In September last year, a few weeks after the earthquake, Air New Zealand had some $20 flights to Christchurch for January, so I took advantage of this sweet deal. “Yay,” I thought, “I can see the Ron Mueck exhibition and do a bit of earthquake tourism.”
I wasn’t sure what to expect from the city post-quake. I knew things were more or less back up and running, but I also knew that the Boxing Day aftershock had again munted things up a bit.
I went for a wander and came across the ruins of Manchester Courts. It’s a historic multi-storey building that’s in the process of being demolished due to safety concerns.
A few months ago I tweeted that demolishing Manchester Courts would be “a loss not just for Christchurch, but for New Zealand”. I don’t actually know if that’s true. I just sort of made it up because I was annoyed about it. But surprisingly enough, the Herald quoted that in an article about historic Christchurch buildings facing demolition.
The building is now a pile of rubble, blocking off the corner of Manchester and Hereford Streets. It’s still annoying that such a handsome building couldn’t be saved, but it seems like it had been unloved for such a long time that perhaps it was better to have been put out of its misery.
If I didn’t pay too much attention, I could trick myself into thinking that everything was as it was pre-quake. But it’s one thing to see “Keep Calm and Carry One” merchandise in a gift shop (in fact, it seems pretty much mandatory at the moment for all New Zealand gift shops to stock such items), but it’s a different matter seeing a crude print-out of the familiar red poster taped up on an office window.
In Cashel Mall, the Whitcoulls store had its building declared unsafe from the Boxing Day aftershock. The store was been frozen in time, its front window still displaying a cheery Christmas tree and wreath, offering slightly unnerving season’s greetings.
There was the potential of aftershocks, which I was kind of looking forward to. GeoNet logged five significant aftershocks in the three days I was in town, with the largest being a 3.8, but I didn’t notice any of them. I can pinpoint where I was when each of them happened, but I can’t recall a whole lot of shaking, jolting or thudding going on.
I did a search on Twitter for #eqnz hashtags and found a few people tweeting about aftershocks that didn’t seem to match up with any recorded ones. Could it be that crowd-sourcing is more accurate than seismographs… or is it just jumpy resisdents tweeting at every passing truck or slammed door?
The Canterbury Museum has an area dedicated to the earthquake. It’s basic room, painted in a dark colour. On one wall, some statistics about the earthquake are displayed on the wall, including a frequently updated tally of the number of aftershocks – 4254, at last update. There’s also a projection of the Christchurch Quake Map.
It’s a really simple display, and it seems like a stop-gap measure to do something, while acknowledging that the story of the Canterbury earthquake is still being told.
Christchurch looks like this: normal, normal, normal, temporary fence, normal, normal, cracked bricks, normal, normal, normal, normal, normal, crumbling parapet, normal, canvas over hole in side of building, normal, normal, normal, church steeple on lawn in front of church, normal, normal, normal, broken glass, normal, normal, normal, dumpster full of rubble, normal, empty lot where building once stood, normal.
And slowly things are getting more and more normal.
I went to the Ron Mueck exhibtion twice. The first time I was straight off the plane, tired, emotional and the whole thing was a giant emo rollercoaster. So I paid another visit the next day to fully take it in.
Christchurch Art Gallery is really cool in that they allow non-flash photography for the Mueck exhibition. But this means that the gallery is full of people holding up camera phones or pocket digital cameras. They mostly take the same sort of photo – a front-on shot of the sculpture in its entirity.
Ron Mueck’s hyperreal sculptures give gallery visitors a rare opportunity – the ability to stare at someone for a long time. If you look at a real person, sooner or later your look turns into a stare and you have to engage with them or look away. If you’re looking at a film of a person, you’re not in control of what you’re looking at or for how long.
Ron Mueck’s sculptures give the viewer the chance to have a really good look at a number of people (and a chicken). You can stare at the massive belly of “Pregnant Woman” or the sleepy eye of the newborn “A Girl” or cop an eyeful of “Wild Man”‘s genitals. You can judgementally sneer back at “Two Women” or check out the toes of “Drift”.
There was something very special about the Ron Mueck exhibition. I’m not sure what it was, but I did notice this: in most art exhibitions that I go to, people seem to spend more time reading the information cards next to the art than looking at the art itself; in the Ron Mueck exhibition, hardly anyone looked at the info cards, and spent most of the time looking at the art and talking about it with their companions.
So, I’ve been to Christchurch four times since October 2009, which led to the notorious rumour that I had a secret boyfriend in Christchuch, and in turn led to my declaration that Christchurch itself was my secret boyfriend.
