This morning I escorted a praying mantis outside. Silly me, I didn’t look closely enough at it to determine whether it’s the native or the African variety.

I spend a fair amount of time removing insects from my house, dead or alive. That wasn’t the first praying mantis I’d expelled. I’ve also brushed out ladybugs and spiders. So far no stick bugs have come in, but a 6-incher was lurking around our front door for a few days. (There are 20 native species of stick bug. I have no intention of learning to distinguish among them.) A green chafer died in the corner of the living room recently.

I occasionally am embarrassed by small black ants, silent and speedy critics of my housekeeping. One morning I saw a dark, moving spot on the dining room floor. It was ants dealing with the corpse of a lacewing.

Every once in a while a mosquito wanders in—fewer than one might think. The most frequent invaders are the moths. On warm, humid evenings we open the windows so we can breathe, turn on the lights to see what we’re doing, and in they come. Last night I batted several away while drafting emails, and I find their carcasses on every floor and windowsill.

What about the screens, you ask? There are none. New Zealanders apparently don’t believe in them. They like casement windows, and lots of them. Our house has at least two, usually four, movable windows in each room—about two feet wide and four feet tall—and they swing out along the long side. Great for ventilation, and great for letting in bugs. (The neighbor’s cat tried to come in once, too.) I have a friend who rented a brand-new house with a big sliding window over the sink—and no screen. I have another friend from Germany who says that if she ever builds a house here, she’ll import German casement windows that swing in and have screens. I have seen about three screen doors in all the months I’ve been here.

Screenlessness seems to be part of the Kiwi ethos (which is why they haven’t fully embraced dual-pane windows, central heating, or insulation): that’s the way we do it; it’s not that big a bother; don’t waste time doing anything about it.

Here it’s Super Bowl Monday and, never fear, ESPN is showing the whole shebang, including the four-hour countdown. (I tried to explain Super Bowl Sunday to an English couple here, but forgot to compare it to the World Cup finals, so I don’t think I conveyed the magnitude of the observance.) I could spend the entire day (it runs from 8am to 4pm) in front of the television, eating corn chips (they make good rustic ones here) and guacamole (this is avocado heaven. People will walk up to me on the street downtown and offer avocados for sale, but of course I’ve already bought plenty at the Growers’ Market on Saturday morning). But I’m not a football fan (except for the  soccer or occasional Australian Rules game).

Here, football means soccer and the various kinds of rugby. Rugby is huge in New Zealand. The All-Blacks are national heroes. When we first moved here, I was in a store downtown where a very sturdy, tall man was signing books. I didn’t see a sign, so I asked the clerk who he was. The clerk–realizing that more nuance would be lost on me–said simply, “He’s an All-Black.” There’s a rugby channel, broadcasting games from around the world (mostly from the British Isles, although rugby is played by many countries without ties to England), and endless replays. Rugby Sevens, being played now. is a much shorter game with half the players of regular rugby, which is divided into union and league—one is much more casual and popular than the other, and I can never remember which is which.

Here it’s summer so it’s cricket season. Cricket is very much a vestige of the British Empire. Pakistan, Bangladesh, India, South Africa, the West Indies (one of two teams to represent more than one nation—the other is England, which includes Wales) and Australia are all playing now. Yes, the players still dress all in white with old-fashioned caps and play three- and five-day test matches. But—more line extension in search of audiences—there are also one-day and other shorter versions, in which the teams switch to colored jerseys and swing at virtually every ball, yielding faster, higher-scoring games. (Query—will baseball ever come up with a shorter, faster version?) But the umpires, also dressed more casually, still hold the bowlers’ caps and sweaters.

We’ve studied up a bit, and watched parts of some matches on television, but we have yet to see the regional team (the Northland Knights) play. When Saturday afternoon rolls around, we head to the beach instead of to the local oval. Yes, oval, not diamond. Ovals, or simply cricket grounds, are multi-purpose; in winter, they’re used for rugby or soccer and, in Australia, Australian rules football.

Yesterday was Waitangi Day, the 170th anniversary of the founding of New Zealand as a British colony. We celebrated it in typical New Zealand fashion by going to the beach—three of them, in fact. We were going to stop at a fourth, but the longboard surfing tour was there, so it was zoolike. In the evening we were going to watch TV about it, but all we could find was a show in Maori, with no subtitles.

