All – Page 12 – Chris Preston

To Bagan the temple town

Its an early start as we will travel most of the day. Madalay has been enchanting, but theres a puzzle in that no one can quite remember who wrote the song On the Road to Mandalay. Noel Coward is suggested, but it turns out to be Kiplings Poem, written in faux cockney and set to music by Oley Speaks and sung by many, including Sinatra.

It seems clear to me that Kipling never came to Burma, because his geography is quite wrong. A British solider is dreaming of his Burmese lover.

By the old Moulmein Pagoda lookin lazy at the sea.

Mandalay is about two thirds of the way up the country, miles from the sea. Only the Ayeyerwady here.

But looking closer, Moulmein is on the coastline sweeping south to Thailand. It faces west, and is where the Burma Girl waits for him, or so he believes. So why does he want to go back to Mandalay?

On the road to Mandalay

Where the flying fishes play

I believe that flying fishes are salt water creatures. The muddy Ayeyerwady might not be freshwater, but it aint got any salt in it.

An the dawn come up like thunder oute China crost the Bay

Maynmar shares a border with China to the North, a direction from which Ive never known the sun to rise, though with a bit of imagination you might see the Bay in one of the bends in the Ayeyerwady.

The landscape from Mandalay to Bagan is unremarkable. We travel south through poor undeveloped farmland. Fields seem to be fallow or being tilled, ready for planting in the age old method with a cow pulling a wooden plough. I spot one rotary cultivator suggesting some progress is being made.

The Bagan area is flat and packed full of temples from an era of the Bagan Kings roughly spanning the 11^th 13^th Centuries. It has now sadly lost its UNESCO world heritage site status due to unacceptable restoration, modern sized bricks, rough pointing and the use of concrete to fill gaps. In addition a tourist hotel has been built by the river in old Bagan within the heritage site area. Some years ago the Government forcibly moved all the people from Old Bagan to clear the area for tourism. New Bagan, several kilometres south seems to now be a thriving area for the lacquer ware industry. Its hot here, so were desperate to jump into the fifteen metre swimming pool at the Amazing Bagan Resort.

Im also keen to do some training as this is the only swimming pool on the tour. The water is hot, around 26-28 degrees so I have to stop every four lengths to cool down and only last twenty minutes. We gather in the evening to visit the first of many temples Pya Tha Da. We climb up the steep steps using hands on steps above for balance as there is no handrail. Theres a great sunset view and a group of young monks are colourful in their saffron robes.

Monks and nuns at Pya Tha Da for the sunset — Monks and Nuns in pink at Pya Tha Da for the sunset

We have a full second day here with temple visits best described with pictures.

Gubyaukgyi

Htilominlo

This beautiful temple, Ananda, was inspired by the Himalayas. The architect has created white mountains of great beauty with corners guarded by marble lions which on close inspection have been awarded two penises each. Presumably this means extra potency. The king had the architect killed on completion so he couldnt build anything more beautiful for someone else as they did in those days.

We are being followed by around six army trucks carrying soldiers. They turn out to be 18 year old recruits having a day off. they all look around 16 and we immediately remember not to photograph any of the military in Myanmar. This is the first time we have seen any sign of them – they are more prominent in Yangon.

Ananda - soldier behind fan — Ananda – soldier behind fan

Word gets around that it’s OK to photograph these young men as they are not real soldiers yet. As they are all bare-footed in preparation for entering the temples, even in their smart green uniforms they don’t quite look like soldiers. Joining the military is of course an alternative way of gaining an education – of sorts – similar to, but different from a monastery.

IMGP6371Bagan Market — Bananas at Bagan Market

We stop at a local market selling fruit, vegetables, betel nuts & leaves which many of the men here chew. All of our crew indulge and in consequence have red stained teeth. A very short woman which I initially mistake for a child follows me around touching my elbow for attention and indicating that she is hungry. My first thought is to buy her a mango as she looks so woeful.

She has pushed some paper up one nostril to look like snot and I note that her bare feet are deformed. I escape to bargain for a dark blue Longyi, and the beggar chases the others. The hawker women here start by giving a gift of a cake of traditional sunblock made from the pith of a particular tree ( you can buy cut up branches in the market). We are then exhorted to buy whatever they are selling and if anyone is strong enough to resist, the gift is snatched back with a cross snort.

Waiting for the bus to collect us, we are deluged by the hawkers even though we have learned how to say no thank you in Mayanmar Mo way boo Jezu bar. The beggar woman is still around and Richard C works out that they guys have given her the equivalent of a weeks work and proceeds to give us a few tips to avoid being targeted. 1 don’t look at the merchandise. 2 Don’t engage in conversation with the seller. 3. Don’t ask the price unless you want to buy. 4 Don’t name a price at the start and only agree when you get to a price you want to pay. 5. Don’t change your mind after agreeing,

We go to a village to the north of this area to find a café sort of named after a pub chain. Nine of us pile into this open air eatery cooled by fans and sporting a white-board graffiti wall with comments from all over the world. Richard C goes off to arrange massages for some of us (included in the tour package). The owner of the café is intrigued and asks where the women are. Hes guessed and were not shy in ‘coming out’. Its all fine and he admits that the place is Gay Friendly, but please would we not put anything on facebook as homosexuality is still quite frowned upon by some people.

Things are changing in the country, as evidenced by the bright newly framed portrait of Aung San Suu Kyi, but there is a way to go. Though this country is making great progress its being done with lots of small steps, so Im not telling you the name of the café, but if you are gong to Bagan and want to visit, Ill tell you privately. If you are reading the Lonely Planet or Rough Guide, youll find it.

The massage place is a long communal room with firm mattresses on the floor. Four of us plus Richard have opted for this experience. Burmese massage is quite distinctive and is done through the clothes or a towel if there is any bare skin. It relies on pressure on the muscles and the masseurs (3) and masseuses (2) use elbows, hands, knees and feet to kneed the body. Limbs are manipulated and it helps to be flexible as you can find your spine being stretched out by pushing legs over in one direction whilst holding the opposite shoulder in place. The Masseurs all work methodically and seem to all be at the same stage, keeping together. Being a bit of a connoisseur of massage, I find its good, and much needed after all the tramping around temples and getting in and out of the bus.

So its an afternoon of more temples. I undertook this tour with the expectation of being templed out quite soon. I have never been in a country where Buddhism is so strong and just when you think youve seen every temple you could imagine theres yet another one, quite unique.

Sulamani

A group of stupas nick-named Pisa have tilted – perhaps an earthquake or poor foundations. Nearby a family live in impoverished conditions selling souvenirs at this little frequented sits. A young man puts out his wares in hope.

Dhammayangyi

Our sunset today is from the river. Richard hires a boat powered by a propeller on a long extension to take us up-stream.

Our group. from L to R: John, Ne, Mike, Peter Richard N, Garry

Weve stocked up with beer wine is expensive here and usually not very good.

Sunset River Cruise. Floating accomodation

We pass what look like decommissioned river cruise boats now acting as accommodation for workers. There are a few other boats around with couples on a romantic evening out and when we all get far enough upstream, the noisy engines are cut and we drift silently downstream as the sun falls firstly behind a low cloud and then behind the distant hills.

Sunset River Cruise John & Peter with rainbow

Sunset River Cruise - Bath time for the family — Sunset River Cruise – Bath time for the family

The light on pagodas back-grounded by threatening monsoon clouds is fantastic. So far, in what is supposed to be the beginning of the monsoon season, weve been lucky.

