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Phew! Thank goodness that’s over. Our national day, that is. The bout of anxiety and navel-gazing it inspires makes us ordinary mortal non-Maori New Zealanders come over all wobbly and uncertain.

Some pundits say the name is the problem. Our national day isn’t called New Zealand Day (like Australia Day across the ditch). Ours is called Waitangi Day and Waitangi means waters of lamentation. Not the most uplifting of names perhaps but named after the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi by Maori and the British Crown at a place called Waitangi in the far north.

But now 161 years later Waitangi Day has become a fulcrum for protest and renewal among Maori but a mixed blessing for Pakeha (non-Maori). Nice to have the day off but is there anything to celebrate? We know we’re to blame for… well, just about everything. The upshot of which is that, no, we don’t make the day go off with a bang. It’s just beaching and barbecuing as per usual.

Of course, there’s the official celebrations in Wellington, Waitangi and marae (Maori meeting grounds) around the country but for the last two years in a row, the Prime Minister has refused to grace the principal site, Waitangi, with her presence. She’s tired of being the focus of discontent and frankly, most New Zealanders don’t blame her.

Despite the lack of flag-waving, the visitor to New Zealand will find much to amuse them on February 6. The editorials, breast-beating, the angst and the insecurity leading up to the day must look quaint and mystifying at the very least.

And even though there are no fireworks and patriotic parades you can still find festivity on Waitangi Day. Last year I went to Waitangi for the day itself, much to the consternation of my friends who, no doubt, feared I would be ridiculed and reviled as an interloper by Maori radicals.

Yes, there was a protest march and yes, a flag was cut down and the Maori flag raised but the march ambled quietly through the grounds as we sat in the shade listening to the local schools perform Maori songs and dance. We simply moved aside to let them pass. The march was mild and good-natured, as was the response to it.

It’s just that the television news that evening chose to close in on the few heated words exchanged outside the church grounds when some of the more militant Maori were temporarily barred from entering.

For the most part the day went without a hitch, starting with karakia (prayers) at 5am, followed by an outdoor service in front of the meeting house later that morning led by the Governor-General and accompanied by Pacific Island and Maori music and a rousing haka. Several Maori war canoes (waka) then left the shores bearing a letter of goodwill from the Governor General which would ultimately rest in Te Papa museum in Wellington. The rest of the day was given over to entertainment and children’s activities, finishing with prayers and a 21-gun salute in the evening from the navy’s frigate in the harbour.

This year I stayed in Auckland and watched Pacific Island families camp out at the reserve across the road complete with tent, chairs and fishing rods. All day they played kilikiti (Pacific Island cricket) with sticks from the trees as wickets, the young women played volleyball and the elders watched and clapped from under their tarpaulins. For lunch they devoured chunks of fresh coconut and ate whole fish raw - a treat called pikiniki in Tokelauan, camtrai in Vietnamese and taafaoga in Samoan.

Others took the opportunity to embrace the new New Zealand with a multicultural celebration including an Asia-Pacific festival at the Otara Town Hall, Auckland while others avoided its original meaning altogether by choosing to celebrate the serendipitous occasion of Bob Marley’s birthday, also on February 6. One love? Indeed.

Whatever does or doesn’t happen, don’t miss Waitangi Day if you can. The weather’s good, everyone comes out to play and the psychological x-ray of a nation is free.

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