Waitangi Day commemorates the 1840 signing of a treaty between the British and some of the Maori tribes, and since it was written with different phrasing in its English and Maori versions, and signed by people with rather different concepts of sovereignty and relationships to the land, it’s been a matter of controversy ever since.

Waitangi Day wasn’t observed more than a time or two in New Zealand itself until after the country became independent, in 1947, and since then has had its ups and downs at the hands of Maori and of other New Zealanders. After all, some Maori and some Pakeha (European New Zealanders) think the treaty was a major fraud; some British New Zealanders thought that since New Zealand was predominantly British there was no reason to keep mentioning the treaty; some New Zealanders are neither British nor Maori; many are tired of polarization; and so on and on. And there was initial resistance to adding another paid holiday. So sometimes it’s been observed, sometimes it hasn’t, and frequently there are demonstrations.

In the morning, as we were headed out to the beach, we noticed fresh red graffiti on walls and windows of the neighborhood businesses, and wondered whether a protester had done the deed, but we haven’t heard.

In gearing up for the Big Day, the Auckland paper spent its last couple of front pages on flag-related stories. One was about the prevalence of flags that are all or partly the Union Jack—there are twenty-nine nations/Australian states/Canadian provinces and one of the United States. (Hint—think Captain Cook.) That issue also noted that even some Australians and New Zealanders have trouble telling their flags apart.

[Sorry these are different shapes--they're the first clip-arts I found. Extra points if you remember which is which.]

 Another was a design-your-own-New-Zealand-flag article, with various backgrounds and New Zealand symbols (flip-flops [known here as jandals], anyone?). The Silver Fern flag is also popular, and not just for the national rugby team. There’s a Maori-designed flag that would require the payment of royalties to its three designers, which seems a bit awkward. Another awkward entry has four quarters, with the Union Jack in one, the Silver Fern in another, and I forget what else in the other two. As usual in these matters, some people are pushing hard, others are saying, “Well, sometime soon,” and others are pushing hard. I’m not holding my breath.

There’s an old saying in American medicine that when you hear hoofbeats, you should look for horses, not zebras. So, when faced with a set of symptoms, you should first consider the most likely, not the rarest, diagnosis. My husband used that term at the hospital the other day, and one of his colleagues—from Kenya, I think—asked what it meant and laughed; in east Africa, one would look first for zebras.

My husband has at least a couple of Nigerian colleagues as well. But black Africans are few and far between; outside the hospital, I’ve met only white South Africans and Zambians. And the only Hispanic people are from the Philippines.

That’s not to say there isn’t plenty of variety. New Zealand’s home to many South Asians (around here, they seem to run most of the smaller grocery stores), a smattering of Southeast and East Asians, and many Maori and Pacific Islanders. Up north where we live, there is a much higher percentage of Maori than elsewhere.

Even among the European population, there’s a different mix. Although many look like Americans, there are plenty who look very English or Scottish.

While I’m enjoying the differences, I also miss familiar-looking faces. The other night at the Irish pub I saw a young man I thought looked Native American. My husband assured me I was chasing zebras, but we get people from all over the world here, so he could have been.

New Zealand is known for its sheep. No wonder—with ten sheep per New Zealander, that’s over 40 million sheep. And there are almost as many sheep souvenirs as kiwi souvenirs for sale.

We’ve been in New Zealand for over three months now, so we’ve had time to collect a flock. We now own seventy-five. We have four herds of eighteen each. They are very cheerful, living on ceramic coasters, and show a bit of diversity: each herd has seventeen all-white and one black-faced sheep.

We have two larger sheep who live on the deck. The larger, white one is Christy; the smaller, black one is Welly. They are named for major cities to the south: Christchurch, on the South Island, which is reputedly more English than England itself; and Wellington, down at the southern tip of the North Island, which has the twin distinctions of being the national capital and the windiest city in this very windy country. We bought Christy and Welly at the garden center that’s just a few blocks away. That day the center had a run on sheep; it sold six.

 Our seventy-fifth sheep is the most comfortable, living on and in a pillow (it’s a fuzzy bas-relief). It doesn’t have a name. Before the nine-year-old daughter of dinner guests fell asleep on our sofa, she folded a Kleenex over its eyes; maybe it’s more lifelike than I thought.