Well, I’ve decided to break up with my secret boyfriend. It’s not Christchurch, it’s me. It’s a lovely city, but I feel like I’ve gone as far as I can go with it as far as casual encounters go. I feel it is time for me to move on and get myself another secret boyfriend. And I know just the place.
I like a good theme park, as testified by the notorious time when I toodled off to Disneyland Paris while my brother stayed in Paris and visited Notre Dame.
But this time, the advantage was mine. Not only had I scored tickets to Dreamworld, but being a resident of the Sunshine State, my bro had already seen the sights of Brisbane so had no excuse for not jumping on the Gold Coast train and going to Dreamworld.
Dreamworld is very much inspired by Disneyland, with its “main street” entrance and themed areas. But while Disneyland gets to have classic weenies – tall, iconic structures that catch the eye and the imagination – such as the Sleeping Beauty Castle and the Matterhorn, Dreamworld’s towering landmark is the Dreamworld Tower. It’s a tall shaft that offers guests an OMG-fast-fall experience.
Oh, before I go any further, I should state that I did not go on the Giant Drop. Nor did I experience the Tower of Terror II, The Claw, the Cyclone or anything else that sounds like a horror movie and/or something that would require a Civil Defence crisis management plan.
But I did start with the Thunder River Rapid Ride. It’s a water ride where one sits in a round boat which then goes for a hoon down a water run. It was fun and had just enough OMG thrills to keep me pleased. But – crap – some water splashed over the side and I got a little bit wet.
Next was the Rocky Hollow Log Ride. It’s a classic log flume ride (New Zealanders: it’s like the one in Rainbow’s End!!!) with a ye old tin shed design and… Oh, ok – I got soaked.
The log came barrelling down the flume, plunged into the water at the bottom and a couple of giant waves flopped over the side and got me all wet. And I’d even set in the back especially to avoid the worst of the water. Dryness fail.
“Take a photo of me looking all pissed off at getting wet,” I demanded of my bro. He obliged, yet somehow I don’t quite look consumed with rage.
It was time for something less aqueous, so off we went to the Vintage Cars ride, comedy replicas of old cars that you drive around a track.
At first this seemed like a challenge (I… I have trouble with the motor vehicles), until I realised that the steering wheel wasn’t actually connected to anything.
So I just sat back, rested my foot on the accelerator, waved my hands in the air like I just didn’t care, and the car merrily self-directed itself around the guide rail.
The Vintage Cars area is one of the oldest rides at Dreamworld and it feels like it belongs to a different time. In fact, it reminds me of the old Footrot Flats theme park in Te Atatu – a bit grunty and run down, but still enjoyable for a while.
Wedged around the back of Dreamworld is the Australian Wildlife Experience, which is indeed full of Australian wildlife such as koalas, kangaroos, emus and the daddy crocodile who was giving a special hug to the mummy crocodile.
The Australian Wildlife Experience feels a bit out of place. In a park full of roller coasters and costumed characters, it’s strange to come across actual real animals. And even stranger to consider that the park is effectively build on the natural habitat of these animals.
Suddenly I turned a corner and there I was in a land I had only dreamed of – Wiggles World. Yes, this was the mythical homeland of Anthony, Murray, Jeff and The New One Who Isn’t Greg.
Me: “Let’s go on the Big Red Car ride!!!!”
Bro: “No. You can, but I’m not.”
Me: “Oh, come on. It’s not like there’s anyone cool here who’ll see you.”
My bro relented, and as you can see by this photo, he was happily toot-toot chugga-chugga-ing along with me and not at all appalled by the experience:
At one point on the ride, I was singing the “Hot Potato” song and a small girl in the driver’s seat turned around and looked at me in bewilderment.
Wot, child? You’ve never seen someone enjoy the musical oeuvre of the Wiggles? Do I shock you with my unbridled enthusiasm for the most successful entertainers in Australian music ever (probably), surpassing Savage Garden, INXS and even the Hoodoo Gurus? Yeah, think about that, little ‘un.
The Motocoaster beckoned. It’s a roller coaster with the seats in the form of a motorbike, so one must sit crouched over. There was a long-arse wait for the ride. The line slowly crawled along, as bogan rock blasted out.
There were a lot of bogans at Dreamworld. There seems to be a whole bogan class in Queensland that you don’t get in New Zealand. Flabby dads with ’90s tribal arm-band tattoos, and bleachy-haired mums with their Chinese “girl power” tats and knock-off Gucci sunnies.
There are also plenty of New Zealanders at Dreamworld. It was the Sunday of New Zealand Labour weekend, so the place was crawling with sunburnt Aotearoans, off for some Gold Coast fun.
