Welcome to Wainui Park!

"The process of writing was important.  Even though the finished product is completely meaningless." —Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore.

And I'll be damned—what a luxury this life is!  For some people it is do or die.  For myself it is merely do or do not, the latter choice simply being a version of myself that represents immaturity, stagnation.  Isn't it bizarre to envy those who became better people by some external force?  Perhaps they had horrible, toxic parents that pushed them to be more responsible and independent.  Usually it's some awful thing that, if you can overcome it, it makes you a stronger individual.  And here I was, not a care in the world.  Loving parents, lucrative job, comfortable routine.  If I'm so lucky, why would I upset that balance?  I somehow got through the system relatively unscathed, so what use am I now?  Sure, I have my own small stories to tell, triumph over evil and all that jazz.  But having acknowledged that my first world male whiteness has given me all the opportunity I could ever dream of, I'm now at that crossroads where I realize it's not just about me, but I don't fully know how to direct my efforts.  If I have any agency at all, shouldn't I be doing something about all of the shit out there?  Shouldn't I be elevating the voices of others who feel so downtrodden that they can no longer speak?  I've always prided myself in taking the time to listen to people's problems and offer what little advice and comfort I can, but there are so many people out there with a host of difficulties I can't even fathom.  I feel obligated to do something about it, to pay back the world that raised me, but the path to that is still unknown.  In the meantime, all I can hope to do is help people in some small way.  It may never be big, but that's the aim.  Even if the effort falls short, it's still further than it would've been had I stayed home.

Vague language aside, all of these thoughts swirling in my head have a lot to do with what I want to give and take from the next several months in New Zealand.  On the surface, it doesn't look like the Kiwis are struggling with any grave circumstances like poverty, disease, famine, or the like.  But nonetheless, we all have struggles.  Even in the week that I've been at camp, I've met plenty of kids that surprise me.  It's a cool thing to witness those personal victories and changes.  The activities might be pretty trivial to an adult, but I can remember a time in my life when everything seemed so damned big.  Honestly, I mostly hated any camp I went to.  At space camp, I refused to shower for the whole week.  I hated sleeping in a big room full of rowdy boys.  I missed my parents, and I had no idea where I was.  This place was a fifteen minute drive from my house, but as a ten year old I couldn't make sense of that, having the spatial awareness of a frightened dog running down the street.  I might as well have been on the other side of the planet.  I couldn't get into any of the activities, and I counted the minutes until we'd be free to go home.  I couldn't even appreciate the fact that Buzz Aldrin came to speak to us, something that would make the current me totally enthralled.

Upon coming home, I took a huge shit.  I believe I was constipated for all five days, but I can't fully trust my memory; it might've been that I simply loathed anything related to the bathrooms.  After that glorious defecation, I ate two slices of pizza and promptly threw them up.  I was ecstatic to be home, but something about the whole experience threw my body into disarray.

I imagine most of us have had those retrospective moments where we wish we could go back, if only to tell ourselves that it'll all be okay.  Those bouts of homesickness as a little boy felt like the most threatening thing a kid could feel, simply because we haven't really developed enough experience or a strong sense of empathy, of wandering outside your own subjectivity.  Extravagance.  Extra

At science camp, the eleven year old me had a similarly tough time.  I recall getting involved in a rather intense pillow fight on the first evening, resulting in my bawling for hours and wanting to get the hell out of this fucked up place.  I can't remember the details, but I made up my mind to hate everything as much as possible.  I think my bowel movements weren't so adversely affected this time around (I just know you're wondering), but what I do recall is the face of the counselor who took me into his cabin and talked with me.  I can't remember what was said, but I do remember coming out of it feeling much better the next day.  He told us a story about the moon and I fell asleep.  Having somebody acknowledge me was so reaffirming, and I was able to enjoy the rest of camp a bit more.  I vaguely recall campfire skits, nature walks, cleaning our plates in the cafeteria, and so on.  Those little things don't really stand out, but what was tremendous was dealing with the emotional outpours.

But once again, the relief that washed over me when I came home was the best.  If I could've told myself that seventeen years later I'd leave home for a year, that would've changed things.  Yet here I am, wondering if future me would want to come back and tell me the same thing, that all of this will make my homecoming that much sweeter.  Maybe I won't have a home to go back to.  There are so many possibilities, and I can't predict how I'll feel about it when it's over.

I imagine there will be relief.  I don't have a camp counselor to guide me through this, but I do have a bunch of new friends in the same boat.  Admittedly I operate on a different wavelength most of the time (read: I'm old!), but this whole camp thing is a pretty interesting experiment.  It's interesting to approach it from the other side, and also kind of funny that I still harbor similar apprehensions to camp.  But I intend to use that as my strength.  I can relate, and maybe I'll be that nameless counselor that a kid needs to get through the whole experience.

Maybe he or she will loath it that much less because of me.  Look at me getting involved with kids!  Hah!

I spent my first weekend off doing nothing of import, but it felt so damned good to have meaningful time off again.  I cooked, I ate, I did other domestic things.  I read all day (Cosmos by Sagan) and listened to Pale Communion long enough to get it cemented into my head.  Nothing like indulging in a day off!  Now if only I could rekindle my will to exercise...  Maybe I should be working at a fat camp.

 

Bring it on!

Boisterous Ben in all his bearded glory.

I haven't had coffee in a while, but these slogans are pretty inviting.

Olivia takes charge on the Giant Swing.  And to think that a week ago she was reluctant to go cliff jumping into the ocean.  Now she's a leading example!

Paul Chakerian contemplates his future as a shepherd.

Hagley Park and Botanical Garden.  New Zealand isn't skimping on the flora.

Inside Banks Peninsula, looking out past Cape Three Points to the open ocean.

Majestic raven watches over the car park.

Warwick ascends to the heavens.

Athough not kind to the man-parts

Team building!  This stuff actually works!

Crispian gets fancy for the staff.

This is actually the release mechanism for the Giant Swing.  The "subject" has to be the one to yank it out.  There is no spoon!

Inside Banks Peninsula from the Hilltop Tavern.  This is the first thing I got to see coming over the hill from Christchurch.  Welcome to your new home!