All – Page 14 – Chris Preston

The Day Before ANZAC Day

On the eve of ANZAC day it seems that the whole country is obsessed with the centenary of the landings at Gallipoli by the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. Certainly the news outlets on Waiheke, comprising: Radio New Zealand National Programme, the $2 Gulf News (weekly) and two freebie papers are full of comments, articles and news of commemorative events. The strap-line for the radio is The day that changed New Zealand forever! This, to me sounds overly dramatic. OK, it was New Zealands first military action on the world stage in support of an ageing parent that was the British Empire and weve continued along these lines in every war since. The latest, only this week, is the deployment, along with Australia, of troops to help with military training in Iraq. (Australias Prime Minister today unadvisedly described this as an ANZAC initiative to howls of protest the politicians in this part of the world have large feet and even larger mouths in which to put them) The other thing is that the whole expedition was a disaster leading to massive loss of life and a humiliating retreat. As my Mother used to say, Only the British (including her colonies) can make a victory out of a defeat.

The local papers are full of stories about Uncles killed or Fathers wounded. The storytellers are themselves now extremely old and appear in the papers pictured with their ancestors medals or pay books which miraculously stopped that shell from killing them. My own grandfather was one of the wounded but never attended a single Anzac Day parade, nor wore a poppy or his medals so, to us, it was no big deal. However, I have to confess to adding to the verbiage by writing a short play called Granddads War. There was a suggestion from the director of the Waiheke short play festival that Gallipoli might be a fundable theme for this year. I initially felt uninspired, and then as happens with writers, an ideal crystallises and out came a seven a half minute play.

My grandfather never talked about what really happened in the war, and when I look at the stories being told now, they are either light hearted, neutral or descriptions of military strategy. Some insights are to be had from letters and diaries written on site, but afterwards nothing. As children we got funny stories about the war things like the mispronunciation of Ypres, the Belgian battle field, which ended up as wiper not a hint of the horrors encountered there. So the point of my play is that there were no stories which they could bear to tell except the funny ones. I included two of these in the play but had to send Granddad to sleep, to dream of the scene where he got wounded, which I had to invent.

My memory of ANZAC parades as a child and teenager in Waipawa is of Dad getting out his best (only?) suit and polishing his black shoes. There were also the medals rescued annually from a box hidden in an obscure cupboard. Where are my bloody medals? was the cry. They also had to be cleaned, a job my brother eventually took up. We never made it to the dawn parade but would assemble at one end of the main street, Dad up front with the Returned Servicemen, my brother and I with the Scouts or Cubs, shivering in our short pants in the cold autumn mist which rises out of the Waipawa River. The towns highland pipe band lead, followed by the Returned Servicemen. My father in perfect step with the others, made an impressive sight. This small town of 1700 people also produced a brass band and a team of marching girls who strutted in their white calf-length boots, dazzlingly short skirts and Hollywood style military hats. The Cubs, Brownies, Girl Guides and Boy Scouts plus the St Johns Ambulance Brigade, slotted in somewhere to make up the parade and marched down the main street of town, which happened to be the main North South highway. Traffic was diverted, not that there was much, as ANZAC day is a national holiday and the railways still carted most of the freight the heavy duty inter-city trucks were then unimagined. At the other end of the Main Street is the white Memorial Town Clock where the names of the fallen are to be read. Standing guard is an archaic cannon preserved for posterity in multiple layers of grey paint. This iconic image of Waipawa, to be found on a few hopeful tourist souvenirs, was for a few decades in the 70s and 80s , unaccountably usurped by a huge yellow duck the sort you might find in a childs bath which stood guard at the entrance to the town. Fortunately this was disposed of by friendly vandals returning us to sobriety at the town clock.

Here we were, assembled for the ANZAC day service the prayers, the bugle calls Last post and Revellie and the Hymns; O God Our Help in Ages Past and the National Anthems, which in those days were God Save the Queen and God Save New Zealand. All these played by the brass band.