Sunset River Cruise Pagoda at the landing

The bus takes us to an Indian Restaurant. The tables are outside with mood candle light. Its great for a young couple but its a bit dim for most of us older chaps to see the menu, so being resourceful we turn on our phone torches. Someone has come prepared with a real torch.

Sunset River Cruise. Boat boy showing off

The Kitchen struggles to deliver for ten guests at once and the main dish arrives before the rice. Some of our party forget what they ordered so waiters are standing with an unclaimed dish. Garry and Mark have ordered extra garlic Nan bread while poor Nev, who ordered a salad (no cooking needed) is served last. Worst of all his Nan bread has got forgotten in the deluge of garlic Nans further up the table. Nev is stoic and indulges us in our bread jokes. Even though some of us have taken to wearing longyis to dinner, the mosquitoes are out and some have forgotten to put on repellent. They dont buzz, are smaller than Waiheke Mosquitoes and the bites dont seem to swell up much. Just as well most of us are taking anti-malarial tablets.

Big is Beautiful in Mingun

Bagun Pagoda dominates as we approach — Mingun Pagoda dominates as we approach

Day three sees the return of the Nun’s amplified chanting and Nev suggests taking a pot shot at the loud speakers set on the roof. John thinks that might kill someone if they fall to the ground. I suggest a sniper to take out the cables. Everyone has a suggestion and our meal times are settling into laughter and serious issues as the world waits anxiously for the Brexit vote. After breakfast we take the boat across the Ayeyerwady. The muddy water seems to flow sluggishly making it difficult to guess the direction down-stream.

Ubiquitous tee shirt and post-card sellers are on hand to escort us down the shore to our boat for a leisurely and peaceful ride. The same characters are ready to meet us on the other side.

This is the site of what was planned around 1790, to be the biggest stupa in the world when finished. The commissioning King died when only a third of it was complete, but it’s still the largest and looms large as we approach on the river.

It’s also described as the world’s largest pile of bricks. Earthquakes in 1819 and 2012 have taken their toll and huge cracks race through the brick work and vast canyons open up through out.

There’re red brick steps up one side but in the blistering heat they burn our bare feet. Local boys have spotted an opportunity and gather foliage growing out of the bricks for us to stand on for relief. I refuse this but occasionally accept help negotiating chasms in the quake tilted pathways at the top. The boys all claim to be learning English to become tour guides – seemingly the main aspiration of young poor people.

They are perhaps over attentive with little real information to give out and of course they want to be paid, a contribution to their studies … maybe. It all contributes to the local economy I guess, and they’ve been able to practice their language skills.

Down the road is the Mingun Bell, furthering the King’s ‘big’ ambitions. Unfortunately it is now only second in the world; the Chinese have cast a larger one.

Of course we have to stand under it and get someone to beat it with a wooden stick. Fortunately the ring is not that loud. By now John and I are getting into doing photographs of each other on our cameras. We wander further down the road and are exhorted by a café owner to come in and have a beer. ‘Maybe later,’ is our reply? We’re looking for a pretty white-washed temple seen from the top of the Mingon stupa.

The Hsinbyume Pays has seven layers of waves representing the sea and the stupa is Mount Sumeru – centre of the Buddhist cosmos. One of the tee shirt women has been following me on and off for ages so I decide that if I can get the right price I will buy the sky blue one with the Myanmar alphabet that she’s been waving at me. I look at the white one she has in a plastic bag which she wants for 5,000 Kt = US5$. I offer 2,000 then 3,000. As I walk away she agrees and then I choose the blue one.

Clive recovers with anxious looks from Mark — Peter recovers with anxious looks from Mark

She hesitates because it’s the one she holds out for display.

Home for the Bagan elderly Me flanked by statues of old people

The deal is done and I’ve got a bargain. On the walk back ‘Maybe later’ calls out to us again. John and I meet up with some of the others to find lunch and suggest ‘Maybe later’ might be good. Some of the guys go into the café next door and outright war is narrowly averted by splitting our party between the two. It’s only fair and both owners are happy.

These trucks driven by rubber bands are the work horses.

Back on the other side of the Ayeyerwady, the flower and vegetable market is just closing down. Bundles of flowers are being wrapped in banana leaves and packed away.

How to carry your mobile. Wouldn't last 5 minutes in a London market — How to carry your mobile. Wouldn’t last 5 minutes in a London market

Keeping the greens fresh with buckets of water

Our sunset destination today is Mandaly Hill and there’s a temple at the top and another bare-footed climb up steps.

Giant Lions at the bottom of Mandalya Hill dwarf us

We are keeping fit and hardening our soles. There’s yet another stunning panoramic view which defies photography. John is usually an enthusiast with his little digital camera but on this occasion he’s deep in conversation with a young monk. They come to tourist places in groups partly to practice their English and will often make an approach.

On the way up the hill kittch to the hilt

John takes the opportunity to ask about the monk’s robes and how they work. He’s rewarded with a discreet demonstration of how it all works. You’ll have to ask him. I’m engaged by a very handsome monk on the way up the steps and we chat about the usual topic.

‘Where are you from?’

‘New Zealand’

‘Oh.’

‘Near Australia.’

At the top while we wait for the sunset, a young photographer is trying to recreate a famous shot with three monks walking across a corridor. It’s not quite working for him but I manage to get my shot.

View of Mandalay including where the teak royal palace was before the war

Clouds cover the descending sun and we go down the hill by taxi bus (Utility truck with seats on the back) to find the Emerald Buddha temple all lit up like La Vegas. It’s said that no one does Buddha bling like the Burmese and this temple must be one of the tops.

Buddha in Mandalay

Breakfast on the roof at MAMA's — Breakfast on the roof at MAMA’s

We gather on the roof for breakfast to the amplified music from a local monastery which began at 5am. Some of the guys are looking distinctly drowsy from sleep interruption and Richard (retired tour guide) sharing with Peter from Perth have been unable to turn on their air conditioning. This turns out later to be a human problem with technology rather than any mechanical fault. The Burmese have embraced technology – android mobile phones are everywhere, even affordable to young lowly factory workers carried neatly tucked into the back of the lungyi. There is not an iphone to be seen, Samsung seem to have captured the market here. Amplification has been adopted by the Buddhists to get their message across – gone are the days when monks chanted from a roof-top – megaphones and loop recordings save their vocal chords. The experience is not unlike the calls to prayer in Istanbul. Fortified with fruit, omelettes and toast, we set of later that planned to see the monks have their breakfast/only meal of the day.

Kitchen at the Monastery Photo by Nev — Kitchen at the Monastery picture by Nev

The last of them are queuing up in orderly lines as we arrive. Upper class people take turns to provide the food of the day and are on site to hand it to each monk. It’s all done with military precision – huge vats of rice are lined up on tables, there’s a fish dish today along with fruit which the monks put on a plate on top of their bowls. They go into a huge dining room to eat some of it. The huge vats are all scraped into one, leaving one very heavy vat of left-overs. Serving tables are cleared away and the courtyard is swept. Monks scurry back to their quarters clutching the remains of the food, presumably to save for later. They run a gamut of children begging food from them. Some are lucky. Nev and I are given left over bananas. He gives his to a mother with a young child and I give mine to our driver Suu. We go to look at the medieval looking kitchen where two wiry bare-chested young men are cooking up chicken for tomorrow’s meal. There’s a huge vat of raw chicken pieces to which one of the men is adding something that looks like salt. The other one is has a two metre long ladle and is spooning chicken into a giant wok about 1.5 metres in diameter. This sits on a low circular stove and I can see the wood fire below through the open hatch. One of the monks comes to talk and improve his English. He is twenty three and has three hairs growing on his otherwise smooth chin. He is twenty-three and already his teeth are stained with betle juice. He is bright, articulate, good-looking and claims to have traveled all around Myanmar. He has ambitions to travel abroad, but it is not clear if he will remain a monk. Some do, others leave after their time to return to family life. Politics are hinted at, not by us, but mostly things remain unspoken. Richard tells us that he has noticed in the two years he has been bringing tours here. Gradually people are beginning to be more open.