Finally I made it to the front of the Motocoaster. As soon as the ride started, I was hit with a wave of nausea from motion sickness. It reminded me of the 110 Upper Hutt bus – the new one with the overly sensitive brakes that makes every set of traffic lights, roundabout or bus stop an extreme and joyless experience.
For a break from the hoop-de-doo, we went on the train that circuits the park. The highlight of this, for sure, was passing by the Dreamworld TV studio. It’s not even named on the map, like an unglamorous secret.
See, the Dreamworld studio is where Big Brother Australia was filmed. The tropical Queensland climate provided just the right temperature to ensure that the housemates never needed to wear many clothes.
Between seasons, the Big Brother House was open for tours, but since it ended in 2008, the tours have stopped and it’s now used for storage. But for me, it’s a sacred televisual taonga.
The day was getting on, so I took one final ride – this time on the Rugrats Runaway Reptar. It’s what’s known in the biz as a suspended family coaster, which means the seats dangle from below and – for the “family” component – it doesn’t go upside down. Because if you are part of a family, you don’t like upside-downness.
In other words, it’s a lite coaster. It’s a lovely ride without any resemblance to the Upper Hutt #110. It doesn’t plunge you backwards into darkness at 160 km/h or put you into freefall. It’s just a nice, fun roller coaster.
With theme parks having rides with movie tie-ins, I reckon Dreamworld should have an Inception-themed ride that travels through worlds of dreams. It could be a roller coaster with van-shaped cars that travel through the Inception levels, finally gliding off a bridge really really, really, slowly before splashing down into Dreamworld’s Murrissippi River.
And with that, the Dreamworld dream was over, with Queenland’s superb public transport bringing us back to Brisbane.
The Queensland Cultural Centre is a cluster of cultural institutions housed in hulking concrete behemoths. I like a good solid concrete building, so I was delighted to explore these structures.
I first paid a brief visit to the Queensland Performing Arts Centre, and saw an exhibition of ballet costumes. Expertly crafted costumes, that are designed to both look amazing on stage as well as last the wear and tear of daily performances, are a treat to see up close, but there was one thing I wasn’t quite expecting to see in detail. I gazed up at some Swan Lake tutus suspended from the ceiling and came face to face with a sea of beige gussets.
The Queensland Museum had a very strong emphasis on natural history, including a long tableau of taxidermied animals. This seems to be the challenge of modern museums – what to do with all those stuffed animals, without looking like a weird Victorian-era cabinet of colonial oppression.
It was an adequate museum, but it seemed like they were desperate for some more space to really bust out and expand beyond the olden times collection.
Next door is the Queensland Art Gallery, which was just grand. It’s a really big ol’ concrete building with high ceilings and they allowed photography in most areas, which is really pleasing. My fave was stumbling across a dark alcove playing Martha Rosler’s uber cool domestic performance videos “Semiotics of the Kitchen” and “The East is Red, the West is Bending”.
And the QAG has a really enjoyable expansiveness to it. It involves a lot of walking around, but there’s the sense the the art is allowed to just hang out and be itself without any obligation to necessarily be fun or educational.
A little further along the river is the Gallery of Modern Art, which is the largest contemporary art gallery in Australia. Yes, even bigger than the actually-not-all-that-big-when-you-come-to-think-of-it Museum of Contemporary Art in Sydney.
The GOMA was in the midst of a retrospective exhibition of Valentino, so the place was swarming with ladies who lunch, and there was a huge queue for tickets. I couldn’t be bothered queuing, so I went off to look at all the free bits.
I stumbled across the finalists in the Premier of Queensland’s National New Media Art Award, a competition for art that uses “video, digital animation and gaming, robotics, sound and interactive technologies”. #nerdgasm. These included a series of clever mash-ups of hip hop culture with B-grade sci-fi movies (this is known in the biz as Afrofuturism); a robot that spookily danced around a dimly-lit room; and a fruity woodland animated adventure that uses the viewer’s face as the main character.
By the time I’d finished with the free part of the gallery, the epic Valentino queue had shrunk to a lone dude, so I bought a ticket.
The centrepiece of the exhibition was a room full of frocks, and all around the room, ladies were buggin’ out over the dresses. It was amazing to feel the buzz of excitement in that room. Now, I appreciate that Mr Valentino has an eye for design and has designed many fine feathered frocks, but while I was all #nerdgasm at the new media art, I wasn’t quite feeling it for the gowns.
The exhibition was a carefully designed labyrinth of commerce, with an exhibtion-access-only restaurant halfway along, and an exit through a massive giftshop, with all sorts of lovely frock-related souvenirs. And I’m just going to confess this: I bought a Moleskine notebook. Ok.