I saw it then as an annual chore. War was still a mystery at that age, although we all had some expectation of experiencing it as we sweated under the brilliant autumn sunshine which had dispelled the mist and now shone unrelentingly on the servicemen in their dark woollen suits.

I havent been to an ANZAC service since then. As a student I demonstrated against our involvement in the Viet Nam war, sang antiwar songs at folk groups in the 70s and was generally against all war. In London I marched, protesting against the Iraq war one of 2 million. It was heady stuff, but in the long run, our voices went unheard. Its great that the young still believe, as I did, that we can change the world. I now know that its more complicated and that just maybe, mankind is destined to continually be at war. History tells us so.

New Zealand Masters Swimming National Long Course Champs

It’s my first ‘sanctioned’ swim meet in New Zealand – Katikati and Wellington were for fun, and the experience. This event is over two days and held at the Papatoetoe Centennial Pool, South Auckland. I’ve been topping up my training sessions at the Te Huruhi Primary School pool on Saturday mornings with the occasional Sunday visit to the Tepid Baths in downtown Auckland. As this is a Long Course meet, that means a 50 metre pool, I put in a session at the Newmarket Olympic Pool, which is woefully undersubscribed, so that team mate Clive and I have a lane to ourselves.

Papatoetoe Centennial Pool

I’ve entered two races on the Friday evening session, but this means leaving Rocky Bay after Lunch and catching the 2.30 ferry with my fold up Brompton bike in the back of the Rav4. The Brompton continues to get admiring glances and comments like ‘cool bike’ – it’s a great opener for conversation and people love to watch it being folded and un-folded. At Britomart, I get on a train, but it has broken down and is cancelled. The next train is fairly full, and gets even more crowded picking up the school kids as we go along. By the time we get to Papatoetoe, careful manoeuvring is required to get me and the Brompton out of the train. The cycle ride to the Centennial Pool turns out to be quite short, so I’m in good enough time for the warm-up. It’s a chance to get acquainted with an unfamiliar pool, practice turns and starts.

TAMS Coach Cynthia gets a job judging turns

There are three of us from Team Auckland Masters Swimmers this evening and first up for me is the 100m Backstroke. It really does seem like a long way in a 50 metre pool, but it’s good enough to get a bronze medal. David is doing the 1500m freestyle and in New Zealand, swimmers are able to swim their 800 metres concurrently but I can’t see how that works strategically. The organisers are short on officials so I volunteer to flip the number chart at the end of the pool. In order to save time this event is being done with two swimmers per lane. This means combining two heats so each lane has a faster and slower swimmer. For the first heat, we’ve got enough volunteers for each swimmer. My swimmer is 83 and doing the whole race on his back and so needs to look back at the chart after he’s done his tumble turn.

Over in lane 6 Kath Johnstone, aged 98, is going for a world record. Early on in the race, there’s a collision between her and the other swimmer in her lane. She stops. Long after all the others have finished, Kath is still going. Every now and then she stops at an end for a rest. Officials urge her to keep going and half way up the penultimate lap she hangs on to the lane rope for another rest. I’ve no idea if she got her record or was disqualified. Swimmers discuss the rules and it seems you are allowed to stop or put your feet on the bottom as long as you don’t make progress. Others reckon they’ve seen her take some steps, but It’s impossible to be sure. The rain sets in and I get wet flipping for the next double heat. The volunteers have melted away so I’m looking after two swimmers. Just before that last heat, I discover that because most people are doing the concurrent entry, there is only the one heat of the 800m and I have to abandon the flip charts so I’m ready to swim. I feel that I need another warm-up, but the indoor pool has closed. It’s a bit weird sharing a lane, especially as my younger and faster neighbour has a style which churns up the water with his kick. Once he has finished, I can enjoy the lane to myself. Although my time is quite respectable, I’m knocked into third place by Mark Tibble – last met in Katikati. He has swum faster than me in his first 16 lengths of the 1500. Wow! It’s a race now, to get the 10.15pm ferry home and David kindly drives me, with the Brompton on his back seat. I have 14 minutes to spare and get home in time for 6 hours sleep. I need to get the 7.15 ferry on Saturday morning.

