home front.

While the coastal batteries at Somes, Massey Point, Ft. Opau, Pol Hill, Wrights Hill, Palmer Heads were dramatic - and are hauntingly beautiful to this day - they were basically good for defending against a naval attack on Wellington harbor. Should the enemy, God forbid, land elsewhere, they would pretty much have free reign over Aotearoa - the Dad's Army home guard notwithstanding.

Churchill and Britain were busy elsewhere, New Zealand was told. So it fell to the United States to send troops. Almost precisely 70 years ago - on June 12 in Auckland and June 14 in Wellington - the first of what would turn out to be more than 100,000 U.S. Marines and U.S. Army fighting personnel arrived in New Zealand. They built camps and trained here and many, many headed out into the Pacific to die in battles on tiny atolls in the middle of nowhere.



The view from the bunker

 I had no idea that Fort Dorset was so large in its day. It was, in fact, constructed in time for World War I, with two 6" MkVII guns, manned by the Wellington Naval Artillary Volunteers, constructed in 1912 on top of the ridge above what is today a nudist beach. Yes, a nudist beach. Don't you just love history laid bare?



You can just see the Peace Poppy through the gun slit

Two more guns were placed in Seatoun, at the entrance to Wellington Harbor. But they were removed for placement on Merchant Ships taking part in World War I and were not returned until 1921. Period pictures show a, by New Zealand standards, massive military camp, complete with parade grounds and barracks, down in Seatoun below these guns.

As with the other batteries around Wellington, not a single shot was fired in anger from the guns of Fort Dorset during World War II. Running around them at the breaking of a new day is particularly profound. The graffiti and detritus of modern youth seem to denigrate and celebrate the memories of these places at once - aren't the kids free, after all, to drink and smoke pot up there now? I was also delighted to see work around Fort Dorset that makes it look as if the Kiwis are actually thinking of making these old war memorials more presentable to the public. All of them seem to be suffering from sort of benign neglect.

If nothing else, the views from all these old gun emplacements are spectacular. Still, it would be appropriate if you didn't just have to stumble across these old guardians from another time. Many locals don't know about these glorious old ruins.

Here are some of the shots of what remains today at the other coastal defense stations:

The tunnels of Wrights Hill Fortress:

                                                      

The guns of Pol Hill:

                                                           

Palmers Head Fortress: 

Fort Ballance - the first

                                                             

Fort Opau - gorgeous





Fort Buckley - early and little

Somes Island - windy and wild

Mt. Crawford

Massey Memorial - yes, there were guns under it