Finally down this end of the river was the State Library of Queensland. I tried to do some sightseeing, but it’s a really serious proper research library. It was really quiet and I even felt that the simple act of walking around was grossly instrusive. Not wanting to disturb anyone’s serious study, I left.
But there is a library that welcomes mucking around. Across the river in the CBD, Brisbane Square Library is the central branch of the city library. It’s a bright, bold new building that’s really fun to be in.
If you’re returning a book, you can follow its progress via conveyor belt to the sorting room, with the help from mirrors and CCTV. The building is full of fabulous mood lighting, and there’s free wifi for all members. It just feels like a good place to be, but despite all the attractions, at its core is books, books, books.
It’s really tempting to compare the fine cultural institutions of Brisbane with those of New Zealand cities, but it’s hard to fairly compare them. For a start, Brisbane has money. It’s a boomtown with that little bit extra to add the final polish. A library doesn’t need to have a fun CCTV and conveyor belt. A performing arts centre doesn’t need to have a museum. It’s nice when they do, but it’s more important that a library has books and that a performing arts centre has good performance spaces.
I’d been to Queensland twice before – once in 1988 as part of a family jaunt around Australia, and the second time in 1991 in one of those Gold Coast holidays people take when they’re feeling masochistic. My brother lives in Brisbane now, so I decided to pay him a visit in the spring of 2010.
My 1988 visit to Brisbane revolved around World Expo ’88, where the former dock land on the south bank of the Brisbane River had been transformed into exactly the sort of magical land that a World Expo should be. It contained an eclectic mix of buildings, showcasing what the participating countries of the world felt was important to show off.
The New Zealand pavillion at Expo ’88 was highly regarded, and featured a faux native forest, seats that looked like mini sheep, and paua-esque cladding on the outside. Yet when the pavilion was brought back to New Zealand for retirement and opened to the public out by Auckland Airport, the magic was gone. It had somehow become a tacky tourist disaster.
Expo ’88 had left me with a whole lot of memories but no way of revisiting them. Once the expo was over, the entire site was dismantled, and the area has been impressively redeveloped into South Bank Parklands.
There are a couple of remnants of the expo, though – the Skyneedle was bought by a local celebrity hairdresser and moved to his HQ a few blocks away, and the Nepal Peace Pagoda still stands, complete with a mini shrine of Expo ’88 memorabilia.
But remaining as only a fuzzy memory is the Knight Rider car, the cheeky Canadian AV presentation titled “Not Another Government Movie” and the annoying guy at the Australia Post pavilion who told me I couldn’t sit down on the floor, even though I’d been on my feet all day and my legs were aching.
But the South Bank site has bold new attractions to lure in the visitor. I was drawn in by the Wheel of Brisbane, like a scaled-down version of the London Eye. I figured that it would help me get oriented with the city, and its name sounded a bit like “wheel of fortune”, which gave it a slight exotic carnival (and/or TV game show) flavour. I paid the $15 admission fee and boarded.
As the wheel rotated around, a recording described sites of Brisbane. The wheel isn’t all that high and there aren’t all that many things to be seen from its location, so the choice of scenic sites were a little sparse. Oh look, another bridge.
Things got really surreal when the “Inspector Gadget” theme suddenly started to play. I tried to guess what this might signify. Could it be that a famous Australian inventor had a workshop nearby? No, the connection was that the 2003 straight-to-video film “Inspector Gadget 2″ was filmed in Brisbane, including a scene on a nearby bridge. I don’t think anyone’s in a hurry to nickname the town Brizzywood.
Ignoring the commentary and looking down on the ground, I could see some drama involving an ambulance. It turned out that a toddler in a pram had rolled into the river, but fortunately had been rescued by a passerby. This was probably the most interesting thing I saw from the Wheel of Brisbane.
Back on flat land, I went for a wander along the river and came across the beach. Because Brisbane River isn’t really swimmable, there is a fake beach to enjoy at the river’s edge.
Lush white sands, palm trees, clear waters – it’s everything a dream beach ought to have, only with skyscrapers providing the slightly less idyllic backdrop. It feels like the sort of thing that wouldn’t be out of place in Dubai – a giant fake beach because it’s too hard making the real beach nice.
I couldn’t reconcile the 1988 South Bank of my memory with the one I experienced in October 2010. But that seems perfect – the one thing that world expos and world fairs are good at doing is creating weird memories in their young visitors. So I’ll keep my old memory of the plastic raincoats, the foot-massager machines and the nice lady in the England pavilion, and I’ll add some new memories of the Wheel of Tourism, the Little Dubai Beach and the quite nice Nutella crepes I had at a cafe along the river.
