Stepping off a frenetic Oxford Road pavement and into the relative calm of the Manchester Museum forecourt, I feel like I am crossing an invisible divide of time and space. Putting the Red Brick well and truly into the Manchester University Campus, the Museum buildings loom above me in their gothic majesty. The new entrance is all glass and sharp sheeted metal but the warm light gently seeping from the foyer creates a welcoming glow as you near the doors.

As I enter the museum, I am made immediately aware of the public nature of this space. Disembodied voices echo through the open atrium, footsteps pound on the floors above me and the unmistakable chatter of children winds its way down the twisted wooden staircase. I know my route. I have been here many times before. The museum was my refuge as an undergraduate when I longed for the company of people who were not my age and not students. I would listen to the school groups as they mobbed around the scary giant spider crab, as giddy and fascinated as they were. I would chat to the security guards, usually glad of the distraction, for these were the days before the refurbishment, when far fewer visitors came to see the wonders of things from long ago.

As I reach my intended destination, I am struck by the emptiness and expanse of this area compared to other parts of the museum. The Maori display is hidden behind the glamorous golden Buddha, situated on the landing, which somehow seems to dazzle people, making them walk past the next few cabinets without a second glance. It is also directly opposite the entrance to the interactive part of the ‘Living Cultures’ gallery, the prime objective of most visitors. In order to see the exquisitely carved Maori Storehouse centrepiece, one has to make a conscious effort to turn back and venture into the dimly lit recess, an unnatural and awkward movement.

All of the display cases in this room are traditional and the epitome of Victorian British Museum style. Deep brown wooden cabinets with glass panels rise up from the plush grey carpet, ordered in perfect symmetry around the square room. I feel like Gulliver in the land of Lilliput, my eye-line comes to the very top of each cabinet, forcing me to stoop down to read the information panels. I can see the ugly wires and utilitarian control boxes on the top of each wooden case, silently monitoring the atmospheric conditions surrounding each valued object. These cases radiate solidity and substance, they are safe strong vessels fit for their purpose.

I am alone for most of the time I spend in here. There is only the occasional interruption by other visitors, usually in small groups, as they whizz through on their way to the ‘exciting bit’. I can hear the strange automaton voices of the interactive delights, punctuated with electronic beeps and the frantic tapping of buttons of all shapes and sizes, wafting back into my quiet corner. There is a consistent low buzzing of what I presume to be the many lights in the cabinets, hot from many hours work illuminating exotic treasures. Now and again the elevator pings and despatches bewildered looking people, all seemingly lost and not interested in this floor after all.

Above the Maori cabinet is the storehouse carving with its fearsome ancestral face above the mantel. Alas, the staring, imposing feature is rendered impotent in this environment of unnatural lighting and safe, carpeted indoor setting. The power of the piece is lost, removed as it is from its usual social context and exhibited as if it is artwork. The whole room has this feel of a Butterfly collection; selected artefacts pinned into position and labelled according to date, geography and purpose. The Maori clubs made from glistening, vibrant green jade lie dull and dormant, their lack of motion removing all threat. Without the six-foot, angry looking warrior in tow, they simply look pretty. My heart slows as I notice the canoe prow, disembodied from its awesome wooden waka (boat), dry and static behind the sheet of glass. Memories of early morning paddles, slicing through ocean waves and feeling vital and free haunt me as I expect they do this wooden head. How can you describe the skilful poi dance without music? Why fix a grass skirt to a board when its very purpose is to swish and make rhythmic sound as people’s feet stamp in time?

I’m lucky enough to know the sounds, smells and sights of these particular objects, a privileged observer. Without this knowledge, a visitor could be forgiven for assuming that Maori’s are no more; an extinct exhibit like the Dodo or even part fantasy, like the imagined lives of the ancients with only mummies or clay pots as physical evidence of a grand culture lost. If I were to speak it would be hushed, as if in a library- Do not disturb! It’s as if I might upset the precious things. Without people these objects have become sacred symbols of the exotic. Decisions made by curators have bestowed celestial value upon certain material goods. They now symbolise something different to what they were originally created for, disembodied and out of context.

I see my reflection, bouncing off six cabinets at once. My ghostly figure suddenly provides a human aspect to the display. It is as if I am trapped in the glass cupboard, an example of the lesser-spotted student, complete with sacred backpack and notepad. I’m surrounded by untouchable things; sight is the only way to compute the information. There is no smell, no contextual sound, nothing to feel. A cloak made of feathers hangs immobile, as if it is frozen, belonging to nobody. All I see is a catalogue number and an approximate date of its creation. Name, rank and number. The only information gleaned by an interrogating public from this captured warrior's garment.

My attention is suddenly caught by ‘armour from Kiribati’; a full size warrior shape with no face or visible body, just hand-woven coconut padding floating in limbo, surrounded by vicious weaponry. The helmet is made from a dead porcupine fish. I say made from, it looks to me like someone simply gutted and dried out a dead porcupine fish and put it on their head. I get the distinct impression that perhaps those folk in Kiribati were having a laugh at some hapless anthropologist. The wooden swords with shark’s teeth down each long side look more realistically violent; I try hard not to imagine being struck with one of those and wonder for what reason might a person in Kiribati use such a thing. People continue to walk past; two boys merely glance at the cabinet. They do not notice the funny fish head and gruesome daggers. It’s already too far away from them, separated by glass.