The contrast from the caring but austere life of the monks to the Golden Buddha couldn’t be greater. There isn’t a view of the stupa as the focus is on the statue. Several booths on the entrance way are selling gold leaf packets for the faithful to press onto the Buddha. There’s a huge crowd but only the men are allowed to approach and touch, the women can only sit back on a mat and pray. We clamber up and inch our way around the crowded plinth. John has emerged as our safety and risk assessment commentator and we are made aware of the lack of anything to prevent us falling off.

Gold leaf flaps from the lumps covering the lower body of the Buddha so that he looks as if he’s wearing trousers made of Ferero Rocher gold wrapped chocolates. We attempt to push the flapping bits of gold back onto the surface with little success.

There is no doubt about the deep faith and reverence the people have for Buddha and individual concentration praying whilst surrounded by huge crowds and in danger of being trampled is admirable.

The crew have forgotten where the gold beating place is and the first place we pull up to, everyone is at lunch. We do find the right place and get a demonstration of the laborious process of making the bamboo paper on which the gold is beaten and the time consuming process to produce hundreds of squares of leaf from a small ingot of gold. Gold on bamboo paper is bundled into huge packets and beaten for hours. It’s then divided up, re-mounted on the paper and re-beaten, this process being repeated many times. The women have the task of mounting the leaf onto squares of paper. We buy packets to give as gifts for not very much money. Suddenly we discover the gold inlaid gift-ware in the shop. Gold bodhi leafs mounted on red velvet, lacquer bowls and trinkets. There’s a VISA sign on display, so the credit cards come out.

Our next stop is the marble carving district for the whole country. Buddhas and other figures sit in varying states of completion. Most here have bodies and are waiting patiently for the head and face carvers to complete them.

Our major expedition for the afternoon is Sagaing Hill. We cross the new bridge over the Ayeyarwady river to find a hill-side peppered with temples. Most of them are unremarkable, but together the sight is wonderful as is the view of Mandalay and the river below.

Richard has heard of a row of Buddhas in one of the temples and Georgie thinks he knows where it is to be found. We walk in the heat along pathways and past stupas in search. Georgie takes an opportunity to have a quick pray (we often find him doing this) and suddenly turns a corner and can be found kneeling in front of a statue of Buddha in a small stupa. After a while we find the shrine and it’s worth the walk. A curve of identical Buddhas in a curved building is being restored – re-painted. There are plaques on a wall acknowledging donations from benefactors from all over the world for the restoration of their ancient shrine. Back in Priscilla the bus, we descend, cross the river to the U Bin Bridge.

It’s a foot-bridge made of ancient teak poles so in the late afternoon sun we have time to walk on uneven slats to the other side and back. Health and Safety John notes again the lack of anything which could prevent us falling off. This is a place for promenading, crowded with young people in groups, lovers and monks. Everyone is friendly especially the hawkers. A good-looking young man selling crudely made stone necklaces attaches himself to Nev. The selling of goods to tourists here has caught on but it’s not yet as aggressive as other parts of the world. The young man follows us all the way over the bridge – he says he’s a student and paying for his education. They all say that. ‘Min gle (a)bar’ is hello here and we get plenty of practice here exchanging greetings as we go. Many are curious to see us as it’s low season for tourists, the young men especially so. Nev thinks they might fancy us, but I believe only a few of them recognise that we are three gay men walking on a bridge and give discrete and brief flirtatious smiles. Homosexuality is still a criminal offence in Myanmar and not generally accepted by many. In spite of this I’m somewhat surprised to get so many hits from the gay dating app on my phone. I politely reply that I am travelling with a tour group and sharing a twin room. That usually works except for one young man who wants to take me to a hotel. I tell him that I’m too tired, which after walking bare-footed around temples all day, is absolutely true.

Back at the hotel, a local nunnery, visible from our roof, has taken to broadcasting loud chanting. Sue has been frantic because it’s scheduled to go on for five days day and night. She’s spent hours on the phone pleading with them as a Buddhist to tone it down. They reply that it’s only once a year. Eventually after a donation is made to the nunnery the noise abates and we can sleep.

To Mandalay

The first Impression, flying in to Mandalay from Bangkok, is of bright blue roofs. Closer to the ground green roofs emerge from the surrounding foliage. It’s not significant, just a change from orange, red or grey. The airport itself is new – a runway in the middle of a field – we are the only plane at the terminal. It’s reminiscent of the early days of Ryan Air and Easyjet in Europe, who flew into provincial upgraded airstrips two hours away from where you wanted to go. Tour guide Richard and owner of Outside the Square (almost independent travel for Gay men and their friends) is there to meet me. There are others to arrive on a later flight so there’s time for coffee – a pale late – and to get cash out of an ATM. Two or three years ago there was only one in the whole country, now there are two at this airport and they pop up in the cities and Hotels. Myanmar is gearing up for a future of tourism, so it’s good to be getting in before the rest of the world. Mike and Ray, both from Auckland, emerge with damaged luggage. Ray’s wheelie rucksack has a gaping compartment exposing all his pills and potions.

He’s cheerful enough about it and has brought along needle and thread to re-mend the tear. John and Nev, both from Christchurch are also on this flight so now we are six and the next introduction is to a bus nick-named Priscilla – after that camp Australian movie with Terrence Stamp in drag. The Windows are adorned with a scalloped pelmet with mauve tassels. Red and white fairy lights and lacy antimacassars on floral seats complete the picture. Priscilla (not her real name) belongs to the Mother-in-Law of our local guide, Georgie, who employs a driver and assistant Oo. We galumph along a rolling dual carriage-way into the city at a sedate pace. Myanmar is both a very ancient civilisation and an emerging country. Ruled by strong in kings the 10 – 12^th centuries, the country was subsumed by the British in the exploitative way of Empire. The Japanese drove out the British in WW2 and were in turn defeated by the allies. For decades now, the country has been ruled by Generals. All the while the patient Burmese have continued, sustained by their Buddhist faith. Their reward has been a democratically elected government lead by Aung San Suu Kyi.

We are staying at MaMa’s Guest house, owned and run by a woman called Sue. She’s clearly looking to the future, preparing for the influx of tourists, (visas, previously issued for seven days, now last for twenty-eight) and she is building an extension. A new ground floor reception/dining room is complete and workmen are building two floors above for accommodation. Mark and Garry from San Francisco arrived the day before, so after sorting rooms and bags we 8 set off in Priscilla to the Sandamuni Pagoda.

The central stupa is surrounded by fields of small white stupas, each housing a marble tablet inscribed with the writings of Buddha. It’s been described as a temple surrounded by the world’s larges book. Richard has provided us each with a lungyi, the all purpose garment worn by men and women. We’ve had instruction on how to tie them, a cause of much hilarity and varying degrees of success. Basically it’s a tube of material and you have to step into it, draw one end up to waist level, hold it out on each side with your hands. There follows a movement best described as lifting and drawing together so the front stays up and the sides are brought to the centre, twisted around each other and tucked into either side of the centre tail which ends up looking a bit like a codpiece – cue more hilarity and size envy – as one might expect from a group of gay men old enough to know better.

