New Zealand Nice

After a rather uneventful flight to the south pacific, I arrived in Auckland to a drizzling, dark, dreary, morning. Initial impressions carry a lot of weight, and the weather alone could have left Auckland in the negative points category. But then, I encountered my first kiwi. No not the fruit. No not the bird. The person, a New Zealander. Customs is daunting in any country: NO, I am not carrying any food (except this delicious half sandwich that my grandmother made me). NO, I am not carrying any fruit (except the rapidly reproducing and crop destroying HuyGui fruit of the Amazon, whose seeds multiply without soil). NO, I am not carrying any wildlife (except this baby polar bear, he needs a new home). And NO, definitetly NO, I have NOT visited any farms in the last week (except for yesterday). Now some might say that "strategically misleading" customs officials is immoral, actually no, no one would say that. The tragic reprecussions to ever marking 'YES' on a customs form, well I would rather not talk about it. I'm getting off subject, let me refocus. Customs is not fun, it is the airport equivalent to the DMV. Except the people at the DMV can't take you to the back room and give you a full cavity search because you had an orange in your backpack. Its early in the morning on a Monday, sitting in tiny booths asking the same questions hundreds of times a day, customs officials usually aren't the most pleasant of people. Non-English speaking turists are yelled at as if the sound waves of their ever amplifying voice would crumble the tower of Babel and miraculous comprehension would be had (I don't know what the guy in front of me was thinking, everyone knows that yelling in Hindi would never accomplish such a feat!) Squealing teeny-boppers who continuosly quoting Steve Irwin comments in terrible fake English accents, can't bring a smile to anyone's face. But New Zealand is different. Instead of having a shouting match with the broken English of the Indian man, the customs officer asked him to write down his responses in order to avoid confusion. The 'nails-on-the-chalkboard' group of girls got a nod, smile, and wink from their officer. And even me, bearded and long haired with obvious soil on my boots and sweating from the pressure of denying it, was welcomed with a warm smile. Mean, muscley, Maori men quickly seized my bags; only to gently place them on the X-Ray machine and tell me about the best places to snowboard in NZ. Even the driver of the cheap airport transport bus for lowly backpackers like myself, was more than polite; not only cutting me a deal for being a 'poor student' but also sincerely apologizing when he hit the brakes after almost being side-swiped by a semi. He did not, however, apologize for driving on the wrong side of the road, nor did anyone else...(Someone please understand that joke.) Heading into downtown during what should have been rush hour left my ears ringing with an eerie silence, and forced my eyes to wander. I was searching for the traffic jams, the traffic control cops, and the patented fist shake and one finger salutes of Chicago- but none of it existed. Like wise the strange lack of horns being blown and expletives being shrieked to other drivers are testament to the good natured people of New Zealand. Minnesota can bite me, this is a new kind of nice. New Zealand Nice!