• Otherworldly Aotearoa

    Otherworldly Aotearoa

    Aotearoa, land of the long white cloud, was my home over the course of the pandemic. Normally, the geographical isolation of this two-island nation would have caused me agony. But during this time, it was a god-sent blessing to be secluded from the chaos of covid. 

    A transient refuge from my 9-5, I found myself in Queenstown–where the wild charm of the Southern Alps meets the bougie ski resort archetype. Here, travellers congregate in clusters with brightly coloured gear, decked out in Moncler and Arc’teryx, equipped to conquer the slopes of the famous quartz-veined mountains. As someone who is not blessed with the ability to slide down snowy peaks as I hold onto measly metal poles (for dear life), I had to discover another natural wonder to purge my burnt-out soul, to temporarily forget the pitfalls of the capitalist grind. 

    On the tail-end of winter, the sun’s rays percolate through the atmosphere, warm enough to thaw frozen summits. Slowly, snowmelt trickles down mountain ridges, streaming through prehistoric gorges and chasms. Cascading at sea-level, pooling into freshwater rivers and lakes, bordered by pebbled shorelines. Rock faces eons old erode, snowmelt transports sparkly minerals into these heavenly bodies of water. Silver and gold flecks glitter, pools so intensely turquoise. I wonder if I ever knew the colour blue before plunging my aching body into the holy water that is Makarora River. 

    Worn out city-dwellers, my kindred spirits, escape to the Coromandel Peninsula every summer. Reminiscent of Australia, this coastline is renowned for its white sand beaches, endless surf and happy-go-lucky attitude. Seeking something different, we journeyed further up the peninsula. With a GPS set to reach the very tip of the Coromandel, Colville General Store was an essential stop. The last shop on the route, this old-school milk bar and service station is stocked and loaded for a zombie apocalypse.

    Venturing on, the winding, and at times, one-track road steered our compact rental car. Succumbing to the dusty unsealed lanes, clouding our periphery of deep green native forest. There are off-grid wooden homesteads hidden amongst the valleys, few and far between. How do people live like this?

    Maybe I should like live this.

    Enchanting undulating hills intersect with backcountry bush. Awe-struck in silence, my companions and I soaked up the beauty that is the essence of Aotearoa. We sensed we were off in a faraway land, where time ceases to exist, whole-heartedly in the present moment, utterly in reverence of life itself. This feeling is the reason we travel, and it cannot be put into words: only embodied and experienced.

    Jagged cliffs, untamed oceans. Kids embrace us like family. “Kia ora!”, they chirp, with sincere smiles and earnest eyes.

    Kapowairua (Spirits Bay) in Northland is rich in Māori history. It feels like the end of the world. Soapy beach froth merges into overcast infinite sky; the sacredness of this site is omnipresent. It is said that spirits travel to this region as they transition from the earthly plane. Not one dared to swim too far into the suspiciously calm waters, fearing the riptides would mistake you for a wandering soul, inviting you to the underworld. 

    Across Australia, annual leave is reserved for budget holiday destinations, Bali, Thailand, etcetera. Or for an escape from the lacklustre winter to a Euro summer, city-hopping from Paris to Berlin.

    New Zealand will always be there, they say. While I could gatekeep the ethereal lands of our next-door neighbours, they also deserve to be celebrated for more than Lord of the Rings. Being our sibling country, it makes visiting Aotearoa feel extra special and strangely akin to home. 

  • Morocco Is a Mirror

    Morocco Is a Mirror

    The heat met us before our driver did, but it was dry and tolerable as we sat in the backseat and endured the last three hours of travel. The transfer was a monochromatic transition from city walls to farmhouses, interrupted only by palm, argan, and olive trees standing proud in the arid landscape.

    After spending one week visiting a friend doing research in Ghana, I moved north to spend another week in Morocco with family and friends. The trip was an unmet tension between myself and spaces unbeknownst as I moved through the streets of Essaouira and Marrakech.

    When you’re thrown into a space geographically and culturally distinct from the customary, it’s easy to reduce it down to presupposition–where phonetic and linguistic barriers would render you parti pris in your experience of it all. I entered with the subconscious assumption that I would have no point of familiarity. But when you meet a place where it’s at, it reflects facets of yourself revealed only in the unfamiliar–a woeful but wonderful paradox.

    Blue, all blue, the doors, the ocean, the fish stands. Essouira was cooling, both for the soul and the body and most days were spent walking through the medina, finding ceramic and silver wares to fill my luggage with. It took two days to confidently navigate my way through the main streets; this was abetted by the shopkeepers who recognised us (c’est les Australiens) and we would wave at them until we turned the corner.

    On the last day we made sangria and drank it on the top terrace (yes, we had two). White wine, fresh juice and cut up peaches swam in a teapot as we smoked, listening to music and watching the cats traverse across the stones and washing lines which framed the skyline.

    Later, we found ourselves in an outside bar. Crowds watched as the bodies below danced in the open air, moving to the sounds of the night. Loud music fed us until we surrendered at 1:30 am. We skipped along the water and back inside the city walls, running through the streets and past the cats as we clung to the last snatches of Summer.

    Four days back in Marrakech where the crowds and noises overwhelmed my senses and obscured my thoughts. Everything was an acceleration of the former and we frequently sought solace on the rooftops of restaurants and riads, where the heat danced through the doorways and windows.

    The city expresses itself by virtue of the people–foundational to how the streets operate. If you wake early you can feel the rhythm before the crowds drown it out. Mint tea on silver platters is a pharos for understanding the shared life here. Poured from a height and shared to neighbours, friends and strangers. After all, who are we if not our interactions with others? If not our moments of communion? Collectivism is the reflector of humanity. All it takes is some time, and reflection to see it.

    The final night I watched the mosque glow in the distance. We stared at each other, curious about our differences but connected in our similarities. The night smelt like orange blossoms and burning amber and I imagined myself running across the terracotta roofs, I would sit in the palm trees as the city rippled below me. Each moment, real or not, was a pilgrimage unto myself. Identity is a soft cage when you see yourself in relation to the world around you.

    Words by Emma Sun @emsun7s7