Ed (L) and Clive (Rt) on the starting blocks

All seven of our team report in on Saturday along with Coach Cynthia Borne. Our butterfly swimmers Ron and Jenny win medals in the punishing 100m; I’m surprised to get a bronze medal in the 50 freestyle and Elizabeth, Clive and Ron get silver medals. We’ve put together a men’s relay team with a combined age of 240-279 years. We win both the Medley and freestyle 200m relays. Yay!

TAMS team. Back L to Rt David, Ed, Ron & Elizabeth. Front L to Rt Clive, Chris, Jenny & Cynthia

In the 50m Backstroke Elizabeth and I both get silver medals and in the 50m Breaststroke, there is a thrilling and close called race between our team-mates Ed and Clive, who are in the same age group. They go for Gold and Silver in that order, while David gets a bronze in his age group. It’s back to the Fly swimmers, Ed, Ron, Jenny and David for more medals followed by me winning gold in the 200m Backstroke. I know there are no medals for me in the 100m Freestyle as everyone has entered, but I’m next to speedy Ron, two age groups above me. We chase each other up the pool and back. He beats me by one second. Apparently our team were jumping and down getting very excited. It’s all over now but for the mixed Freestyle and Medley relays where we get second and third. It’s been a fantastic meet and my times are creeping back to where they should be, so I’m well satisfied.

Walking the West Coast Beaches

It’s not actually that far from central Auckland to the west coast beaches of Piha, Bethells and Karekare, Aucklanders just think it is. Michael and I are driving from Waiheke which adds a car ferry journey. Even with a morning coffee stop over at Point Chevalier, we are driving down the long steep drive of the Waitakere Estate Boutique Hotel before lunchtime. Unfortunately, something has gone wrong with our booking causing the very nice receptionist to fly into a bit of a panic. It turns out that I’ve only booked for one night – tomorrow night – and there are no spare rooms. As we’re heading for Piha, the nice woman gives us a number to call, but they are full. Helpfully they tell me that Black Sands Lodge has a vacancy and I call them. Yes, proprietor, Bobbie, tells me we can have the Tui suite. It’s more expensive than the hotel, but what can we do? The first view of Piha from the road is dramatic then we wind down the hill, following directions to Black Sands Lodge where we are met by an ‘older’ lesbian couple, Julia and Bobbie. We click instantly and feel at home. Bobbie is a gardener and has created a fabulous secluded place here with trees and grasses, seemingly growing in wild abandon. We are given directions to the café for lunch and to the Returned Servicemen’s Association for dinner. This means that we can cancel the booking we made for dinner at the Hotel. There’s an interesting art gallery/shop around the corner and we mistake the shop for the café, which is next door and set back from the road. We grab some lunch and head to The Kitekite Falls track.

We tramp through the forest to find a very tall waterfall with a large dark and very cold pool at the bottom. Two huge eels are swimming around expecting to be fed. There are several other people here and it is quite clear from the reaction of one young man diving into the pool that it’s freezing. His girlfriend takes our photo.

With the light fading due to dramatic black clouds covering the afternoon sun, we go down to the sea to explore the beach, look at Lion Rock and the flocks of surfers patiently waiting for that one big wave, rushing to catch it and then desperately trying to stay up and ahead.

These moments are rare but beautiful when they happen. We take the Tasman look-out track, a short walk south over the cliffs to The Gap. Its low tide now and we can walk back on the sand under the crumbling cliffs.

