Monthly Archives: November 2009

Part 9: Pleasantly weary

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I didn’t meant to go to the New Zealand Sports Hall of Fame. It was an accident, I swear.

See, I’d been basing my travels on my 1969 edition of the Shell Guide to New Zealand (edited by Maurice Shadbolt, cover by Colin McCahon), so anything opened in the last 40 years was off my radar.

But the Dunedin Railway Station came highly recommended. “Its opulence recalls great days of rail travel,” extolled Mau-Mau. I explored the magnificence of the Flemmish Renaissance style station buildings and the lonely platform.

Continuing my appreciation, I wandered upstairs, and there I found the New Zealand Sports Hall of Fame. I didn’t even know it existed, and yet there it was. Lured in by sheet of A4 paper promising “163 athletes” and “35 sports”, I paid my $5 admission and entered, not really sure what to expect other than something involving sports, fame and… a hall.

Straight away I was in the rugby section. A small box tempted me: “Press the white button for a whiff of the odour of New Zealand rugby.” Feeling like Alice in Rugbyland, I pressed the button and the faint whirr of an electric motor started. What olfactory awfulness was this strange box unleashing? Soon an odor reached my nostrils. Deep Heat.

The box kept whirring and the Deep Heat odour kept spreading. I was trying to appreciate the impact that Wilson Whineray had on the game of rugby union, but the Deep Heat kept getting all up in my nose. I had to get out of the rugby area.

Boxes

Most of the people or teams being honoured by the Hall of Fame had a glass case dedicated to them. Cases would usually include such items as trophies, certificates, books, uniforms, photos and yellowing newspaper clippings. Lots of yellowing newspaper clippings.

Strangest of all was a 1983 Auckland Star front page celebrating the New Zealand rowing team’s gold medal victory at the World Champs in Duisberg. But just under the glorious headline is the latest story on the disapperance of schoolgirl Kirsa Jensen: “Police believe girl kidnapped or killed”.

The most interesting item the Hall had to offer was Richard Hadlee’s list of “motivation” taped inside his case. It had short phrases such as “Visualise – dream and know you can do it”, “Robot – record and replay the good times”, “Enjoyment” and “Never get tired – just pleasantly weary”.

Motivation!

And that says more about the greatest New Zealand cricketers ever than an old cricket bat or photo ever could.

I realised there was something missing from the New Zealand Sports Hall of Fame – video footage of sports. Glass boxes full of memorabilia don’t quite capture the appeal of sport. A signed photo of a yacht is not the same as commentator Peter Montgomery annoyingly shrieking “The America’s Cup is now New Zealand’s cup!”

Television has brought sporting events to so many people, and yet there was no ability to view these monumental sporting moments that athletes were being honoured for. The only video footage I can remember seeing was what appeared to be a real-time film of a man swimming the Cook Strait.

The Hall of Fame should have a think about selling some of the crappier items of memorabilia on Trade Me (Chris Lewis’ biography will get you $10 on Buy Now), and work with NZ On Screen to get a really good website with more information on the inductees than just a brief bio. Get some video clips of significant sporting events, some interviews and make it more interesting than a box of yellowing newspaper clippings.

Although, you can’t quite convey the odour of New Zealand rugby on the web.

…

On my way out, two British tourists were dithering as to whether they should go in. “It’ll mostly be rugby, cricket and athletics,” one said.

But wait, chaps, there’s also Ned Shewry, the 1912 wood chopping champion.

Part 8: Everyone’s talking about it

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The road to Bluff is desolate and beautiful. But it’s also so isolated. It seems like the sort of place where people would only willingly live if they had a really good reason, like running away from extreme levels of parking fines.

The sky was grey, but the landscape had a strange brightness to it. It was like someone who was trying to be a goth, but had a naturally cheery disposition.

So what do you do when you’re in Bluff? You drive down to the end of Marine Parade and you pretend you’re at the actual bottom of New Zealand take a photo of the signs. New York 15008km! London 18958km! Dog Island 6km! It’s a helpful sign. I mean, once you get to Bluff, the only thing you can really do is leave.

