we would be staying as remote, but
Opoutere completely redefined the
word. After leaving the airport, I
needed to take two buses to get
there; I didn’t realize how much
trouble I was in until my second
bus turned out to be a guy named
Ken driving a beat-up van. I was
his only passenger.

New Zealand is startlingly
beautiful. There’s just no other way
to put it. Lush, green, jagged hills
dotted with sheep, goats, and even
deer lined the curvy roads we raced
across. As we spe_d along, I tried
both to keep up with what Ken was
talking about and to keep my lunch
where it was supposed to be. In his

New Zealand: Remote Beauty,
Lesbian Isolation

It takes more than covert homophobia and straight
discomfort to disrupt a lesbian couple-’s stay in Kiwi land.

BY JENNIFER CALKINS

ill you hand me that spatula,
hon?”

I never would have
thought it, but those seven words
were enough to make a room full
of Kiwis stop dead in their tracks.
All conversation in the communal
kitchen came to a screeching halt.

“Uh, sure. Here you go,” I
said warily, glancing around the
room, praying for someone, any-
one, to continue with what they
were doing.

My partner Emily spent a
semester abroad in New Zealand
last fall, and my aunt very gener-
ously offered to buy me a plane
ticket to visit her down under.
Emily would be finishing an inde-
pendent study project while I was
there, and we could stay at a youth
hostel that cost $7 a night for a
room. "

I never worried that New
Zealand wouldn’t be gay-friendly. I
heard somewhere that Australia has

the largest gay Mardi Gras on the
planet, so I committed a huge faux
pas and associated the two coun-~
tries together. Unfortunately, that
assumption was not correct.

(A disclaimer: I did not
see all of New Zealand; my conclu-
sions are based on stays in
Opoutere, a town that consists liter-
ally of two dozen houses, ayouth
hostel, and a phone booth; and in
Hamilton, a medium-sized college
town. I’m not sure whether atti-
tudes are different in other parts of
the country.)

I flew to New Zealand
alone, an adventure in itself with
the new regulations from
September 11, and after 24 hours of
being on a plane, I would have
been excited to be anywhere on
solid ground. As I was leaving cus-
toms, very proud at having made it
through successfully, I noticed a
huge mural of a rainbow on the air-
port wall. I figured it had to be a
good omen.

Emily described the place

thick accent, Ken chatted about
New Zealand’s huge agricultural
industry, informed me that there are
indeed more sheep than people, and
how Kiwis pride themselves on
being ecologically “green.” I could
instantly see what he was talking
about; the landscape was unblem-
ished by litter, and the only human
influence that I could see was the
pavement on the road (even that
was pretty scanty in some places),
and fences keeping the livestock

where it was supposed to be.

We turned a comer and
suddenly the ocean swept out
before me. It surprised me to see
that tall green mountains plunged
dramatically into the sea, unlike
most of the beaches I had ever
seen. The aesthetics of New
Zealand blew me awayagain, and I
hadn’t yet been there a day.

I fell in love with the hos-
tel as soon as I arrived. It was a
cluster of short, white clapboard
buildings with a common kitchen
and big, airy rooms. There were

kayaks to borrow, a trampoline, and
a porch ofi' the back with an amaz-
ing view of an estuary, a sand spit,
and the ocean beyond that. We
could see the white spray come up
over the sand spit and rocks when-
ever a wave pounded the shore.

As beautiful as this place
was, it was surrounded by a
wildlife refuge, and that’s about it.
Emily was about to go out of her
mind when I arrived, and the fact
that she had been watching birds
for four hours a day for her inde-
pendent study project didn’t help
the situation. After my epicjourney
and her epic boredom, and the fact
that we had been apart for three
months, we were both really happy
to see one another. However, it
soon became clear to me that peo-
ple in Opoutere were not exactly
used to having gay couples fre-
quent their hostel. '

There was no overt homo-
phobia, just uncomfortable silences
and glances whenever we entered
the room. Nobody tried to make us
feel unwelcome, it just seemed that
they’d rather us not be there. It
seemed that homosexuality‘ in any
form was just not talked about.
Because there were new people

coming and going every day, Emily“

had been placed in a camper where
she could stay for the duration of

her study. I, however, was assigned
to a room where several other peo-
ple were bunked, and the only rea-

. son I used that room was to get

changed and to store my stuff.
Every night, I walked to her
camper through the common room
with my toothbrush and pillow
with a sheepish look on my face.
Midway through my visit,
we decided to venture to Hamilton,
an inland city relatively close to
Opoutere. We hired a cab to drive
us 30 miles to the nearest bus sta-
tion. I looked forward to seeing
some New Zealand civilization and