As instructed by Bobbie, we arrive at the RSA for dinner, go straight to the kitchen and ask to be signed in as guests. The beer is good and we order Gurnard (fish) which is also good. There’s still some daylight, allowing us to sit outside on the decking where we fall into conversation with two other couples who are also dining. The chap on my right asks if I’m a member. ‘No’, I say, ‘but my grandfather was at Gallipoli and my father in Egypt and Greece.’ He is a member so I ask him if he was at Vietnam. Oops, he’s too young for that. Turns out he was in the Falklands war and claims to be Scottish. He’s not got any accent and he and his wife live in Dorset. They are enjoying New Zealand for the first time, visiting friends and going to out of the way places. It turns out that he’s a keen sailor, and so has a good conversation with Michael. We reveal that we are swimmers and there is a slight pause in the conversation when we announce that we swim with a gay club, but they quickly recover and continue talking. As there are too few guests, the staff want to close early. We’ve finished anyway and walk back to our Tui suite in anticipation of longer walks tomorrow.

Coman's Track The Piano Bay — Coman’s Track The Piano Bay

We manage to find the Piha Café, which is excellent for breakfast, erring on the overgenerous. They don’t really do takeaway stuff for lunch, but the shop next door does us some great chicken salad sandwiches to order. It’s a short drive up the hill to begin our walk on the Mercer Bay loop, which takes us along a spectacular cliff walk past the location where the ‘piano on the beach’ scene was shot in the film The Piano. There’s a site of an historic Maori pa at Te Ahua point with great views of the coast-line. We then link up with the Comans track which takes us down to Karekare beach where we eat our chicken sandwiches.

I go for a cautious swim in the sea (it’s pretty dangerous here) and Michael has a snooze. It’s time to return, and the Ahu Ahu track completes the Comans track circuit by taking us more or less up a straight wide path at a punishing gradient but Michael behaves like a mountain goat and I have to keep up. We take the return part of the Mercer loop back to the car park. We’ve left a bottle of wine, intended for dinner, at the Black Sands Lodge and have to go back to Bobbie and Julia, who have put it in the fridge. We finally check into the Waitakere Estate Hotel and collapse for a snooze before driving to Bethells Beach for dinner with friend Sue, who was on tour with me to Bali and Morocco. The wine arrives still cold and is opened immediately.

Bethells Beach

It’s our third day in the Waitakere regional park and its back to Bethells Beach. More dramatic black sand and cliffs are to be seen as we tramp up along the coastal path to the North. It’s hard work in the heat and we opt to descend to the beach for the return journey. Each of the three beaches is unique and spectacular, so it’s well worth seeing all three and the full effect is only achieved by climbing up the cliffs for an aerial view.

School children are on a field trip, checking out the wild life in rock pools then going for carefully supervised swims. There are few tourist buses pulling up and as we return to the Bethells Beach car park there’s an unbelievable sight. A tourist has set up his tripod with screen attached and is launching a drone with camera which he controls from a consol. From here there is no view of the beach or cliffs, but he’s seeing it from the drone’s point of view.

I can’t believe that the visual quality of a remote tv screen can compare with a pair of eyes. I’m shocked that someone can make the effort to come all this way and not leave the car-park.

Bethells sand dune

Our last walk is over the dramatic black sand dunes which are such a popular film location that there is permanent sign up warning of possible filming. There aren’t any today as we swelter over the dunes to find a long cool looking lake behind. There’s a walking track around it, but we’ve walked enough and decide to swim up the lake instead. This is just what our muscles need right now and our joints are grateful to be load free. The fresh water is a good temperature and we are refreshed for our walk back along the stream which skirts the dunes.

Dunes and stream

We’ve time for afternoon coffee at Swanson Station Café (recommended) before a quick motorway drive back to the car ferry and home to Rocky Bay.

