So when I was eleven I went on a three-week backpacking trip through of the interior of the south island of New Zealand. I remember it being a magical place of startling geographic diversity, where a quick stroll could take you from grasslands through forests and onto beaches and back. Where we crossed swaying, rickety bridges over rocky, rainbow-shrouded gorges. Where we stayed in huts on the beach while kiwi birds frolicked all around. For years I’ve been telling everyone about how it was the coolest place on earth, and generally doing more to bolster New Zealand tourism than anyone except Peter Jackson.
But then last week I met
Look, I know what I saw, so I started to suspect that she was only pretending to be from New Zealand. But after consulting eight encyclopedias about kiwi birds, all of which confirm her account, I’m willing to admit the slight possibility that I didn’t see any kiwi birds there, but rather saw some other form of long-beaked, long-legged, brown-feathered, kiwi-bird-looking bird. Still, it’s awfully disillusioning. I’m reminded of this quote from Roger Zelazny’s Amber (which I can quote for any occasion): “Inside stories seldom live up to one’s expectations. Usually they are grubby little things, reducing down to the basest of motives when all is known. Conjectures and illusions are often the better possessions.”
And so, in the spirit of tearing away naive illusions, I offer this chilling expose into the seamy reality of the New Zealand fruit export industry [dead link].
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