New Zealanders are known for their cultural cringe—feeling less sophisticated and accomplished than the British. Maybe they’re just feeling sheepish.

It may be Ground Hog Day in the US, but not in New Zealand. I don’t know of any burrowing native animals: just the dreaded, imported rabbits. Instead there are ground birds–the kiwi and the weka. And there’s no day to celebrate them that I know of.

The Kiwi Days I’m aware of are all something else:

1. a nickname for Waitangi Day (the anniversay of the founding of New Zealand, this Friday);

2. the name of an old, odd comic strip (I have yet to find a New Zealand cartoon I found very entertaining–the sense of humor is different. The Christchurch paper carries “Zits” as one of its three–only three! almost New York Timesian!–comic strips); and

3. the name of gatherings by expat New Zealanders wherever they may be.

I know of only one song about the kiwi as a bird, rather than a New Zealand person. It’s a Christmas song from the 1960s, about how the kiwi insists on guiding Santa’s sleigh Down Under. ”The Kiwis live in a hole in the ground”–now, that could be a song lyric. Someone could rewrite all of  ”New York, New York”–but not I.

This is a big week here in Northland. It’s flanked by holidays that  involve William Hobson, there’s no Hobson’s choice involved as to the first one. (William was Irish; Thomas Hobson, of take-it-or-leave-it fame, was English.)

February 1 is Auckland and Northland Anniversary Day, and it’s a holiday throughout the north part of the north island, which all was originally part of Auckland Province. In this era of Monday holidays, today’s the observance of Hobson’s arrival on January 29, 1840 not in the city of Auckland, but in the Bay of Islands north of Whangarei, to set up a government in part to assure that the Maori would not get in the way of the British Empire. On the morning of September 18, 1840, Hobson founded the City of Auckland as New Zealand’s second capital. That afternoon there was an impromptu celebratory regatta.

Auckland Anniversary Day was first observed on January 29, 1842, celebrating the province rather than the City, and there’s been a regatta every year since 1842 except for 1900, during the Boer War (New Zealand, proving its superior loyalty to the Crown, of course sent troops to South Africa in aid of the British Empire), and it’s now the biggest one-day regatta in the world. No wonder Auckland’s the City of Sails.

Even though today’s not a national holiday, almost everything—including the post office—is closed, as it will no doubt be locally for each of the other eleven provinces on their anniversaries. (They were established principally to save the British Government expenses of administration.) ever mind that the provinces being celebrated were all disbanded in 1876. They were replaced by counties (eventually 120) and boroughs that in turn were abolished in 1989, to be replaced by regions which roughly correspond to the original provinces and are divided into districts. (We live in the Whangarei district of Northland region.) In a non-federal system, regional government seems to be more fluid—look what’s happened to the counties of England and the provinces of France, which exist on maps and in people’s minds and hearts but not in any official capacity.

This weekend is also the last three-day weekend before the school year starts. New Zealanders are avid campers, so it’s too bad that it’s pouring the day many have to pack up and go home. But even the start of the school year is fluid. Primary and intermediate schools start tomorrow, and high schools next week. Why the gap? Probably to drive parents crazy, because of course it means that the terms end at different times, too. (And there are very few truly private schools; most religious schools get public funding, and are known as integrated state schools.)

Saturday is the second Hobson holiday. Waitangi Day this year celebrates the 170th anniversary of the initial signing of the treaty between the British and Maori which is considered the founding of New Zealand. (Hobson, who’d arrived a week earlier, represented the Crown as Lieutenant Governor and Consul.) It wasn’t even a public holiday until 1934, after the treaty grounds where it was signed had been given to the public (see http://enzed0910.wordpress.com/2009/12/14/in-the-beginning/).

It’s strictly a February 6 holiday, so Friday won’t be a day off. The theme of celebrations this year is bi-culturalism, which is hardly surprising; there’s plenty of tension between Maori and European New Zealanders over the flag, the country’s name, and so forth, along with what the treaty really means.

I was all set to mention that in three months here, we’ve never seen anyone flip the bird. But as we were walking along the highway and about to cross a street that enters our neighborhood, a big black SUV squealed and smoked around the corner. It was  almost on two wheels, and the front passenger door was being held open about two feet by an arm and a leg. One of the young women who’d been waiting to cross turned and gestured to the rapidly-disappearing vehicle. (The typical noisy, speeding vehicle here isn’t that big or that expensive. It’s much more likely to be a small Asian sedan with a maladjusted muffler. Drivers of such vehicles are known as “hoons,” an elision of “hooligans.”)

