During the REAL New Zealand Festival, which runs alongside Rugby World Cup 2011, our Jock is roaming the country and blogging about it for the REAL New Zealand Festival Insider blog…
Revellers
Almost everyone was dressed up - French supporters with tricolour wigs, rooster hats, and red, white and blue drapes; Kiwis almost all in black, with silver hats, fern antlers, and enveloped in New Zealand flags. The black T-shirt, with the slogan ‘Keep calm/Piri’s on’, was everywhere. There was a team of people offering elaborate face painting; guitarists playing on every corner; and a juggler was performing high up on top of an elevated bicycle and surrounded by a circle of gawking admirers. People were laughing, ribbing their mates, doing impromptu hakas, and taking endless photos. Queen’s Wharf had already closed; but no-one seemed to mind. There were other places to go and watch the game on the big screen. Aucklanders were partying - and this was before that nail-biting finish gave them something real to celebrate.
A young All Black fan
World Cup 2011 and the REAL New Zealand Festival is now over. I can return to my humdrum life. After six weeks on the road, it is time for a few overall impressions.
One big party: The image which will stick in the mind is of Kiwis learning to party in public. The tradition of public carnivals is not deep in our culture. It used to be said that at the weekend the streets of our cities were so empty that you could fire a cannon down the main street and not hit a soul. On occasions when we did celebrate, such as VE and VJ days at the end of World War 2, people did not know how to behave or hold their drink; and once the kissing of strangers was over there was drunken hooliganism and breaking of windows. But the world cup has taught us how to have fun on the streets. True, the one real crisis of the cup came about at Queen’s Wharf on opening night; but this was simply a reflection of how keen we were to party. Once that crisis was worked through, the organising of the national party - at fanzones and other public places throughout the country was superb. There was plenty of alcohol drunk, but there was little aggro or wanton violence against property. We sang and laughed and danced and cheered. Huge street parties was not how I had imagined the cup; but it is the enduring impression. And this was despite that fact that early spring in New Zealand is never the most pleasant time to be outside at night - five of the first games I attended were in the rain. But it did not stop the music playing.
Good hosts: It may be simply our national insecurity - our desire to be liked. But there is no doubt that New Zealanders went out of their way to help our guests. The ‘Kia ora’s as you entered an exhibition, or the ‘How can I help you?’ which flowed from those wonderful volunteers in their blue uniforms were really appreciated. I spoke to at least 100 overseas fans, and their comments on the ‘warmth’ of the welcome became almost tedious.
Nationalism: If you landed in New Zealand on Sunday and saw the ‘Go All Blacks’ signs on farm gates and suburban fences, and the black flags with silver ferns on cars, you might have worried that a dangerous nationalism had taken hold. ‘Patriotism is’, after all, ‘the last refuge of a scoundrel‘. However, colour aside, this was not the black-shirts nationalism of the fascist state. There were a few ugly asides, such as the petty anti-Australianism, but in general it was a light-hearted nationalism, no more than a pride in the country’s footie team and a deep desire to express our best. Impressively, a love of New Zealand flowered alongside a real effort to learn about other countries. I will not forget the large window display in a New Plymouth store providing a map of Namibia and an interesting caption about its economy and way of life; or the way Napier divided its central city into quarters representing the countries that played there; or Palmerston North’s relabelling of Main St as Romania St and George St as Georgia street and their encouragement to everyone to wear red or yellow buckets.
Dunedin campervans
Campervanners: I had expected that most of the overseas fans would be relatively affluent people, eating in posh restaurants and staying in motels or hotels. From the moment that I checked in at the St Kilda motor camp and saw the huge army of campervans spread out over two football fields I began to realise that most were young, doing it on the cheap and heading for hamburger joints. This was confirmed when I saw vacancy signs at motels on match days at every place I visited, and when I was the recipient of an avalanche of moans from taxi-drivers about their lack of patronage. The profile of the visitors undoubtedly affected their response to the festival. I nearly always discovered a few non-New Zealanders at the exhibitions, concerts and plays I attended. The rugby widows undoubtedly enjoyed the cultural offerings. But the numbers of overseas visitors at such events were not great. Most, quite frankly, were more interested in enjoying fun in the bars with their countrymen. The audience who loved the festival were the locals. So, the achievement of the festival was to give us a richer sense of ourselves.
