Tag Archives: south island

Epilogue: Oh, that’ll do

Things from my notebook that I couldn’t wrangle into any sort of narrative

After I’d checked in at the hotel in Christchurch, I went up to my room, swiped my room card and opened what I thought was my hotel room. Instead I found myself in a small space, faced with three doors. I felt like a character in an adventure video game.
You are in a corridor. In front of you are three doors.
> Turn RIGHT.
> Use CARD on DOOR.
> Open DOOR.
> Walk into ROOM.
You are standing in your hotel room. It is quite nice.

Christchurch smells like cigarettes, like the late ’70s, like an small European city that’s on a budget airline route.

All the nighties in Ballantyne’s seemed to be those neck-to-ankle jobs. Not many people know this, but these nighties are actually classed as a contraceptive device under the Medicines Act (1981).

I was on the free bus, sitting on a seat that faced into the bus. A man across the aisle kept giving me the finger. I was about to flip him off back, when I realised he was doing it to his friend who was jogging alongside the bus, giving bus guy the finger. That’s true friendship.

At the museum, a group of schoolboys observed a mannequin representing a forefather of Christchurch with a hearty beard. “There’s George Bush,” one of them remarked.

I had a really good latte at C1 Espresso. It tasted like honey – not sweet but mellifluous.

The central Christchurch bus exchange is right fancy. It’s like a domestic airport terminal, with waiting areas, seats, screens full of departure times, and sliding doors that open when a bus is ready to be boarded.

I went to the local Regent cinema and was greeted with, “Hi! Are you here for the Taste of Italy evening?!” No. “Oh. That’s all right.” The cinema I ended up in had its main entrance below the screen. Whoever designed it like that obviously hates movies.

Q. What would you do if you suddenly found $20,000 in your bank account?
A. Big OE! You can get to Sydney for, like, $100 and I’d go there and stay with my sister and have girls over all the time and heaps of parties and stuff.

“He owes me. He owes me $25.”

A half-arsed idea about the cone being a recurring shape in Canterbury – the Chalice sculpture, the airport control tower, souvlaki. And what is a cone but a rollled up plain?

Discussed with Pauline the concept of a “bad coffee town”.

I thought I saw a light on in an upstairs window at the old Post Office, but it turns out to be a window boarded up with plywood.

The old Post Office looks like it would have been the envy of New Zealand back in the day. At the annual Postmaster’s conference, did the Dunedin Postmaster General say, “Gosh, it’s so hard getting the windows cleaned all the way up on the sixth floor of the GPO.” And the Tauranga Postmaster would be like “Yeah, woteva.”

A lot of women in Southland have the same haircut. It’s short and very functional. Possibly a bit spiky on top, with some lady-burns down by the ears. Maybe gelled out the back like a gunshot exit wound. And usually with some sort of concession to femininity, like stripy ’90s-style DIY highlights.

The Otago Settlers Museum has a video reenacting what seasickness would have been like for the first European migrants. This was a popular viewing choice among the museum visitors. Yarrr! Oi be sick!

Three pears were arranged on a windowsill at the Dunedin Airport. Oh, sorry – the still-life fruit models convention was last week, etc.

Part 10: The case of the exploding bear

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There comes a time in the life of any New Zealander from the generation known as “X”, when one must look back and wonder what happened to the Play School toys.

Big Ted, Manu and Humpty now live at Te Papa, the sign at the Otago Settlers Museum says. The bear, the wahine and the curious round gent are most likely enjoying life in the lush, climate-controlled national museum. “Aw yee-yah,” Big Ted no doubt exclaims to Buzzy Bee. “We had a TV show. We were all famous ‘n’ shit. It was platinum, baby. VIP.”

Jemima, the sign also notes, is awol. Is it true that she went to Sydney in the late-80s in order to further her career in television, only to find life in a new country harder than she expected? And is it true there’s crazy old junkie lady staggering around Kings Cross, with dyed ginger hair, muttering to herself about something called “the round window”?

Little Ted, however, can be found at the Otago Settlers Museum. But paying a visit to him will not result in a warm fuzzy wash of Generation X nostalgia, suitable for turning into a Mr Vintage T-shirt design.

This is because Little Ted ain’t got no head. He was ritually decapitated on the last day of filming in Dunedin. “Nya ha ha!” the production crew no doubt evilly cackled as the explosives were detonated, resulting in a cascade of yellow fur and kapok. “Who’s the pretty boy TV star now, eh?”

While the headless corpse of Little Ted is on display at the Otago Settlers Museum, it’s certainly not in a prominent spot. Ted lurks down a dark alcove, well away from the more glamorous parts of the museum. If you want to visit him, you have to seek him out, past the exhibited bucket of KFC, through the eerie hall of portraits of Dunedin’s settlers, and down a narrow corridor that was possibly a route to a fire exit in a former life. Or perhaps you’ll just stumble across him and find yourself a little shocked to see his remains.

Little Ted is a reminder of what can happen to those who are drawn into the appealing world of showbiz. One day you can be starring in a daily television programme; the next you’ve had your head blown up (for a laugh!) by your (former) colleagues.

It’s a cruel world.

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.

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”.

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.

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.

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.

Part 6: Pinned and mounted like a butterfly

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.

Part 4: White rental car blues

Robyn Gallagher

Adventures in words and web