This is a photo of me in 1988, age 13, on a family holiday in Australia.
I look miserable, like I was having the worst day, worst holiday, worst life ever. Or maybe I’m just squinting from the glare of the overcast sky. Or perhaps was I being a full-on 13-year-old girl and therefore too cool to have her photo taken by her dad and so was obliged to pull an aloof ‘wotevz’ pose.
The thing is, I can’t remember having this photo taken. I can’t remember sitting at a table outside the Sydney Opera House and sullenly looking at a camera to provide evidence of having been there. And I can’t remember the view from that table, though, having been there a few times since, I can mentally imagine what that would look like.
I can, however, remember that sweatshirt – lilac with black polka dots (it was a fave) – and I can remember when my hair was golden blonde all by itself without any chemical intervention needed.
And I do have one very specific memory of that day, but it takes place well out of range of that photo.
After arriving in Sydney, I’d had a stomach bug and had spent a day or so feeling ill and throwing up a bit and watching a weird Canadian children’s TV show called “Today’s Special“. But that day at Circular Quay was the first day where I’d been feeling well enough to get back in to the spirit of the holiday.
At Circular Quay, I’d gone to a gelato shop under the Cahill Expressway. I’d asked for a small cup of lemon sorbet, but the charming Italian bloke there had cheerfully scooped a big cup, and told me I was a beautiful girl, in that jovial Italian way.
That nice experience and the sweet sorbet cheered me up and made me feel much more energetic, and I enjoyed myself again. (Until I got sick again in Brisbane, but that’s another story.)
The whole idea of taking holiday snaps, it seems, is to record where we’ve been to help trigger happy holiday memories when we’re back home.
But even in this modern world where almost everyone has a camera on them, it’s usually not not possible to capture those lovely moments. A camera can take a photo of a cup of lemon sorbet, but does that capture the experience of a happy holiday? Would a photo of me with a mouthful of sorbet have captured my nice feeling more than I remember it?
15 years later I was in Sydney. I took the ferry over to Manly and went for a walk along Manly Beach.
I stopped at a picnic table and took this photo on auto-timer.
I didn’t know it when I took the photo, but the camera’s position made me look like Gulliverette in Manlyput. (And I’m annoyed that the little people won’t play with me. And my hair isn’t naturally blonde any more. And a seagull pooped on the table.)
I was just mucking around with my camera. The resulting photo isn’t even something I experienced there. It’s like a special bonus experience that happened solely inside the camera.
If I’d wanted a typically Manly photo, I could have taken one by the ferry or along The Corso. Instead this almost anonymous seaside photo is my happy holiday memory snap.
Without directly showing it, the photo reminds me of my favourite thing to do when I travel – going for a bit of an explore. Jumping on a ferry, walking down a street, turning a corner and not quite knowing what will be around it.
And in turn, I think that also serves as my holiday photography manifesto. Instead of taking photos as evidence I was there or attempting to manufacture a memory, I let the photos be their own experience and form their own memories.
1. Our Lady of Public Transport
In theory it was the train station, but the train was out of service due to a landslip and messy derailing on the tracks a couple of days earlier. So instead I took the replacement bus, stopping off to explore the seaside suburbs of Mana and Plimmerton. I eventually arrived in Paraparaumu without any plans, but from the train/bus platform I spied her in the distance – the Mary Statue, Our Lady of Lourdes. I had a destination.
2. Our Lady of the Sleeping Bag
The first and last time I visited the Paraparaumu Mary statue was in 1985, on a family holiday. We’d gone to Paraparaumu due to the overall theme of family holidays being places my mum lived in or visited when she was young, including Stratford. I’m sure this accounts for 90% of why I am the way I am.
3. Our Lady of the Selective Memory
I have three specific memories of the Mary. I remember looking up at it and being in awe of how huge it was. I remember asking Dad what “diameter” was, as mentioned on an information sign. I remember also asking Dad what the statement “I am the immaculate conception” meant. He said it meant that Mary was perfect. I didn’t understand why this was such an important statement to make.
4. Our Lady of the Sense of Direction
I wasn’t sure how exactly to get to the Mary, and Google Maps didn’t have her listed. So I just started walking towards her, eventually finding the block she lived in, the street (Tongariro – another tall white landmark), and soon enough a black plinth with a boldly handpainted “STATUE” and an arrow pointing the way up a narrow alley.
5. Our Lady of the Suburban Explorer
It seemed like an ordinary enough alley, which made me wonder if I was on the track. Maybe I was going to see some other sort of statue, like one of those globetrotting garden gnomes. Then suddenly an outcrop of short fat concrete crosses appeared. The pilgrim’s path had begun.