' to experiencing a different part of

the ‘culture; we figured that a city
would also provide more diversity
and anonymity. We were also in

desperate need of groceries, and
without a car, we had few options.
As we walked hand in
hand down the busy streets of
Hamilton, people stopped to gawk
at us. People craned their necks out
of car windows to stare. People
winced and nudged their friends
and pointed. It was bizarre. It was
like nothing I’d ever experienced in
the States. There were no rainbow
flags, no gay bars,_no other visible
gay people as far as the eye could
see. Essentially, we were specimens
under a microscope for all the citi-
zens of Hamilton to view. That’s
not necessarily a great feeling.
After a few days, we trav-
eled back to Opoutere with more
food staples and a new understand-
ing of how Kiwis really feel about
gay people. There were two options
to this situation, however: we could
let it bring us down, or we could
have a great time, anyway. We

chose the latter, and spent several

wonderful days hiking, swimming,
kayaking, bird watching, relaxing,
playing chess on the porch, and
marveling at New Zealand’s
beauty. _

In the end, we were only
really out to two people, and both
were Americans. One woman was a
psychic healer, so we figured she
already knew anyways, and the
other tagged along with us on a
walk to the beach. It was exhilarat-

ing not to have to hide around these j
two women, and it made our last 3

few days really memorable.

Needless to say, the hostel
owner was not terribly sad to see us
pack up and go, but it was sad for
us, knowing the chances that we’ll
be there again are slim. We did
leave our mark, however: just
before our cab arrived to take us
away, we slipped several copies of
The Advocate and Girlfriends into
the stacks of magazines in the com-
mon room. V

Jennifer Calkins is a recent gradu-
ate of St. Michaels College and
lives in Georgia.

In d i a
continued from page 9

organizers), andvour malls as opposed
to street markets 

India reveals one’s own
culture — and.one’s “self” — more
sharply than any far-flung, exotic
place I know, thus far, anyway.
Diamonds show up best draped on
black velvet, and for anyone who’s
open to it, India, in her contrast to us,
will offer up a looking glass. So even
as you’re going native, so to speak,
and your shoulders have dropped and
your face has sofiened, you’ll proba-
bly see what’s up with your culture
and yourself  maybe it’s the food
which, by the way, was fabulous,
non-stop, but strangely we’re eating
less, than in, say, France or Italy,
where we’re apt to travel by tongue.
But there’s so much going on.,
“Visible Feast” is now an experience

not a concept. The think-buzz is qui-
eter but the senses have sharpened.
Good thing, too, because perhaps
India’s most intense moments are just
ahead.

Varanasi (aka Benares or
Kashi) is the holiest city on Earth for
Hindus. Everyone who dies in
Varanasi is guaranteed moksha, or
liberation from the cycle of death and
rebirth. Lord Shiva is everywhere,
having chosen to settle here with his
bride, Parvati. And no wonder. The
city’s power is so awesome that it
shines out, bathing the Ganga as
Kashi, the Luminous, might.

At the airport our group
split into various nightmare cars driv-
en by strangers, our guide and our
drivers gone. Hurtling into Varanasi’s
core, the on-rushing road riot was a
kaleidoscope tumbling as fast as the
Himalayan Ganges. Coming at us in
a 50 mph fiontal attack were enor-
mous pounding diesels, laden don-
keys, families mourning as they

transported their dead on their shoul-
ders, scooters, bike taxis, dogs,
flower sellers, beggars, and magnifi-
cent white Brahma bulls festooned
with golden flower wreaths. Once we
realized that all they can do is kill us,
we were free.

The Ganges View, an old
palace on the banks of the Ganga, is
the most charming, serene and com-
fortable hotel in India. All the street-
life is hushed away and the only riot
is the flowers, alive and swarming.
Drinks, refreshment, and then some
of us took to the streets.

Varanasi is India, only
more so. But now, settled in and bro-
ken in by all we’ve done thus far, the
twisting mazes and the multitudes
they contain are intense, but not over-
powering. The assault delivered by
India’s initial impact has become an
arouser, incense that goes to one’s
head.

At sunrise, thousands of
people went down to the ghats (steps

to the Ganges) to bathe and wash
clothes, to drink and swim, to medi-
tate and pray, to mingle. It is brilliant,
unforgettable, and some of the awe

‘ Shiva felt grips anyone who comes

upon it.

Our first time on the river,
we boarded a boat with an indefatiga-
ble rower, who took us the entire
length of the ghats. The water oozed
with disease, garbage, dead animals,
and corpses. We saw the cremation
fires at Manikamika Ghat, the most
sacred place; the fires never go out.

After we had visited the
Golden Temple, bought silks and cot-
tons, attended a classical Indian
music concert in the living room of
the palace turned into a hotel that
was our home, and visited Samath
where Buddha preached his first ser-
mon, we took to the Ganga again,
this time at night.

The same rower took us
out, but we thought it was so differ-
ent here, compared to our glorious

rafting on the Ganga above
Rishikesh. But the rower said, “No, it
is the same.” Any Hindu would have
said so. '

We were, by now, a tight
little group. We all lit candles, placed
them on leaves and when our rower
launched them, they looked like the
orange smudges on the blackness that
I saw when landing in Bombay —
only much, much brighter as they
drifted toward the ghats.

It was a trip that made pil-
grims of a sort out of us all — some.
no doubt, more than others. India, as
they say, isn’t for everyone. But I’ll
go back when I can. I saw so little,
after all, but moved as I was by even
this little part, finding it unforget-

table, speaks to the power of India. V 
l

Kristin Pettit is a retired high school
teacher and world traveler who lives
in Underhill.

l