We adopt the lungyi to visit the temples, mainly for respect. Though we are all wearing longish shorts there’s a chance of revealing a knee. Shoes of course have to be removed, so I think we are going to get tough soles on this tour. The Burmese of course have the most beautiful broad feet, un-spoilt by narrow fitting shoes. This temple complex continues down the road, where preparations are being made for a celebration.

Terracotta dishes are being lined up along the paths, filled with oil, wicks added ad lit. People are arriving in their finery and we learn that it’s Aung San Suu Kyi’s 71^st birthday. 710 lamps have been lit.

A young man has a drone overlooking the scene. We decide to stay on, postpone the next temple and rearrange our dinner time.

A band from the San area is playing and men dance in mock fights, one with gold painted wooden swords. Aung San Suu Kyi is much revered and now her birthday can be celebrated more openly. It feels like an

honour to stay and share it with the people, who are so welcoming and accepting. The security guard and the Red Cross Brigade insist on being photographed with us. We as westerners are

curiosities but also a link to the rest of the world, although none of this is spoke … yet. I just wonder what they would make of the extraordinary politics happening on the other side of their world at this moment.

Mama’s is cooking us dinner tonight and the last of our party, Richard from Titirangi and Peter from Perth arrive from a few days in Yangon, in time to eat: Chicken Burmese style; Spicy Aubergines; stir fried vegetables and tea salad (hot and delicious) and rice washed down with local beer. We sit around the table and introduce ourselves one by one. Life stories are exchanged, questions asked and laughter shared. It’s a good start and it’s going to be a good group of people who have lived full and busy lives.

The Flying Carpet

20160430_152020 — The Apprentice boys with Bernard raising the jib

I’ve been invited on a day out on The Flying Carpet, a two mast catamaran around twelve metres long and owned by a Waihekean called Bernard. It took him seven years to build beginning with the felling of Macrocarpa trees. It’s had a few adventures in it’s time, including sailing to Japan. There are ten of us on the trip, mainly from Rocky Bay, plus the Skipper and his two apprentices. The boys are learning boat-building and having grown up on a local house-boat have the sea in their bones. They are learning their trade by restoring a boat called Kate, which is conveniently located near the houseboats, so not far for them to travel to work. Our donations for the day are contributing to this restoration.

O'Brian House on Te Whau peninsular famed for vineyards & Olive Oil — O’Brian House on Te Whau peninsular famed for vineyards & Olive Oil

Christine from down the road collects me in a car-share arrange-ment and we make our way to the end of Wharf Road where the Flying Door-mat, a catamaran dingy, collects us from the boat ramp. Unlike your conventional dingy, it’s extremely stable and ideal for those of us who are older and less agile that we used to be. Christine and I are the first aboard as she has nominated herself to be in charge of the Galley, thus earning the title Galley Slave for the day. The first task is to get the kettle on and make coffee and it’s all coming along nicely when there is a mobile phone call from Carola to say she’s just stopping off for takeaway Coffee and Christine can be heard shouting down the phone, ‘There’s Coffee on board.’

The Almost Islands at the end of Te Whau

The mooring is slipped and I help to raise the mainsails, although the apprentice boys are completely capable, having been well trained by Bernard. We motor out of Putiki Bay with the Te Whau Peninsular on our Port side. We pass the old O’Brian homestead and the part-time Islands cut off only at high tide. We’re heading west, towards Brown’s Island passing Motuihi Island on our Starboard side.

Brown's Island ahead — Brown’s Island ahead

This route, the ferries take in rough weather and high seas rolling in down the Hauraki Gulf. Motuihe Island is, like others, in the process of being re-planted with natives. Motukorea (Browns Island) by contrast has been left in grass. Its small volcano is sexily curvaceous nestled on a large flat area to the West. It makes a lovely sight from the ferry to and from Auckland, so I’m very excited to be landing here.

One of our company, Bruce, is an ex-perienced skipper and volunteers to take the helm. We have to steer outside a marker to avoid the reef surrounding a sub-marine crater. This of course, brings us into Crater Bay and a short ride on the Flying Doormat takes us to the beach armed with togs and towels.

Carola decides to show off and swims ashore and as some of us climb the under-used steps up from the beach, we can hear other bathers telling each other, ‘It’s not too bad,’ with reference to the water temperature.

The two brothers, have scampered up the steps and by the time we get there, they can be seen running up the steep side of the volcano. We feel somewhat demoralised and not a little exhausted by the climb so far and I make regular stops which double as respite and viewing opportunities. From the summit we look down into the now extinct caldera only to see that the boys have gone down there and are now climbing up the other side. There was once a homestead on the island, and we can see the remains on the flat below.

They apparently farmed the place and there is also a story that a governor Brown, for safety, lived here at a time when local Maori tribes were not that friendly. There are great views for miles and the sun has come out to greet us.

Musick Point - Tamaki river — Musick Point – Tamaki river

Rangitoto and Motutapu Islands are to the North and we can get a clear view of Half-moon Bay and the mouth of the Tamaki River. Christine decides that it’s easier and much more fun to descend the volcano sliding on her bottom. Half-way down we meet Carola, who has abandoned her shoes and is making great progress up the slope on hands and knees.

Back on the beach, it’s my turn to swim. It is indeed ‘not too bad’, but a few degrees colder that Palm Beach a few days ago. In case anyone is thinking that climbing a volcano might take all day, I should point out that the whole expedition, including looking time takes around half an hour, so we are all back aboard for lunch. Part of the deal is, in true Kiwi style to bring food and drink to share, so we have a feast with loads of food left over.

No wine or beer remains so it’s time to make way back to port leaving Motuihe to our Starboard side, motoring past Matiatia, Blackpool, Surfdale, rounding Kennedy Point to home. The left over food is given to the boys and the empty bottles taken ashore to the recycling bin by the boat ramp. A great day out for everyone, with a wish list of future trips including Tritri Matangi and Great

Barrier Islands.

The James Plays & Nixon in China

My most eagerly awaited theatre experience were The James Plays by established Scottish playwright, Rona Munro and first presented at the Edinburgh International Festival in 2014 by the National Theatre of Scotland. Being a co-production with the National Theatre of Great Britain they were then transferred to London for a season, and now, here in the vast Aotea Centre for just nine performances (3 for each play) fresh from the Adelaide Festival.

I’d got a deal by booking all three plays on consecutive nights. I also decided to take the fold up bike, saving the run down Queen Street to catch the ferry. So on the Wednesday, I carefully locked the fold-up on a cycle stand and treat myself to a dish of salmon tortellini and a glass of red wine at the Italian restaurant next to the theatre. To my delight a crowd of my swimming buddies, also culturally voracious were seeing the show and I anticipated meeting up in the interval. I knew nothing about the history of Scottish monarchy – there’s the unreliable tale told by Shakespeare in Macbeth – until the story of Mary spills into Elizabethan history and the subsequent merger of two countries with James VI.