6. Our Lady of the Modern Calligraphy
Hiding around a corner was the old information sign I remembered from the ’80s. It was hand-lettered in a very ’50s style, but had also had some ’00s-style tagging all over it, which had probably necessitated its removal. Under the adolescent scribble, the sign informed that the concrete crosses along the path represent the 14 Stations of the Cross, and that “they carry full indulgence and may be said on the upward climb by thinking for a few moments on each scene of the Passion of Our Divine Lord the Son of GOD.”
7. Our Lady of the Social Engineering
As I made my way up the steep, uneven path, I realised the genius of marking out the 14 Station of the Cross. If you’re constantly pausing and reflecting on the passion of the Christ as you trudge up the hill, it’s forcing you to take little breaks along the way and it’s pretty much removing any excuse to complain about the path. Oh, you found it a bit tricky having to walk around the muddy bit in your Converses? Yeah, well, Jesus had to walk up a hill wearing a crown of thorns and carrying a heavy-arse cross on his back, so shut up and count your blessings.
8. Our Lady of the Wear and Tear
It looked like the crosses had each previously displayed a mosaic depicting each station of the cross. A couple still had remnants of the scenes – chipped, busted mosaics – but the rest were bare, painted in grey anti-graffiti paint. I’m not about to blame vandals for the state of the crosses – they’ve been up for over 50 years, on a damp hillside. It’s not surprising they’re falling apart.
9. Our Lady of the Hotter Son
The Mary was erected in 1958 to comemorate the centenniary of the Miracle of Lourdes (apparently not the time Madonna got pregnant to her hot trainer, but some mystic carry-on in France). This was 27 years after Christ the Redeemer was unveiled looking over Rio de Janiero. I like to think that the sleepy seaside town of Parap’ra’m’ quite fancied themselves as New Zealand’s answer to Rio. If the Brazilians could have a giant Jesus, then New Zealand can have a giant Mary.
10. Our Lady of the Best Laid Plans
Except the Mary statue was only ever meant to be up there for a few months in the centennial year, a quickie construction in timber and plaster. But Our Lady of Lourdes proved so popular that it was decided to keep her up for good. Besides, it would be difficult to dismantle a giant holy statue, to take a crowbar to Mary’s kind, benevolent face.
11. Our Lady of the Short Arse
Finally I reach the top and Mary’s benevolent face is still smiling kindly. The first thing I realise is she’s much smaller than I had remembered. She’s only 14 metres tall – shorter than Christ the Redeember at 39.6 metres, but still taller than the average New Zealand woman at 1.65m. The ground is soggy from the previous day’s heavy rain. It feels a little uneasy.
12. Our Lady of the Easter Egg
Mary still claims to be the immaculate conception. Somehow I’d remembered that writing as being engraved in stone, but it turned out to just be painted on the statue. The declaration isn’t visible from the street – it’s like a special treat, a bonus for all who know the difference between the immaculate conception and virgin birth.
13. Our Lady of the Props Department
Another thing that had escaped my memory – that the statue is held steady by guy wires. She was never given a secure foundation because she was never thought to need one. It gives the statue the effect of being a film prop, yet its lightness and impermanence doesn’t matter. She’s still holy.
14. Our Lady of the Highway
I tweeted a photo of Mary and had a surprising number of replies from people who have massive affection for the old girl. She’s a shrine for members of the Kapiti Catholic community, but she’s also a symbol for locals, commuters, travellers. She smiles down over Parap’ra’m', over the mall, the train, the highway.
It is impossible for people over a certain age to travel on the Interislander ferry without having their travel accompanied by the involuntary earworm soundtrack of the Waratahs’ 1990 song “Cruisin’ on the Interislander” (or “Sailin’ to the Other Side”, depending on how your googling works out), used on a successful ad campaign for the Cook Strait ferry.
I’d decided to take the ferry to the South Island because I was feeling all jaded about air travel and, well, didn’t that old ad make it seem like a fun adventure? More enjoyable than a cramped plane trip, at least.
The golden sun is rising, and Barry Waratah hitch-hikes along an empty road, guitar in one hand, suitcase in the other. Along comes a vintage car driven by a lovely old couple. They pull over and Barry excitedly jumps in.
For foot passengers, the journey to the Wellington ferry terminal is perilous. It’s actually not recommended to walk from the railway station to the terminal due to the narrow footpath and busy traffic along Aotea Quay. Instead there’s a $2 bus that does the trick.
Two dollars might seem cheap, but it caused another traveller to exclaim it was “daylight robbery” to anyone who would listen, and many others who wouldn’t. Ignoring her, I board the bus and soon I’m heading for the terminal.