Much to do about nothin'.

Ha! So I didn't manage to keep up with this thing after all....

It's now 2008, a whole 3 years since i started the blog. I'm back in the UK, back at University and it's almost as if the 4 years I spent travelling around the world never happened.

It is nice to be back in an academic environment, having interesting conversations and lie-ins every day. I quite like living on my own in my little bedsit room with its retro '70's 'shower pod' and view of one of the largest undergraduate halls in the country. I have to sleep with ear plugs every night because the 18 year olds insist on screaming as they leave the pub and run across the road which has claimed something like 10 lives in the past 3 years. There is a proper crossing but it means walking an extra 10 metres up the road...

My workload is large. I had 4 essays, one exam and a statistics project to do over Christmas. I've 'read' over 80 books already and still have a few to go... it's amazing what you can glean from the introductions and conclusions...

I'm finding it strange not having a TV, it's amazing how many more hours there are in a day. I'm listening to Radio 4 and watching the occasional dvd on my lovely laptop, attending the Aquatic Centre sauna to get warm once in a while and to chat to 'normal' people about things. I've found most anthropologists are not interested in football, or sport in general, and you can't have a decent rant about politics when everyone is annoyingly liberal and open minded. The sauna is my refuge.

I'm Back!

It's been 2 years since I last bothered to write anything but i've decided to start again. My life is arguably less exciting now that i'm back in the UK but I now have my own laptop and an inspiringly drab view of Mancunian tower blocks...

Radio Gaga...

Hey up folks,
sorry it's been so long since the last instalment...
Now that I have my very own laptop, courtesy of big bruv, I should be able to keep more up to date with this thing...
Anyhoo, here's what I've been up to-
I'm in training for a half-marathon at the moment, I decided to do it because my friend Laura has done a whole one and i'm a competitive soul. I also thought I'd do my bit for Charidee at the same time and so I'm running for KASM- Kiwis Against Seabed Mining. A Raglan based campaign group- Foreign companies are interested in mining off the coast of West NZ for minerals in the sand, alas this will have devestating effects upon the surf breaks, beaches, coastline, harbours, the near-extinct Maui dolphin and just about everyone living here due to trucks/ships etc. I'm getting sponsored per KM (22 in total) and there's a prize for the person who correctly guesses my finish time... bearing in mind that i've never run this far before...
Anyway, the dudes from KASM got in touch last week about the possibility of me speaking about the run on the radio. Choice.
I've been harbouring a secret desire to appear on Raglan Radio since I found out about the local station. So, at 7 am this morning I walked over to the Ambulance station as arranged.
Upstairs, in a small training room with disembodied manequin parts strewn about it, I found two very professional looking DJs and an assortment of KASM people.
It wasn't for Raglan FM at all.
It was Classic Hits, a famous radio station which is broadcast all over NZ.
The female DJ happened to be Jenny May Coffin, better known by me as being a Silver Fern Netball player... How cool?
So there I was, chatting away to my netball icon about Raglan and the run and KASM, being beamed across the nation as they drove to work. Ace.
I then hitched into town with a dude from Raglan and had a nice conversation as we walked from Dinsdale into Hamilton. The sun shining, birds singing and me feeling like I was wagging work to appear on National radio and loving it...

The view from Raglan High School...

I can't imagine doing much work if this was my view from the classroom window....

Did I tell you about Raglan Sunsets...?

Update...

Well, i've been busy...
Fighting fires, getting sponsorship to run 22KM around Hamilton, attending a very high-powered 'networking' event about sustainable business in the Waikato region, joining a new indoor netball team, being asked to join the triathlon club, slurping tequila, getting info on extending my stay in NZ, having a go at 'Waka Ama' (Trad Maori boatmanship), learning a new song in Kapa Haka, staying the night in Hamilton with a work colleague- first night away from Raglan since trip to Oz, surfing/cutting my good foot on the rocks at Manu Bay, getting a tan in the Winter Sunshine and finally earning enough money to be able to buy nice food and a book.
Howzatt?

Musings...

I haven't had much time to write my thoughts down for a while- too busy with work and enjoying the great outdoors to bother typing them up...
This is not to say that I haven't been my usual hippy-thinking self, though.
For instance, with all of the end of netball season shennanigans i've been thinking about exactly what it is about the sport that I love so much....
and it turns out that it's not really about the game at all.
It's all that primal-hunter-teamwork-enjoying the spoils stuff.
Competing as team (us) against team (them) you bond as a unit and it can get to the point where you'll do things for each other, above and beyond the sporting realm.
If any of my team needed my help in any way i would do everything I could for them.
So, this got me thinking about Gangsters and Gangland wars...
(No i'm not going to start my own gang and take control of Raglan's criminal underworld)
It's no wonder that people are willing to risk their own lives for their gangs- the feeling of belonging and common purpose that must develop when competing as a group in such dangerous and chaotic conditions would be amazing.
It's probably as close as you can get to the way our ancestors must have felt when roaming around and scrapping with other groups for territory and food.
And It must have been such a rush...
(as long as you were on the winning side)
almost makes me want to take up kick-boxing or something.

Ding Dong...

Suzi-q got married!

Here she is with lovely husband Thomas, (far left) brother Jules and his missus...