A tourist family took turns at glumly having their photo taken by a sign for a B&B called Lands End, as if they needed some sort of written proof that they were at the end of the land in New Zealand. Scenic Foveau Strait was not enough.

Pull the chain

Also along Marine Parade is the former paua house. After Fred and Myrtle were mortally disestablished, the house was sold to private owners who appear to be in the process of painting the previously aqua green house a sedate grey-blue. It was a eerie seeing the exterior of the lounge that I had previously visited in its Canterbury replica form.

But maybe that’s for the best. When we’re in Bluff, we can pretend the paua house never existed. We can pretend there’s always been an ordinary bungalow at that address.

And when we’re not in Bluff, we can pretend it’s 1995 and the paua house is open for visitors, and you can come in and have a cup of tea with Myrtle and admire Fred’s shell collection. And we can smile and be glad that New Zealand still has such wonderful people.

…

Heading back through Invercargill, I found my escape route was blocked. State Highway 1 had been cordoned off for some sort of celebration. Strangely, there didn’t seem to be a detour route marked out. Well, why would you want to leave Invercargill? What, do you not like it or something?

I decided to investigate on foot, and discovered there was going to be a parade in honour of the Southland Stags rugby team having won the Ranfurly Shield. The last time Southland had won the hallowed Log o’ Wood was 1959, so this was a pretty big deal for the area.

Soon the parade started, including the Stags and some special VIP guests: Mayor Tim, local MP Bill and the head of the Invercargill Licensing Trust. The crowd was ecstatic.

Bill and Tim

The Southland R was all around me, but sadly no one thought of emphasising this in the name of southern pride and yelling “The Stags reveRsed the cuRse!”

Mayor Tim gave a speech. “Isn’t it a great day to be a Southlander?” The crowd roared in agreement. Yes, it was a great day. Now, today, Southland was the absolute centre of the universe.

Mayor Tim said the whole country was talking about Southland. They were even talking about Southland in Mongolia, such was the awesome achievement of the Stags. The reaction from the crowd suggested that everyone believed this.

One of the Stags got the crowd to do the Southland rugby chant. It goes like this: “South-land. South-land.” It’s shouted in a slow monotone, like you were searching the park for your lost dog and had got a bit tired of calling his name.

I began to wonder what would have happened if someone had engaged me in conversation and made a comment to me about the Wellington Lions. Would I say, “Oh, well, you’d just better watch out because the next time you play the Lions, they will smash you!!!!!”? Or would my response be more like, “Uh, yes, good old rugby football game. With the ball on the field and through the hoop, I mean, over the net? Wait, what?”

Of course, by the time there’s a fired-up crowd lining the streets, it’s not really about rugby. It’s about a fruity little town at the bottom of the country enjoying a bit of fun and attention, and feeling like they still do properly matter.

From the Bluff bluff

Part 7: Provincially expensive

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I had another day with a rental car. My mission this time was to explore historic Southland. The goal was to go as far south as Bluff, just so I could stand at most southern part of New Zealand (even though technically it’s not) just so I could say I’d done it.

My first stop was Balclutha, which I wanted to visit for one specific reason. I was in search of weird coffee.

In the book “True Colours” – writer Dave Armstrong’s account of the 1996 general election campaign – he and his wife visit a coffee bar in Balclutha, and, he writes, “My wife orders an espresso coffee which looks like a tepid banana smoothie and has a marshmallow floating in it. Weird.”

And the week before Dan Slevin had tweeted from the road, with a tale of ordering a trim latte in Cromwell and receiving something with chocolate sauce decoratively drizzled on top of it.

I was envious of such caffeinated abominations and was hoping that Balclutha would deliver.

Well, it didn’t. I went to a cafe on the main street and ordered a latte and received a pretty good latte.