 While almost every New Zealander we’ve dealt with is friendly and polite—we’re going to miss that—this is far from a simon-pure country. Plays with elderly women talking dirty are popular. Prostitution is legal. (If you look up “Brothels” in the phone book, you’re redirected to “Massage Parlours.”) Many abuse alcohol and drugs. Theft and domestic violence are huge problems. This country is beautiful, but of course it has a dark side. After all, this is where they filmed ‘The Lord of the Rings” trilogy (and someday may get around to filming “The Hobbit”).

The Citizens United decision is only a few days old, and already I’ve been asked twice whether it makes me want to stay in New Zealand, reputedly the least corrupt country in the world.

I find the decision appalling–an especially steep segment in America’s downhill slide into valuing nothing but money. But I’ll be back, if only as part of the loyal opposition.

I recently received this letter:

“If you qualify for enrolment as an elector then you are required by law to apply to be on the electoral roll.

“Please fill in and post the enclosed enrolment form now in order to be eligible to vote in elections, polls, and referenda.

“Your application will be acknowledged when it has been dealt with.”

Registrar of Electors

An interesting mix of tones, eh?

In yet another transtasman contrast, although you have to register to vote here, you’re not required to, unlike in Australia. 

The Antipodes were quite forward-looking when it comes to the ballot box: the Australians were the first to have official ballots (rather than supplied by parties), and New Zealand was the first major nation to grant universal suffrage.

Saturday we had our second and last typical American meal for guests. This time it was a barbecue. It rained, so we were grateful for the cover over our deck. And it was a barbecue, not a barbie–that’s so Australian.

One man praised the burgers, which were just plain beef. (Here they call hamburger “mince.” What one bakes with at Christmas is “fruit mince,” not mincemeat.) He could save himself a lot of trouble; we were underwhelmed with whatever he’d put in the burgers he’d served us. We were able to serve American-style condiments. Heinz ketchup is made here, and it tastes as it does in the US. (Heinz bought Wattie’s, the biggest New Zealand processed foods maker, in 1992. Wattie’s still makes its own tomato sauce, which is what people Down Under call ketchup/catsup, but it’s nothing like Heinz. For a fascinating look at why Heinz is such a dominant force in the market, read “The Ketchup Conundrum” in Malcolm Gladwell’s What the Dog Saw.  That chapter also discusses mustard, and how Grey Poupon split the market. While you’re at it, read the entire book, which is typical Gladwell–which is to say, intriguing and surprising.) It’s possible to buy American-style mustard here; while it’s not made by French’s, it’s just the right color and flavor.

 The barbecued chicken was a big hit. Aside from one cut-up chicken, the only pieces they sell separately are wingettes and drumsticks, so we got plenty of legs. I made the Williams-Sonoma Basic Barbecue sauce [http://www.williams-sonoma.com/recipe/basic-barbecue-sauce.html], cutting down the pepper significantly.

For the cornbread, I first bought cornmeal flour, and then realized that it was far too fine. At the health-foods store I found polenta of just the right coarseness. A woman who had spent a year in the US remembered cornbread fondly, and asked for the recipe as well as where to find cornmeal.

I made iced tea, which a couple of the adults liked. Only the nine-year-old liked the lemonade made with lemons from the tree in our front lawn; here lemonade means lemon pop.

When it came to beer, I broke my rule about imported goods, and spent some diesel fuel. The only available American beer is Budweiser, and unlike Guinness and Stella Artois, it comes all the way from the home brewery. Rick’s not a fan—we’ve never bought it before, and probably never will again—but most of it got drunk. (We’re not whiskey drinkers, but there’s a lot from the US—Jim Beam seems most popular.)

 With wine, there was no question—I’ve never seen American wine here. It’s all from New Zealand or Australia, except for French champagne. We loyally served New Zealand wine, although not from the very closest wineries.

We were going to serve watermelon, which is readily available. But one of the guests brought a marvelous fruit salad, so we had that instead, with chocolate cupcakes. Here muffins are much like cupcakes, because (aside from the bran muffins) they’re usually made the same way, so all have a cakey texture. If I ever entertain with a quintessentially American dish again, it may well be blueberry muffins.