The car drives towards the ferry terminal, and we catch a glimpse of the Interislander docking in Wellington Harbour. At the terminal, Barry gathers his belongings and bids the kindly old couple farewell.
Looking at the various other passengers waiting at the ferry terminal, it soon becomes obvious that only certain types of people travel by ferry. These include:
Travellers to the Marlborough Sounds area.
People taking the slow route.
People who can’t fly for medical reasons.
People who can’t fly for mental reasons.
The Wellington ferry terminal also has a cafe called Cappuccino Harbour, which probably does cappuccinos with giant ’90s-style mountains of froth. Give it a few more years and it’ll be retro cool.
The Interislander begins its journey out of Wellington Harbour. Barry is on his way. On deck, the old couple appear and give Barry his hat that he’d left behind. Maybe they weren’t even planning on going on the ferry, but as Barry was such a nice young man, they decided to do have a day in Picton.
There’s a bit of a rush to get a good seat. On the lower deck, there’s a choice of rows of seats or tables. I score myself a rather good table, but soon after that I need to pay a visit to the ladies’. When I come back, my table has been claimed by a group of surfer dudes who are scarfing down fried breakfasts.
Oh well. It’s not like I even wanting to sit there anyway, dudes. I find a new position by the window.
Barry meets up with a fellow Waratah and together they spy Barrett’s Bar – Te Tangihanga-a-Kupe. They exchange eager glances.
Ol’ Barrett’s Bar doesn’t exist any more. The area it previously occupied isn’t even publicly accessible now. But there’s still the Queen Charlotte Cafe and Bar. I go upstairs to check it out.
It’s full. Every table is occupied, particularly with middle-aged and elderly travellers. That combined with the bar atmosphere makes it feel like an RSA. All that’s missing is a wall of pokie machines and a raffle for a meat pack.
The Arahura Interislander glides past the proud working class suburb of Seatoun, where one Hector Street resident mows his lawn with a push-mower and another works on his Cortina.
Obviously I need to check in on Foursquare or the journey won’t count. There’s 3G in Wellington Harbour, but it’s patchy and my iPhone is only showing one bar. The surrounding suburbs fly past, but I’m so fixated on getting a decent internet connection on my phone that I miss most of it.
On an outdoor deck, other Waratahs engage in high jinks. One slaps awake a snoozing bandmate, another feeds seagulls some white bread. An Asian father points out a sight to his son looking out through binoculars.
Man, it’s windy. These aren’t typical Cook Strait winds – Metservice has noted their intensity, though it’s not strong enough for a warning.
Not only is it windy, but it’s also a bit cold, so there aren’t many people out enjoying the sights on the viewing area. Most people come out on the deck, are physically assaulted by the wind, exchange glances of horror and amusement, then quickly leave.
I don’t, however. I plonk myself down on a seat and admire the view. It’s quite nice. Well, what I can see of it through the unwanted Beiber hairstyle that the wind has fashioned for me.
The Arahura passes another Interislander coming in the other direction. Barry and two of his bandmates toast each other with lager and orange pop.
The Arahura passes a Bluebridge ferry, on its way from Picton, and I wonder what might have been. The Bluebridge leaves from a more central wharf and their ferries seem quite nice. They probably have free wifi and single-original coffee.
A father and son wave at a colourful fishing boat as it passes by the ferry, a gay vessel in orange and blue.
The palette du jour is light grey, dark grey, and green. There was a fair bit of blue sky earlier in the day, but as the ship does travels north-west (as the trip to the top of the South Island goes) the sky turns more steely and things get a little less cheerful.
Inside the ferry, Barry gesticulates the shape of mountains to an attractive young tourist couple, as the three of them look over a map of the South Island.
I’ve found myself accidentally blocked in by some passive-aggressive parents, whose parenting style is to bark commands, followed by a ‘please’ to make it good manners. “Eat your chicken nuggets now, young man, please!” “You will do your homework and stop whining, please!”
I decide to not put any further burden on the kids and stay in my seat until all the nuggets have been eaten, not wanting a “Get out of the way of the lady and let her pass now, please!”
Back on the viewing deck, two of the Waratahs continue drinking their lager and orange pop, laughing as they chat in front of the frothy ocean trail.
The interior of the ferry feels like a bus depot. I thought taking the ferry would be a cool nautical adventure, like a public transport/pirate mash-up. But really it’s just like spending three hours in a bus depot. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
In an aerial shot, the Interislander continues its path across the Strait.