James I was captured by the English as a thirteen year old and imprisoned for eighteen years, released after the death of Henry V (Eng) – another of Shakespeare’s great ‘stories’ – on the promise of a ransom. It is no coincidence that these plays were first seen in the year of the Scottish referendum for independence and Munro would have been crafting her work during the lead up. Like Shakespeare, she has not let truth get in the way of a good story and her programme note admits ‘that some small liberties have been taken with known events in order to serve our stories.’ There are many comparisons with Munro and Shakespeare – bawdiness, violence, murder and betrayal. Human nature is examined in all its flawed complexities, but in an absolutely contemporary vernacular, so Shakespeare it is not, nor does it aspire to be.

Henry V appears as a character in James I as a mentor psychologically controlling the young King who presents as meek and compliant. On his arrival back in Scotland and confronted by his Uncle ensconced in the castle with wife and sons, he has to prove he is a Scott and force them to kneel to him as their King. Munro writes great parts for the women so a lot of the action involves their stories. It would seem that the women took an active role in the scheming and violence. Notable are: Isabella Stewart, a crusty and hate-filled character, who, after her sons and later her husband are locked up and killed by the King, is herself incarcerated. She survives as a mad visionary for the future James II; Joan, an English noblewoman, who’s marriage is arranged to James I is a pragmatist who tells her new husband that he can take a mistress if he likes and that she will manage the household accounts as she did at home. Sadly she does not entirely reciprocate James’s deep love for her.

All three plays highlight the financial difficulties that monarchs face, how to fund their wars and lifestyles? The answer is usually by taxing the Barons, but the difficulty is getting them to pay up. It’s not a new story as we now charge multi-national corporations, politicians and the rich with tax avoidance. It’s just that in the 15^th century, more real blood was involved. But each play takes a different view and if James I was mainly about power struggles and the necessity to survive by killing off relatives, James II investigates the psychological damage done by putting a six-year-old on the throne. James, born with a large pink birthmark covering half of his face is further traumatised by the loss of his older twin brother. Munro, has him constantly hiding in a chest to escape his fears and the power of the Douglas family who effectively ruled the country in the King’s minority. Of course, James grows up to be yet another violent monster, wreaking revenge on the Douglas clan – killing off non-relatives. With a fascination of explosives and canon, he is accidentally blown up by his own device, leaving another underage King of Scotland.

On both of these evenings, I was able to leave during the curtain calls, retrieve my fold up bicycle and pedal furiously down Queen Street to catch the 10.15 ferry. James III turned out to be longer that the others and completely different in atmosphere. This James was artistic, credited with bringing the renaissance to Scotland. He wants to have a choir accompany him wherever he goes, an expense he can ill afford. His Queen, Margaret of Denmark brought with her, as dowry, The Orkney and Shetland Islands, which Munro uses as a running joke by the King, against her. Initially devoted, the couple become estranged and the Queen retreats to Stirling Castle with their son and future heir, yet another James. James III is decadent, arrogant, lazy and dangerous. Although a good fighter, he loses control of his family and kingdom, taking to bed and battle his personal servant Ramsay. In his final battle he is fighting his own people in a rebellion which included his own son.

The final dramatic scene sees James IV strip down to put chains of repentance on his chest, over which the coronation robes are placed. It was too late to cycle madly down Queen Street so I stayed to applaud the end of an exciting trilogy. With time to spare before the last ferry at 11.45pm, I relaxed with a glass of wine and a bucket of chips down at the viaduct area of the harbour.

Nixon in China is one of those ‘modern classics’ I’d heard about but had never seen. For me Nixon is irretrievably tied to ‘Watergate’ and thus labelled corrupt and disgraced. This ground-breaking visit by the Nixons predates Watergate and, engineered by Henry Kissinger, sought to find a solution to the Vietnam War. Someone hadn’t done their homework had they? When I visited Vietnam in 2011, I discovered that the country had been subjugated by China for a thousand years and consequently had no love for their former oppressors. In fact Ho Chi Min went to Russia for help and advice as there was considerable animosity between the two communist giants at the time. Nixon’s visit did have the effect of opening up dialogue between the US and the Soviets, but that did not end the war, it was Ho Chi Min’s intellect and determination.

American composer, John Adams had never written opera before and poet Alice Goodman was new to libretto writing, so this was a recipe for something innovative. What came out was extraordinary and exciting music melding the big band sound of the period with strong influence from Philip Glass. The score demands an extended brass and woodwind section plus the addition of four saxophones and an electronic synthesizer. All this adds up to high volume, requiring the singers to be amplified.

I’d chosen to sit in the horseshoe shaped balcony of the Auckland Town Hall (Great Hall) in order to be closer to the orchestra and soloists in this semi-staged production. Coincidentally this placed me nearer the speakers relaying the voices. There’s not that much you can do in front of and behind an orchestra taking up most of the stage, so it was disappointing that sur-titles were not available. Fortunately a couple of guys I know on Waiheke had warned me to look up the synopsis so I would be able to follow the plot. Great advice and all was well with the dramatic arrival of the Nixon’s, met by the smooth baritone voice of Chen-Ye Yuan playing Chou En Lai. The cast progressed through the stalls, the Freemasons Opera Chorus took up the choir stalls and a host of local Chinese New Zealanders played the media (taking pictures), the Red Army and citizens of Beijing. In a very formal setting, the octogenarian Mao, played with some vocal power by Barry Ryan teetering on unsteady feet, seemed about to fall from his high platform at any moment, demolishing the brass section of the orchestra. Act two, focuses on Pat Nixon (Kiwi soprano Madeleine Pierard) on her tour around the city, culminating in a performance of a revolutionary ballet directed by Madame Mao sung by Soprano Hye Jung Lee. Pat is moved to intervene in the cruelty portrayed between the Kissinger like villain and the heroine/victim, breaking the convention of theatre and ending the show in confusion. This prompts Madam Mao to sing her ‘Queen of the Night’ like aria ‘I am the wife of Mao Zedong’.

Act three takes us into the interior thoughts of the main characters. As they wait to leave in their hotel room, the Nixons reflect on their humble origins and Chou En Lai wonders ‘how much of what we did was good?’ Here the lack of a libretto was a disadvantage and I understand that at the last moment, permission to include it in the programme was denied by US copyright laws. The Opera seems to fizzle out with no great fanfare as the Nixons leave. With the benefit of hindsight and the sense that Chou En Lai does have a vision of the future, there is a glimmer of hope. For all the shortcomings, I found the music thrilling and if I couldn’t always catch Goodman’s poetic lyrics, it didn’t matter too much. At three hours ten minutes long, the only option home was the 11.45pm ferry. Unaccountably on this Saturday evening, my bar at the viaduct was closed by the time I cycled down the hill. To compensate, I ordered a small bottle of Waiheke red wine on the ferry.

NZ Theatre and The Auckland Festival

A recent conversation with my friend Stephen Fisher in Palmerston North included a discussion of The Book of Everything, adapted by Richard Tulloch from the novel by Netherlander, Guus Kuijer, and produced by Silo Theatre. I’d seen this excellent play back in February. Set in post war Amsterdam it’s about a young boy’s family experiences. A bullying father is trying to hold to his Christian disciplinary beliefs which are at odds with sensible child rearing and loving relationships. The next door neighbour branded a witch because she is different by the rest of the family, nevertheless becomes a fascination for the boy and eventually leads him to challenge his father, who is then redeemed. Ironically, the character of Jesus, who pops up in the boy’s head, is unable to provide any solutions.

