It’s time to say farewell fair friends
Ladies and gentlemen, this is it. The end — or, at least, the end of my time in Southland.
Long story short, I’m moving north to Auckland, where I’ll be starting a new job as deputy digital editor of a business/technology magazine.
Believe me: I’m heartbroken about leaving.
Deciding to leave Southland was, in all honesty, one of the hardest decisions I have ever made in my life. I love it here. I love the people that live here. And I think my love of cheese rolls is now rather well-known (if in doubt, ask the folks at any local supermarket about the bearded man with the American accent who walks in every week and buys several packets of six pre-made cheese rolls).
But I also am afflicted by a terminal case of wanderlust. And the nearby presence of a major international airport is rather important for my particular, um, lifestyle.
Perhaps one day I will return to Southland. Perhaps I will never set foot in this part of the world again.
But what I can say with more certainty is this: it has been a learning experience. Some people might say my short time here and abrupt departure represents a failure.
I never quite fit in culturally, they’d say, and was too worldly to understand the things Southlanders cared about, they’d argue. I would disagree. I would say my time here has taught me many valuable lessons.
For instance, I learned that you should never judge a place, or people, based on appearances. I would be lying if I did not say there were some serious challenges here. Being in a small town with highly conservative residents, and being around many people who had never left New Zealand, made simply relating to people incredibly difficult. Living in my own house without any roommates – completely on my own for the first time in my life – also was not easy. And I did not anticipate how difficult dealing with isolation – several hours away from any major city – for a long period of time could be. I’ll be honest here: I thought I would be in Southland for much longer than this. But you never know what the future holds. Life’s funny that way, isn’t it? It’s no secret Raiders of the Lost Ark is my favourite film. There’s an exchange in there, when Harrison Ford’s swashbuckling archaeologist is chatting with his old flame, that’s particularly outstanding. Her: ‘‘You’re not the man I knew 10 years ago.’’ Indiana Jones: ‘‘It’s not the years, honey. It’s the mileage.’’ The lines perfectly describes my life. Ten years ago, I was still in high school. I had never left the United States. Now, I’ve been to nearly 50 countries, lived on several continents, and met a colourful cast of characters more perfect than anything you can read in a book or see on TV. I’ve experienced things that are wondrous, such as praying at the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque in Oman or sharing a meal with some new friends in the Solomon Islands. Yet I’ve also seen how frightening the world can be, such as experiencing the underworld economy in Kyrgyzstan or coming across actual corpses in the streets in Zimbabwe. And few things can compare to the fear of setting foot in North Korea and Afghanistan. But I would place Southland firmly in the ‘‘wondrous’’ category. After all, the postcard-perfect scenery more than speaks for itself. As tends to happen when you live in a place for any length of time, you tend to meet people. And, naturally, you form connections with those people. What I’m getting at is if I were to list the names of everyone I’d like to thank, the list really might fill the entire newspaper – and then some. So I’ll just offer a single, collective statement. Thank you. You know who you are. And thanks to everyone who’s followed my misadventures in this column. It means a lot to me. I’m not sure what my ‘‘calling’’ in life is yet, but I seem doomed to forever wander the earth. There’s worse fates, I suppose. But I’ll be carrying Southland inside me no matter where I end up. No matter what the future may hold, I’ll look back on my time here fondly. Despite the weather.
There’s a great saying in Te Reo Maori that I think describes my outlook well. And that, dear readers, is what I will leave you all with. Kia mate ururoa, kei mate wheke (‘‘die like a shark, not like a limp octopus’’).