Festivals

Gay Pride - costumes for hire — Gay Pride – costumes for hire

The festival season continues. Having done the walking and the sculpture (which includes walking) my next feast is Gay Pride, which seems to go on for two weeks. I miss the opening Party in the Park at Point Chevalier due to the aforementioned break in Palmerston North. Apparently I missed the attendance by the Prime Minister, John Key. Damn! The following week, however, offers more important delights in the form of the Pink Arts Festival. There’s a range of disciplines, but I’m focusing on Theatre. First up is Victor Roger’s new play Girl on a Corner as the Basement Theatre. I’m interested for two reasons: I know of the writer, having read an early work and want to see how he has developed; the play promises to explore the Fa’afafine culture of Samoa. The tradition was that if a second child was also a boy, he would be brought up as a girl. Shalimar is such a character; she wins the local beauty contest and travels from American Samoa to Los Angeles. Her hope is to work in the textile industry but the reality is prostitution on the streets to earn money for gender reassignment. Based on a true story, Shalimar recounts her life both real and imaginary to the audience. The climax is her infamous encounter with Eddie Murphy in his car. They are stopped by the cops and it’s all over the media. After a brief period of infamy, she falls to her death from the top of a building. None of my reasons for seeing the play have been really satisfied and there are too many monologues. Shalimar tells her story directly to the audience with the help of a talented cast, playing multiple roles. At the end she is returned to Samoa where her family dress her as a man for burial.

Mika and youth group rehearse their routine

My next outing is Wild Blue Yonder at Garnet Station’s ‘Tiny Theatre’. Obtaining a ticket is a drama in itself. I have to leave a message on an answer-phone and some days later, I get a call to day that Wednesday is full, can I come on Thursday? No, I swim on Thursdays. There may be a seat on Wednesday, they’ll let me know. After several more phone calls, there is a cancellation and I’m in. Garnet Station is actually a Pizza restaurant run by well known Auckland lesbian Lisa Prager. I toured with Lisa in Story Theatre for Theatre Corporate in the late 70’s so am interested to meet up with her again. Co-incidentally my swimming coach, Cynthia is here with her partner and a group of local lesbians celebrating a birthday. It’s their local hang-out. The play, written by Olwyn Stewart and David Lyndon-Brown is set in the late 90’s in suburban Auckland. Martin, a successful artist has a self-loathing boyfriend with a wife and kids up north. Duane just wants to stay in with beer, having sex and watching TV. Ursula, old enough to know better, has fallen for young poet Luke, who professes adoration but doesn’t deliver the sex. As you can imagine it all gets very complicated and ends in tears.

Finally, there’s The Legacy Project, delivering six new short plays by young queer writers. The acting is superb and the writing ranges from good – showing promise to outstanding. It’s heartening to find such great gay writing here in New Zealand. Gay Pride ends with a parade down Ponsonby Road on Saturday. My swimming friend, Michael is visiting from London and we have already been testing the waters in Rocky Bay on Waiheke Island.

Pride is going to be a long day as we’re staring with a non-gay harbour swim from Herne Bay to Watchman Island. It’s about 8-900 metres each way. Michael and I are both novices at ocean swimming but manage to come in close behind the youngsters. After a fantastic brunch, laid on by my friends and hosts, John and Robyn, we make a hospital visit to one of Michael’s friends then take a leisurely walk along Karangahape Road, stopping for a pint before joining my swimming club, TAMS, for the parade.

Hanging about waiting for the parade to start

There’s lots of hanging about, waiting, but when we get underway I find myself in charge of a dragon’s head. Club member Elizabeth has made it and its fabulous, a crowd-pleaser. My arms, however aren’t up to the whole march, having swum 1800 metres in the morning so one of the youngsters takes over and I’m happy to carry a light-weight polystyrene lane rope and blow bubbles at the crowd. It’s all good fun as so many have made a huge effort with costumes and float decoration. It’s dark by the time we get to the end of Ponsonby Road – time to end up with a party hosted by club member Ed.

Getting ready - with Clive — Getting ready – with Clive

The Onetangi Beach Races are an annual event, I’m keen to witness. In 2011, the last time I was here they were cancelled due to a dramatic storm which threw up thousands of huge horse-muscle shells covering the entire beach. This year, it’s a brilliant day and we arrive in time for the tractor race. The Strand, along the sea-front is full of stalls and people. There are food tents and picnics down on the beach and crowds of people.