I recommended that Stephen see the show when it came to Palmerston North, and I was quite relieved to hear that he had liked it. He didn’t however see the play in Palmerston North as the Regent Theatre asked him to review it in New Plymouth so there would have a better mid-week audience turn-out. It worked and the audiences came. Stephen and I then discussed the six million grant to Silo theatre for touring four North Island venues and was this pouring funds into Auckland Theatre to the detriment of Wellington Theatre?

Taking a deep breath, I pointed out that six million dollars wasn’t actually that much to tour a cast of eight, stage management, set and costumes to large scale venues (No 1 Tour in the UK) around New Zealand and that Kiwis often complain about everything being expensive – they don’t want to pay for quality. But on a really serious note, it does seem that Auckland Theatre is in the ascendancy now. Stephen felt that Auckland might have better actors – they’ve re-located now that Radio Drama has joined TV drama production in Auckland. I chipped in to say that historically, employers here refused to hire actors unless they were already living in the area. I found this to be the case in 1987 doing the audition rounds. Everyone asked, ‘how are you going to make a living when you are not acting?’ None of your business. ‘Where are you going to be based?’ I don’t know and does it matter? So it’s no wonder that the main centres still do not exchange artists and give their audiences some new faces from time to time.

There were plenty of new faces during the Festival this year and early on, deciding what to see, I eliminated all the One-person-shows. They seldom work for me and their proliferation is symptomatic both of the Kiwi ‘get up and give it a go’ mentality and the ‘we can’t afford to pay for more than one actor’ attitude. The result is a lack of real tension such as you would get in a dialogue between two actors. So, my first outing was a 2 pm matinee of Marama, Polynesian physical Theatre by Nina Nawalowalo at the large auditorium at Q Theatre. Marama employs six women performers plus two animators operating puppets and other effects.

It’s visually stunning, magical and slow, like the themes it embodies – climate change and deforestation in pacific Islands. There is a place in the forest where women can go and be safe, but that space is diminishing taking with it cultural values and a way of life. Out of the stage mist and darkness, women emerge from the forest floor; objects magically appear and recede back into the void. I know it’s done with the armoury of theatrical tricks, but don’t want to dwell on the technicalities, just enjoy the magic. It’s a visual treat for those with a good attention span and not in need of an afternoon nap as the gentle music and Waiata (song) is rhythmic and lulling.

Always keen to see what New Zealand playwrights are up to, I managed to squeeze in two of the four Raw performances. These are works in progress shown to a live audience for the first time. Making the most of my ferry journey from Waiheke, I’d managed to swim at Newmarket then a cycle up and over to Q theatre in Queen Street. Waiting to go into Cell Fish, I found myself half recognising Murray Lynch. We’d been at Massey University together in a drama course and at the time, I’d been envious of him running off to join a professional theatre company – something I managed to do three years later. Cell Fish, devised, written and performed by Miriama McDowell and Rob Makaraka – direction by Jason Te Kare – is centred around Miriama’s experiences teaching Shakespeare to Maori men in prisons. The two actors play all the characters in the prison drama group, often swapping roles. The result – partly in Te Reo – is often hilarious, but there is a serious message to be had from these damaged characters who may or may not be rehabilitated to the ‘outside’. We got act one, so this is one to watch as it develops. Murray and I had forty years of catching up to do over a drink in the bar waiting for the next show. Murray now runs Playmarket – unique in the world as the only organisation that works as a playwright’s agency and library/archive, actively developing new work.

Tea by Sri Lankan Kiwi, Ahi Karunaharan had a cast of fifteen. Set against the backdrop of the history of tea, its colonial plantations in what was then Ceylon, the struggles for worker’s rights and conditions plus women’s emancipation, Tea tells an epic story. I was unsure about the first scene which seemed to be between god-like beings, but as we were presented with only act one, I’m sure this will become clear. I was quickly drawn into the narrative of the different characters and look forward to the spectacle of so many South Asian actors in employment. Ahi was the producer of the Short & Sweet Festival last year and was a great help to me, so it was good to briefly hug and say ‘Hi’, after the show. My fold-up bicycle was waiting for me, tied to a balustrade in the Q Theatre Foyer. It was bliss riding down Queen Street to catch the ferry.

Not part of the Auckland Festival, but very much in the centre of theatre-land is the Pop-up Globe Theatre, erected with scaffolding and corrugated iron (Kiwi iconic building material) in the car park to the rear of Q Theatre and in front of the Basement (Fringe venue). Celebrating the 400 years of Shakespeare, it offers a resident company plus guest companies presenting plays plus workshops and schools matinees throughout March. There has been much chatter about competition for audiences with the Festival and the added complication of the Biennial NZ Festival in Wellington covering similar dates. My choice of Henry V was entirely due to the fact that Lexie Matheson was making her first stage appearance since transitioning to female fifteen years ago. We’d worked together at Theatre Corporate in 1977 and it was fantastic to reconnect.

In this all female production, Lexie played Alice, the French maid like a grand, but kindly duchess with a sense of humour. Lexie was a centred planet around which the delicate Princess of France flitted and her hat in the final scene was a triumph. It occurred to me that I’ve not actually seen a live production of Henry V before though I’ve studied the play and used one of the Chorus speeches for drama school auditions. It was disappointing, therefore to find the acoustics of the Pop-up Globe less than ideal. Sitting to one side, it was difficult to hear the softer unsupported voices of this young ensemble unless they were facing in my direction. Within this corrugated iron ‘O’, the sound does not bounce around the auditorium as it does in the wooden Bankside reconstruction. Ironically, the groundlings got the best sound here. The cast were nevertheless, valiant with particularly fine performances from the Eponymous hero (ine) and opponent Dauphin, although I could have done with less macho pacing up and down and around the stage. Also worthy of note was the hilarious Fluellen forcing the rascal Pistol to actually eat a leek – drawing a round of applause. With an eye on the ferry timetable, I was able to extricate myself from the after-show melee, but had to run down Queen Street. The bus ahead of me kept stopping, spurring me on, but I never quite managed to catch it. Fortunately the 10.15 sailing was late arriving.

Next time: The James Plays from The National Theatre of Scotland and Nixon in China

The Big Gay Swim

Monday is the big day. A 5am rise for me, a drive to catch the 6am ferry then a train to Henderson. The organisers have arranged with Auckland Transport to allow us, with our registration tags to travel on the train for free – hurrah! Australian swimmers join the train and I point them in the right direction for the pool at the Westwave Leisure Centre.

Team Auckland members and volunteers are already hard at work setting up the pool, putting in the timing pads and lining up chairs. I set to work filling out the lunch vouchers for the day with volunteers’ names and my signature. I get a message from the

Me with the Deputy Mayor, Cynthia and Jeremy Photo by Andrea Robinson — Me with the Deputy Mayor, Cynthia and Jeremy
Photo by Andrea Robinson

Deputy Mayor that she will be a few minutes late and is cycling to us so I wait outside the pool as arranged, to greet her. She looks regal, arriving on a battery assisted ecycle – all the rage here – in a bright pink shirt – appropriate for the occasion, but with a bloody elbow where she’d ‘canned of’ the bike trying to answer her phone. No, she didn’t need a plaster, but makes the most of the story in her speech, exhorting us ‘older people’ not to think that we can behave like we’re in our 20’s any more.

Proof of accessibility to politicians here is demonstrated by no accompanying security, a warm greeting for me with a hug and a kiss. Can you imagine that happening in London? Many people involved in the Swim event know Penny personally – including the official photographer Andrea, working for Gaynz. My job is to show her in to the pool – they all know her at reception – introduce TAMS Chair, Jeremy and Coach Cynthia, then disappear. Instead I find myself herded into a group photo by Andrea.