Don’t ask me how I know this, but there’s a website that lists public places where gay men can meet other gay men for anonymous sex. In the late ’90s, one New Zealand location listed was the lower deck men’s toilets on the Arahura. “These are particularly cruisey and will ensure you’ll be ‘cruising on the Interislander’”, the entry noted.
I’d always meant to check this out, to see if there were any nervous looking fellows sneaking off for a suspiciously long wee, but I forgot.
It’s time for some food. Two Waratahs enjoy some delicious roast meals, served hot from the heat-lamp carvery.
I know the food place was serving cooked breakfasts earlier, but that looks to be off the menu now. In fact, the menu now seems to only consist of chicken nuggets and…. “Chips?” The chef offers me his speciality. Oh, all right. How do they deep-fry chips on a boat? Wouldn’t there be a risk of the oil slopping out of the fryer, causing a slip hazard and/or hideously disfiguring third-degree burns?
To complement the chips, I choose a rock-solid tub of ice cream, which appears to have actually been in a state of cryogenic suspended animation. It’s so hard, the plastic spoon breaks, but I fashion a shiv from the remaining handle.
The ship has entered the Marlborough Sounds, and sales past two old codgers fishing on a dock. They wave.
The ferry has made its way to the Marlborough Sounds. I thought this would make a welcome change from the monotony of the open sea, but it turns out it’s a new form of monotony.
Travelling along the sounds, it’s like driving down a country road, but with nothing much interesting to look at.
I feel like I should be learning from this in some sort of Zen state. Oh, the rolling hills will teach me to appreciate simplicity. But I’m bored and the alternative to this is watching “Cop Out” in the cinema or “Come Dine with Me” on the mini CRT telly bolted to the wall inside.
Oh, hey! The ferry has just passed a small wharf with a couple of boats tied up. Hi, boat guys!!!
Back on the viewing deck, the Waratahs have sat down for a game of cards, still enjoying their lager and orange pop.
I sit down with my iPhone and stick the iPod on shuffle. There’s no mobile internet out here, so my automatic flick to Twitter brings an error message advising a fruitless yield. There’s only one other thing I can do – play games of Solitaire.
Inside the bar, two of the Waratahs are getting refills on their lagers and orange pops.
A final coffee? Yeah, why not. A return trip to the bar produces a perfectly adequate latte. I’m tempted by a “hangi pie”, but decide against it. A boat isn’t the place to experiment with new cuisines.
The ship is docking and Barry finds the best-looking band member flirting with three womens – a blonde, a brunette and a redhead. Too much orange pop for him.
The ship is docking and I join a group of elderly men and women watching the ferry slide into place. It’s amazing how precisely such a large boat can be controlled.
In fact, I’m so captivated by the docking of the boat and extending of the gang plank that I end up being one of the last passenger’s off, confusing one of the crew who wonders if I’ve come back for a lost item.
Oh no, sir, I’m not lost. I’ve just found my way off this thing.
Picton at last. The band wanders past the war memorial arch as the oldies in the vintage car hoon past, waving farewell again. They band set their bags and instruments down on London Quay. They’re in Picton – now what?
The ferry terminal at Picton seems to be a similar vintage to the Wellington one, complete with a ’90s style cafe called Pier Cafe. Out on the street, I follow the clearly marked path to the city, only to get a little lost and having to reorientate myself with Google Maps on my iPhone (only 2G in Picton, but that’s better than nothing).
There’s a shadowy shot of Barry playing his guitar as the next Interislander pulls into Picton. He seems to be surrounded by an arch, but surely it’s not the war memorial – that would be disrespectful.
I find the Picton War Memorial arch, which is at the foot of High Street, along which is my motel. Beyond the War Memorial arch are the two strange concrete statues of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck, as if trying to take the edge of the solemn memorial.
Finally the Interislander is seen travelling on the ocean blue, with a big white mountain looming in the background.
Finally I’m settled into my hotel with its welcome pack of chocolate caramels and its gigantic spa bath.
Later in the evening, I go for a wander down to the local aquarium-cum-cinema, and notice the Interislander is waiting in the dock for its evening sailing to Wellington.
I’m glad I’ll be flying home to Wellington at the end of my holiday. While the Interislander has its charms, it wasn’t any cheaper than flying and being able to get up and walk around doesn’t outweigh the monotony of the three-hour trip.
And 20 years on, the Interislander experience is clearly different to how it was for Aotearoa’s country-rock kings. Or perhaps I just wasn’t drinking enough Fanta to get the full Waratahs Interislander experience.
Taking the ferry instead of flying made me feel like a bored housewife who’s had an affair with her mechanic, only to realise her boring old husband wasn’t so bad after all. Oh, air travel – will you take me back? I’ll brush my hair for you.