Feeling like a caffenated Schrödinger’s cat entangled in states of contentment and disappointment, I stopped by the South Otago Museum soon after it had opened for the day. It’s one of those museums that has a collection of items of bona fide significance to the region but also lots of old stuff that people donated in the days before Trade Me.

Like, what do you do with all those old baking powder tins that get donated? You build a faux grocer and stock the shelves with the tins and fading Weet-Bix packets. And then you construct a grocer out of a 1950s era shop dummy, but he has one arm missing, so you make him an amputee. Yeah, he probably lost it in WWII. That would explain the look of eternal sadness deep within his plastic eyes.

Amputee

The museum also had a fearsome bottle collection, whose genesis can be traced to a yellowing flyer asking for old bottles, complete with a three-digit phone number to call to arrange collection.

So there it was – a room full of lots of bottles. Clear ones, green ones, brown ones. And also soda syphons, clay jars and a special 1970 collector’s edition bottle of Steinlager. You could probably sell that all as a box lot on Trade Me and buy the poor grocer a prosthetic arm.

My next destination was Gore. Motto: “Brown trout and/or country music capital of New Zealand”

It was lunchtime by the time I arrived, so I stopped by a pleasant looking cafe and ordered something called “Nachos – chilli beans + mince w sour cream & cheese” and another hopeful coffee. What they forgot to add to the description of the nachos was “+ carrots”. This attempt at nachos was the sort of thing you’d find in a children’s cooking book with a name like “The Kool Kiwi Kidz Kookbook!” It was bland and delicate. And nachos shouldn’t be delicate.

But it was provincially expensive so I just shut up and ate it.

I was hoping the coffee might cheer me up, but it was neither good nor weird. It tasted like a damp kitchen sponge. I couldn’t even enjoy it on bad terms and abandoned it only halfway through.

But happiness could be found in the Eastern Southland Gallery. As well as the collection of Dr John Money (almost too appropriate for the art collection of a sexologist) and of Ralph Hotere’s work, the gallery was also finishing up an exhibition of surrealist Edward Bullmore. He was a painter who suffered the curse of being really good but largely unknown in New Zealand, when when he died in his mid 40s, he was largely forgotten. But slowly people are remembering him. And if they can remember him in Gore, then all is not lost.

But my visit to Gore would have to be brief. The road beckoned. I had more of Southland to see.

Very trouty

Part 6: Pinned and mounted like a butterfly

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If I ran a museum, it would not have a mannequin of an historic person, such as a miner, a blacksmith or a fisherman. And it would not have a motion-triggered recording of said character talking about what life is like in his historical time, voiced by a New Zealand actor struggling with an accent wavering between Irish, Scottish and Cornish.

“Oh, I didn’t see ye there! Heh! Now, now, sit yeself down. Arthur is me name, but ye can call me Pegknob O’Hooligan. I’m just making some new boots for my fair Tess. Aye, she’s a bonnie lass. I came to Crappeville three years ago in search of work. Where I came from, well, let’s just say things were tough. It’s still hard work here, but the local hoo-ers, well, they make things easy for a fella, if you know what I mean. My Tess, she’s the barmaid down at the King’s Arse. Says I should leave ‘er alone and stop bothering ‘er, but I know she’s just playing hard to get. She’ll make a fine wife for me as soon as she stops playing with them other menfolk. And I hope her eye clears up and her teeth grow back soon. Aye. Well, been nice chatting with ye. I’d better get these boots finished. Cheerio.”

Otago Museum (which had one of these) is a decent museum, but it seems to be torn between being a traditional, old-fashioned museum and a cool modern museum. Exhibit A: butterflies.

Fruit again?

The Discovery World Tropical Rainforest is a three-storey hothouse full of tropical plants and lots of butterflies. For $9.50 you can escape the cold south and enjoy the warmth and lushness and pretty butterflies. Sometimes the cheeky butterflies might even land on you!