The opening goes well, but I’ve missed the official warm-up, a chance to check turns and get the measure of the pool which I’ve not swim in before. I’m delighted to note that the new starting blocks have that adjustable raised ledge at the back familiar from Ponds Forge pool in Sheffield. I content myself warming up in the diving pool, which is about 20 metres wide, while the 1500m freestyle event plods along. I’m monitoring my legs closely, avoiding anything which will cause cramp and have even come supplied with glucose tablets to feed them instant energy.

Looking relaxed in the 200m Backstroke Photo by Andrea Robinson — Looking relaxed in the 200m Backstroke
Photo by Andrea Robinson

First up for me is the 200m Backstroke which under any circumstances is a punishing race and to be one’s first of a meet makes it more so. I’ve been working on my backstroke since disastrous times and disqualifications a couple of years ago. My plan is to start off steady and settle into the stroke, so I’ve got something left for the last 50m. The result is pleasing as I cut 5 seconds off my last long course time at Papatoetoe last year – still nowhere near my personal best, but hey, I’m a couple of years older now and moved into the next age group. Theoretically all my times this year are PB’s.

Do we have a relay team and who is in it?

As there are only two heats of the 200 Backstroke, I’m thrown straight into the 200 Medley Relay and because I’m the back-stroker in the club, get to start the race. Mindful of the 200 Individual Medley coming up, I ease up on my kick. Besides, all the others are much younger and faster – our team has a combined age of 279 years. Fortunately there’s a twenty minute break now, time to swim down and refuel with a glucose tablet. I’ve never swum a 200 IM before and worked out my estimated time by doubling my 100m time and adding 30 seconds.

Anyone for a massage by Ivan or Ismail? James is up for it.

I know the trick here is to relax and take it easy. It’s not four 50m sprints and the first length of Butterfly can be exhausting, my weakest stroke is Breast, which I also find hard work, leaving me to make up time on Backstroke and the final Freestyle. Amazingly, I come in only .90 seconds over my estimation plus they announce that I now hold the record for this event. Wow … except –looking up the records later – no one in my age group has ever swum this event in the short history of Asia Pacific Out Games/ Proud to Play. My last swim of the day is the 100 Back which is 2 seconds slower than hoped for.

Tuesday is also a 5am start with a new lot of volunteer vouchers to organise. This time I get to warm up in the main pool and psyche myself up for the 800m Freestyle, a distance I’ve come to enjoy. There are only three of us in the first heat and there doesn’t look as if there’s anyone who can push me along. Megan from Wet Ones, Sydney looks handy in the lane next to me and we level peg for around 50m. When she drops back I realise that I’ve got to race against the clock plus leave something in the tank for the last 100m.

The end of the 800m Freestyle Photo by Andrea Robinson — The end of the 800m Freestyle
Photo by Andrea Robinson

It goes to plan and I spot team mate Jenny waving me on. I can tell that Megan is 10 – 15 metres behind me because I hear her final lap whistle and speed up. As I sprint down the final lap, ahead of the field, I get the feeling that I’m showing off now. Nice. Andrea, the photographer shoots me and Bella the turns judge says ‘Good race.’ The timekeeper has kept a note of my splits and its perfect, each 100 getting faster to the end and a new Long course PB. Yay!

Penny, the Deputy Mayor has come back, this time in her swimming togs and draped in the TAMS towel we gave her yesterday. She’s organised a scratch relay team of ‘unattached’ people, just for fun and Andrea is running around taking lots of photos now. I have a 4 x 50m freestyle relay to swim which goes ok, then it’s my last event, the 50m Backstroke. By now I’ve forgotten about my legs so on the last 25 metres the cramp strikes, not seriously, but enough to take one second off my seed time. Definitely time to re-evaluate sprinting and starting a new set of Personal Bests for my new 65 – 69 age group. It’s been good that there are four of us competing in this group, though my only challenge was in the 200m Backstroke.

Medal line up for the 65-69 age group Photo by Andrea Robinson — Medal line up for the 65-69 age group
Photo by Andrea Robinson

The organisers of Proud to Play blanched at the number of medals required to cover every age group in the swimming, so we compromised and points are counted up and medals awarded to the top three. Peter from

David Jeremy and Cynthia are acknowledged Photo by Andrea Robinson — David Jeremy and Cynthia are acknowledged
Photo by Andrea Robinson

Wet Ones wins the Gold medal for the most points and I come in with Silver. After the medals, there are more presentations and I find my self presenting flowers to President Jeremy and Secretary David. Cynthia, who has masterminded the whole operation, gets a special mention and flowers.

After clearing up, there’s fun to be had in the water chute which we’ve arranged for the swimmers and volunteers to enjoy. First time down is really scary. Getting flung from side to side in the dark with brief moments of light is scary – it goes on forever and dumps me under water at the bottom feeling quite dizzy. I get bolder and we team up getting up to five at a time all holding each other, until the lifeguard thinks we should not go beyond that. Later we all meet up at our regular bar in the Viaduct region, downtown for nibbles and drinks with the other swimmers. Peter from Wet Ones Sydney tells me that if I had entered 6 races I would have won the Gold. He’s very competitive and pretends to be put out that I beat him in the Backstroke. It wasn’t to be as all the events were too close together for me to do justice to six events.

Daniel and Ivan having a cultural exchange with Dave from Sydney

The cultural exchange with the Australians continues on the Thursday when they turn up to our regular training session and help us fill three lanes. It’s always good to have a full lane and they push us along. A great swim and more drinks afterwards.

The Pride Parade marks the end of the celebrations and we are all summoned to march between the two Proud 2 Play vehicles up Ponsonby Road. Last year we marched down the road. As usual, there’s a lot of standing about before it all gets going and when it does we realise that we are near the end as Miss Ribena, the Police, the Armed Forces, the National Party and the Labour Party all go to the front of the queue. Even the ANZ bank get going before us so that we trail behind the Queer Vegans.

The Australians have stayed on for pride and there’s quite a bit of stripping down to Speedos. A couple of the Sydney Wet Ones wear ‘Budgie Smugglers’ – it’s a brand. Tee shirts are discarded and retrieved when the sun goes behind clouds as we’re all waiting to get going.

There are rumours of demonstrations ahead holding up the proceedings. Christian and TPP (Trans Pacific Parnership) protesters are mentioned. There are complaints but one of the swimmers (from Western Australia) keeps reminding us that ‘everyone has a right to protest.’ Yes! Later, it transpires that there’s also a demo in Karangahape Road (top of Ponsonby) about the way Gay & Trans prisoners are treated in prisons. Yes to this as well.

When we do get going, it’s a blast and loads of fun, dancing up the street – with my tee shirt on. I meet up with some old friends on the way, but don’t feel like queuing for food and drink at the nearby park at the end of the parade. Just as I’m making my escape, I come across Andrea, the photographer, sitting on a wall looking completely exhausted. I want some of her photos from the swimming, but she is unable to speak and can only delve into her pocket and give me a crumpled piece of paper, which I assume is her card. I slip it into my pocket and walk back down the road, stopping to have a glass of wine or two with Ed, from TAMS before making a dash for the Waiheke Ferry.

Gay Pride in Auckland

Considering that New Zealand passed the Homosexual Law Reform Bill as late as1986, the celebration of Pride has leapt ahead. By contrast, London Gay Pride’s attempts to turn into a parade or carnival, have failed. It has remained essentially a march, albeit a huge one, with an after party in Trafalgar Square or in a club of one’s choice, all happening on the one day.