The races themselves are fun, but the most bizarre sight is the amphibious boats – known as sea-legs. They have retractable wheels and drive down the beach into the water. Once afloat the wheels lift up and on the return journey they are lowered to just roll out of the water. Outrageous!

Sea-legs leaves the water

The main festival is the biennial Auckland Arts Festival. Once again I’ve concentrated mainly on theatre and in particular new New Zealand writing.

Hikoi, written and directed by Nancy Brunning is the story of a dysfunctional Maori family. Charlie is a builder in an unequal partnership with a white man. Nellie is from the Valley, and speaks Maori. It seems an unlikely start to a relationship but they manage, over the years to have five children. Nellie becomes increasingly involved in the Maori land protest movement and eventually is given an ultimatum to leave their home or give up the cause. She leaves and Charlie struggles to bring up the kids. The eldest girl leads her siblings in an unlikely cross country search for their mother. The runaways seem to know little about her as they crash around, lost in the forest. Charlie, who finds he doesn’t have much power in his work partnership takes off to find his kids. He ends up tied to a tree and has to listen to the complaints of each of his children in turn. Nellie arrives, but is also rejected by the kids and the Parents are left together in the wilderness while the kids take off to try and make it as a family on their own. The abrupt ending is a bit of a surprise as if the writer didn’t quite know what to do with her characters having got them into this impossible situation.

Skin of Fire devised and presented by Group F of France is an out-door firework and light extravaganza in the Auckland Domain. Michael and I have been to swimming training and have to catch a bus. We are in good time however and manage to find a space to sit on the grass. The show begins with projections onto the front of the Museum building, white blancmange heaps strategically placed throughout the audience, begin to glow and move. Eventually performers covered in small lights emerge and make their way slowly to the performance bank. Fireworks are let of in impressive sequences and flame throwers are incorporated. It’s all done to a very loud sound-track which is perhaps less memorable than some of the startling and beautiful images created over seventy minutes.

Somehow, in the midst of the Auckland Festival, Waiheke has managed to insert a Shakespeare Festival for the first time. The main event is a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It’s rumoured that there are some talented youngsters from the local High School in the production, so I’m keen to compare them with East London youth theatres. The show is designed to be performed in the open air in the newly created space between the theatre and the new library. Unfortunately, it’s raining, so the set has to be moved into the theatre. We sit on the stage and the show happens down in the auditorium. It works well, and there is a fine performance from Bottom and a particularly good Lysander. It’s interesting to listen to different accents doing Shakespeare. Quite a few of the cast are ex-pats from the UK but there’s a good sprinkling of Kiwi accents and Demetrious is American. On balance, I think the East London kids have more ‘edge’. Other offerings are free workshops and talks.

Back to the mainland and the eagerly awaited The Mooncake and the Kumara by Mei-Lin Te Puea Hansen. This is the story of a Maori mother and daughter who go to work on the market garden of Chinese father and son in the early 1900’s. Cultural ties which bind the characters to their ancestors and way of living are challenged. The Pakeha (European) landlord is similarly marooned having lost his wife. The youngsters eventually come together and truth is revealed. Told in three languages, Cantonese, Maori and English, there is a realisation that this is just the beginning of the struggle against local prejudice and that modern attitudes have in some places, hardly changed. It’s a beautifully crafted piece and as I’m seeing the play with a well know local actress, get to meet the author and the dramagurg. What a privilege.

I saw this Danish company here in 2011, playing to a small audience at the Bruce Mason Centre at Takapuna on the North Shore. Then it was one man and a sound artist, this time their show BLAM!, has upgraded to the Civic Theatre in the centre of Auckland. This is physical theatre at its most impressive; four office workers keep breaking off their tedious day by acting out scenes from violent action packed movies like Die-Hard. The choreography and timing is precise with near misses and action which builds into a fantasy of destruction. In the midst of this chaos a beautiful romantic ballet emerges involving the manipulation of a desk lamp, but by the end the office is destroyed. It’s great to see grown men playing and these guys are dancers, acrobats and mimes extraordinaire.

