I didn't set out to be a chronicler of the workshop, but it turned out I did a little bit of that. I can kick myself for not having learned all my camera is capable of before I went away. I regret not having shot a group picture of the class. But, at the risk of offending a few mild-mannered Kiwis, I do have one last, last story I want to tell.
See, Kiwis don't get too excited, and they are not a demonstrative lot. So usually when someone is leaving a party, the best you can hope for is for the host to come to the door to say good bye, and turn on the outside light if it's late in the evening. When Randy and Brian were leaving, we all followed them to their car and waited politely for them to finish hugging and shaking hands with people not from our class, when one weaver mumbled, "It's too bad we can't do a Haka or something."
That was singularly the most explosive outburst of respect, love and appreciation I have ever heard in my 12 years in New Zealand, and I can't think of a better way to express how we felt.
It was one heck of a screamingly gorgeous experience.
(Maori Haka is traditionally performed by men.)