An outpouring of talent: I never ceased to be amazed at the outpouring of creativity which the cup released and which the REAL New Zealand festival pulled together so brilliantly. Each day when I looked at the festival programme, I was faced by tough mouth-watering choices. The number and range of offerings was deeply impressive. At times this meant that the audience was spread too thin; at times it meant that not everything was done to the same high standard. I would sometimes turn up to see a dance group and find it had been cancelled; or go to an exhibition and find the labels were incorrect or wrongly positioned. But the energy and ingenuity of the offerings, whether it was street theatre or a showcase event, was a constant. An awful lot of New Zealanders had their creative juices flowing over the last year. And as for the food - well, you could not take part in this festival without enjoying some truly delicious tastes.
The Māori response: I had not set out to look for Māori culture in the festival, but time and again this is what I found. I saw a wonderful Māori dance, Te Houhi: The people and the land; a powerful Māori play, I, George Nepia; an ambitious but largely successful opera with kapa haka, Arohanui; several exhibitions on Māori rugby and influential Māori rugby players; and I just loved the way Māori presented their culture in a living way. Whether it was at the Haka exhibition at Hamilton or in the tents at the entrance to Waka Māori, visitors saw tattooing, weaving, carving and kapa haka in action. They were encouraged to eat hangi foods, sing waiata, do a haka. As a Pākehā, I sometimes felt that Pākehā culture, not Māori, was a museum relic!
Best rugby exhibition: I saw too many rugby exhibitions for my own good on this tour, and too many consisted of lengthy texts extolling past heroes along with a collection of tired objects such as old programmes or boots. Because the presentation was always lively and original, and it made a real effort to present rugby as a culture involving many people in the society not just the heroes, the best was ‘Red, Yellow and Black’ at the Waikato Museum.
Best non-rugby exhibition: I loved renewing acquaintance with Len Lye in New Plymouth’s Govett-Brewster and Ralph Hotere in Dunedin; but the biggest challenge to my view of the world was in Nelson with George Shaw’s brilliant exhibition on street art, ‘Oi You.’
Best music: The single most affecting musical moment was Kiri Te Kanawa singing alone ‘Pokarekareana’ as a third encoure at her gala concert. It had us all in tears. But for sustained music I loved Annie Crummer’s energetic singing in The Cloud.
Best theatrical experience: This is a tough one, since I saw some brilliant theatre on my tour. I, George Nepia was fascinating and highly relevant; Finding Murdoch was engrossing; and The Earthquake in Chile, which was pitched so perfectly to its Christchurch audience, was one of the most emotionally intense evenings I have spent in my life. But I will never forget the emotional power of Te Houhi. It brilliantly evoked the human tragedy which colonisation brought to parts of this land.
Best match day: Perhaps because they were smaller and the event was more unusual, match day in the provincial centres was something special. New Plymouth was brilliantly organised and the compact entertainment on the waterfront was superb; Napier’s adoption of the Canadian and French teams was done with real charm; the walk to the new stadium at Dunedin was one long drawn-out entertainment; and the pre-match programme in Palmerston North’s Square was most enjoyable; but the match day in Rotorua will live longest in my memory because I was there for an Irish match, and the Irish fans simply have to be seen, and even more heard, to be believed.
Most upsetting moment: This was not when I heard that Dan Carter had hurt his groin, or when the French scored their try in the final. It came when I reached Christchurch’s Bridge of Remembrance, looked through to see the empty macadam where buildings long known to me had once stood and read the sad inscriptions on the wreathes laid against the wire barrier.
It was a moment such as this that put the cup into perspective. It’s great that we have learnt to party in public. The REAL New Zealand Festival was a brilliant showcase of this country’s talent and creativity. It made us all proud to be Kiwis. I feel as if we have been on holiday for six weeks; and have come back home refreshed. But when the party is over…….
I look forward to joining you next time!
Posted 1 February 2012 // Jock Phillips // No comments » 
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