In Auckland, celebrations now go on for two weeks, beginning with a huge cultural offer which, quite frankly, puts London to shame. Covering exhibitions, film, Literature, Theatre and Comedy, there’s also the Heroic Garden Festival where you can meet the gay garden owners.

I manage to get off Waiheke Island to a couple of the theatre shows in town.

SCCZEN_No_More_Dancing_in_the_Good_620x310 — Chris Parker in No more Dancing in the Good Room

Chris Parker’s No More Dancing in the Good Room is a coming out one man show indulging Chris’s desire to dance ballet. There’s not quite enough material to make the show work but the finale where Chris dances a duet with a home movie of his younger self in the kitchen is very moving.

Living on an Island, I make the most of time in the city and see The Legacy Project in the same evening. Here, six emerging queer writers, present short plays. Things are looking good for the future of queer theatre writing, particularly with the introduction of Trans issues. Trans (male to female or female to male) is the new frontier to be won and two of the plays bravely make a start on what proves to be a rich subject and hopefully work for trans performers in the future. The Pronoun Game was the most confrontational and experimental of the six plays. The premise is the cleaning of a bedroom, but the subtext delves into gender identity and Trans/intersex possibilities. Clad in a flesh coloured body stocking the protagonist seems asexual but several conversations with friends and colleagues later conclude that being naked might have been an even bolder decision. My favourite, however, is Sean Carley’s The Last Date. A man in his fifties wants to try sex with a man before he dies. Bedevilled by inaccurate on-line dating information, neither man is what the other expects. This chimed with me in my current dilemma, to date younger men or continue looking for that elusive companion around my own age.

Hard working Proud to Play Organisers Craig (Centre) and Dion (R) with Volunteer Marjo

My main focus at this time is on swimming. I’m on the committee organising the Swimming Competition, part of the Proud to Play sporting festival. I end up with two contrasting tasks, organising a voucher system for volunteers to get a filled roll (ham or egg) from the pool café and inviting the Deputy Mayor, Penny Hulse to open the event.

The Voucher job involves contacting the café manager for a quote and designing the voucher – easy. Inviting the Deputy Mayor involves getting her contact details off the council website, calling her mobile number to leave a message with a follow up email. She replies almost immediately with a yes and there follows an event sheet from her office to be filled in and returned – almost as easy as the vouchers. I can’t imagine the Deputy Mayor of London being so accessible or available.

I also volunteer for the Ocean Swim event. This is an opportunity for Proud to Play to combine with the Bean Rock swim starting and ending at Mission Bay on the Saturday. Taking my fold up bike on the 8am ferry, I cycle around the harbour. My job is to tick the Proud to Play swimmers off the list, get them to sign a waiver form and issue a purple/blue swim cap so we can identify them as they come in. My choice of UK English is picked up by a couple of cute American Guys who read ‘tick off’ as ‘told off’. They like that. The distance out to Bean Rock and back is 3.2K and around the half way buoy 1.6k. Two of us ‘check off’ (US & Kiwi English) the purple caps as they come in, for place and time.

Off they all go. Green caps n the 1.6K Yellow caps for those who are nervous

Later we have our own medal ceremony and I get to award the guys – medal over the head and kiss on the cheek. I then cycle off to do a final swim session in the 50m pool at Newmarket before our meet on Monday. Standing on my feet all morning has taken its toll and after doing a sedate 1,400m I can hardly move my legs. The ride from the pool to downtown is all

TAMS medal winners Jeremy, David & Cynthia

down-hill and one of my favourite freewheeling journeys, so my legs come back to life and I arrive at Silo Park down by Auckland harbour all ready for the games opening ceremony. A powhiri (welcome) from the local Maori has been organised and we, the people of Auckland welcome our visitors onto the land. I’m always moved by this part of our culture and am pleased that it has become so much a part of tradition in Auckland. Local ‘out’ lesbian MP Louisa Wall, who promoted the gay marriage bill is there along with the Mayor of Auckland Len Brown accompanied by his ‘Rainbow Advisory Board’. It’s a great opening event and to my delight Trans activist and academic, Lexie Matheson is on that board. I’ve not met up with her since we worked together as Actors in 1977 – a lovely reunion.

Sunday is Big Gay Out at Coyle Park, Point Chevalier. For me, this is another volunteer job on the Proud to Play tent. BGO is the usual info and merchandising tents with bars and a music stage with live acts.

P2P volunteers release the rainbow balloons.

It’s become a tradition for the Prime Minister of the day to attend, but this year apparently, Prime Minister John Key got booed off the stage. He hasn’t had a good month as reaction to the Trans Pacific Partnership kept him a way from the annual Waitangi Day Celebrations. I miss all the drama – too busy sorting out registrations for gay athletes and by 4.30 I’m ready to cycle off to the ferry for an early night on Waiheke.

Bowie Connolly Labyrinth and Me

A friend has just reminded me about the film Labyrinth and just maybe, it’s time share my David Bowie story … again.

It was around ’86 and I was a struggling actor in London. An advertisement appeared in the trade paper the Stage & Television today looking for ‘Actors/Actresses who can waltz’. I’d learnt to waltz as a child, by standing on my father’s shoes on our kitchen floor. On the rare occasion when we were listening and dance music came on the radio, Mum and Dad would push the table and chairs to the side of the room and dance. Next it was the kid’s turn and I’d managed to polish up those skills at Drama school in period dance classes.

Every dancer in London came to the open audition and we all waited patiently until called into a small dance studio, paired up and, to the music of an accordion player, waltzed around the room. As eliminations proceeded I found I was being kept on and some of the female dancers, spotting this, tried to manoeuvre themselves into my arms. When it comes to ballroom dancing however, I can be a bit choosy and soon found myself coming back to recalls over the next few days. I got the job as a dancer in the masked ballroom scene of Labyrinth staring David Bowie and Jennifer Connelly, directed by Kermit the Frog alias Jim Henson.

It turned out that I was the only actor in the group which was otherwise made up of dancers from the Royal Ballet and West End shows. We had two weeks to rehearse the dancing and it also turned out that Bowie (who wrote the music) was a stranger to ¾ time so we had to make it all look like a waltz.

If you look at the clip, fairly early on (0.07sec), there are two shots of me, with horned mask and a partner in an apricot ball gown. Bowie remarked to me during shooting, that he was in danger of getting his eyes poked out by my horns.

The other challenge I remember was the set. Ballrooms are usually flat – this one was all up and down stairs and on different levels. Now, dancing with a show girl partner in this situation is difficult, because they don’t understand that they have to follow. In the end I had to clutch her tightly, whisper urgently in her ear. ‘We are going up and down stairs and I’m the only one who can see where we are going. Follow me.’ In the final cut, for some reason, we got more shots that the star couple form the Royal Ballet.

My memory of David Bowie (that’s the point of this piece) is that he was an ordinary bloke, who came out of his dressing room in a break to ask if any of us knew what the cricket score was – no one did. My other memory is of the teenage Jennifer Connelly (now an award winning actor) looking fantastic in her cellophane ball-gown. She would emerge from her school lessons to do a scene, briefly pausing to allow us to take photos with her before returning to study.

At the time, it was the best paid work I’d ever had, especially as it over ran by a week and I could afford the air fair to come home to New Zealand for the first time in seven years. Thanks David, Jennifer … and Kermit.