On the top floor of the oldest part of the museum is the Animal Attic. It sounds like a “Hey kids! Science is fun!” kind of area, but it’s a classic Victorian museum collection of insects with pins through them, animal bones, taxidermied critters. And a case full of dead butterflies, carefully pinned in place to ensure they could never move, even in death.

So did the huge collection of dead butterflies somehow inspire the small collection of living butterflies? Did someone have a peyote dream where all the butterflies in the cases came to live, leading to a grand vision of living butterflies in the museum?

Dead butterflies

But perhaps there’s a place for both living and dead butterflies. Maybe it’s like the Mexican Day of the Dead, where we remember those who have gone before us, those who have died so that we may flutter as free as a… butterfly?

Or maybe it’s just the result of an aging museum trying to stay relevant in today’s modern digital age.

…

Meanwhile, I’m hearing the Southland R all over Dunedin. The normally silent R in the “ur” sound, suddenly comes out of hiding. (This is called a partially-rhotic accent, as opposed to standard New Zealand English which is non-rhotic.)

“Look at the tuRtles on the eaRth.”
“We had to move fuRther into the subuRbs.”
“A buRgeR would be peRfect.”

The amateur linguist in me wants to embrace this as part of what makes New Zealand English what it is. I want to celebrate this for the colour it gives to speech. But I can’t quite get there. Because to my lazy North Island ears, people with the Southland R sound like pirates.

Part 5: Holiday makers

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“Hagley Park is the second-largest manicured park in the world. It’s the largest in the southern hemisphere.” The airport shuttle driver provided a commentary for the English tourists in the van. “It’s a real asset for the city. I always love seeing people walk along the river, jog along it.”

It was a cheerful, sunny Sunday morning. My four days in Christchurch were up and my itinerant itinerary was demanding that I jump on an aeroplane and fly to Dunedin. But it was such a nice day it seemed like it would have been more enjoyable to make the five-hour journey on the ground, listening to good road-trip music.

But I saved my road trip tunes and instead got on a plane and journeyed into the gothic world of green, purple, gold and grey, grey, grey Dunedin.

By the time I had checked into my hotel, it was late in the afternoon. I was hungry so I stopped off at a kebab shop for a felafel. Now, I’ve had a fair few felafels and I know the basic felafel-making process – it doesn’t take long.

But somehow the lady in this kebaberie took a really really long time to warm up the pita bread. She stood by the hot plate and slowly moved the pita around with some tongs. While she did this, the Holiday Makers’ 1988 hit “Sweet Lovers” played in its entirety (3:51) on the radio. The kebab lady had a frozen look on her face, as if she had recently realised that none of her dreams had ever come true.

Was there anything I could do? I thought about telling her some fun facts about the song.

“Hey, kebab lady! “Sweet Lovers” is a cover version of an obscure Bill Withers song called “We Could be Sweet Lovers”, from his final studio album, 1985′s “Watching You Watching Me”. Wellington covers band Holiday Makers faithfully covered it, but innovatively turned it into a duet.”

By this stage, the kebab lady would have started considering if there was life outside the kebab shop, and what it would be like to not have to work on a Sunday.

I would continue with more music trivia.

“It was a number-one hit single, and earned the Holiday Makers a fistful of awards at the 1988 New Zealand Music Awards, including Single of the Year, Best Video, Best Producer, Best Engineer, Most Promising Male Vocalist, Most Promising Female Vocalist, and Most Promising Group.”

This would inspire the kebab lady, making her wonder if such success would come to her one day if she set a goal and went after it.

“Sadly that promise was not to be realised. The ‘Makers fell victim to the curse of being a band whose first single was a cover version. Their follow-up single, “Waiting in the Sunshine”, flopped and they eventually took their place in New Zealand music history as beloved one-hit wonders.”

But, the kebab lady would realise, sometimes even something as glorious as a number one single can end up amounting to little if you don’t follow through on it. But at least you will have tried and enjoyed it. Yeah, we could be sweet lovers.

Finally my felafel was ready. It was cold.

Fornlorn