Life without ziploc bags and 3 ounce toothpaste

You can bring pistols, knives, razor blades, regular-size Crest toothpaste, hand lotion, shampoo and any other liquid, gel or other hazardous material onto any New Zealand airplane.

Say what?

That's right. You may be sniffed down by a beagle in customs for trying to smuggle in fresh fruit or some fungul residue on your golf shoes...but once IN the country, you can travel from airport to airport sans xrays, wands, bags rifled through, water bottles tossed out, computers in special trays, jackets off, and a forceably barefoot trek through security.

Because....there is no security line in New Zealand.

That doesn't mean I don't feel safe. Or that the police don't round up several squad cars of drunks every Saturday night in one of the Peel Street bars. But in terms of 911 nightmares, Osama Bin Laden, the threat level is ORANGE today...we just don't have them here.

Which may explain the following.

We are in Tauranga last weekend. Attending the national Kapa Haka festival. This festival is sort of like the Maori Olympics. Teams from throughout the country compete by doing a series of chant dances in very anthropologic costumes. A lot of beads and colorful grass skirts. Moku tattoos over the men's entire faces and the women's lips and chins.

We are in our beach chairs on a huge field - a stadium. Surrounded by the families and partners and town folk who cheer and clap and howl and screech and slap their chests and pound their fists to the sky. The energy is contained and wild. Primitive and choreographed. Ethnic and anchored.

I am in my most focused people-watching mode. Mesmerized by it all. I can't understand any of the language each team is chortling. But the emotion? Oh yes. The stomping. Wailing. Harmonic seduction. Barefoot army on the stage. It is glorious. Passionate. I am ready for a volcano to erupt.

Then, there is a break. And the "emcee" introduces John Key. I am pretty sure John Key is like the PRIME MINISTER of the country. On stage. About 100 feet from us. No security guards. No guys with frozen botox-like frowns. No one with mics in their ears. John says a few nice things. Congratulatory type things. Then he is off the stage and walking towards US.

He is so close, I am able to take the pictures that are posted above. And Brent is able to sashay over - without the mantle of being a doctor or American or some VIP who paid $500 a ticket - just a guy at a Maori festival with a Cabo San Lucas golf shirt on. Brent walks over to the tent where John Key is meeting with the judges and having a drink of water. Brent schmoozes up the cops who frankly seem a lot more interested in surveying the food than potential assassins.

As John Key, Prime Minister Key, leaves for his next appointment, Brent is able to share a few words. He gets in the fact that he is from Chicago - and yes, that's definitely where Barack is from - living in Gisborne - at the hospital - blah blah blah. I think he actually suggests John come visit Chicago. Or invite Barack to visit New Zealand.

I am both mortified that he is bothering a head of state and giddy that he now has such a GREAT story to tell. And I've got all on film.

I suppose there was no imminent risk to the PM at the Maori national Kapa Haka competition. And I suppose there is only so much damage a terrorist could do with a toothpaste bomb on a 19-seat prop plane flying from Gizzy to Auckland. But I tell you one thing, less security sure gives ME greater peace of mind.