Lastly is Ata Reira at the Auckland Town Hall. The combined forces of the National Youth and the National Chamber Choirs perform a programme celebrating light. With ancient and modern work interweaving, this is a sumptuous feast of sound and drama. Beginning with an entrance singing a 7^th Centuary Hymn, the choirs take us on a journey which includes Talis, Elgar and contemporary Maori composer, Tuiri Wehi. I was at teachers’ college in 1974 with one of the conductors, Karen Grylls so it was very exciting to see her performing after all these years.

Festivals here continue unabated. I’ve missed the Waiheke Wine Festival, a marketing opportunity for the local vineyards. I’m gearing up for short play events and have trimmed my 2012 play Four Horsemen down to under 10 minutes and written Granddad’s War, which has come in just over 7 minutes. Next up is the Waiheke International Jazz Festival, but I shall be busy writing, swimming and gardening.

The Bay of Islands

This is a plug for one of New Zealand’s top tourist destinations, The Bay of Islands. My friends Cathy, Claire and Lynn have been exploring the South Island and fly in to Auckland with the intention of picking me up from the Ferry Building. Unfortunately, there are fire engines and ambulances everywhere outside, roads are blocked off and it looks like a disaster area. I quickly text the girls to say there’s been an incident and I’ll meet them by the entrance to the Hilton Hotel. No response to my texts, so I try phoning – no answer. After an hour waiting, I retrace my steps to discover that there is no disaster, it’s a demonstration event, but still the roads are blocked off. Somehow the girls spot me – their mobile phones are not working here.

We take several scenic detours on the way to Pihia, stopping at the dramatic Mangawhai Heads where locals are out in force, Swimming and surfing

Once we’ve checked in to our sea-front accommodation at Pihia, we stroll down to the tour booking office to find that the all day Cream Trip around the Islands is booked up for tomorrow. It’s the height of the tourist season – mid February – and the only option is an afternoon trip out to the Hole in the Rock.

Our ticket includes a free ferry crossing to Russell across the bay. This charming town is full of historic houses all beautifully preserved. It’s hard to believe that this was once the capital of the country in the early days, with the Governor’s residence across the Bay at historic Waitangi. Russell is so completely out of the way that communications must have made administration difficult. Local Maori tribes apparently found trading with the Europeans advantageous, so that when the capital was moved to Auckland, local wars broke out in protest.

We spend the morning browsing and window shopping. There’s a gigantic cruise liner anchored in the bay and the place is buzzing with tourists. The Pompallier Mission house is a quiet haven at the far end of the beach.

We join in half way though the guide’s talk on how the bible was translated into Maori and printed here in these upstairs rooms. It’s fascinating to look at the process and to realise that although this is all mechanised now, the principles of making a book remain and that many common sayings come from the print industry. The museum has assembled working replicas of the equipment used and in some cases original stuff has been restored. We have lunch before joining our boat tour out to the Hole in the Rock.

There are plenty of Dolphins around, much to the delight of all the tourists. Last time I was here, doing the full day tour, we were able to swim with them and also spent some time following a pod of 40 Orcas. No killer whales this time. Sadly the sea is too rough for the boat to sail through the Hole in the Rock but we stop on the beautiful Island of Urupukapuka and walk up the hill for spectacular views of surrounding Islands and beaches. The boat drops us back at Russell with a voucher for the Pihia ferry. The girls want to do more shopping and looking, while I go looking for somewhere for dinner.

Urupukapuka

It’s an early start the next day as Cathy and Claire want to look at the Treaty House where the famous Treaty of Waitangi was signed. Entrance is free for New Zealand passport holders but as I’ve forgotten o bring mine along, I stay with Lynn and we walk up the road for great views out into the bay. We’ve now got to drive across this thin part of the country to the Waipoua State Forest and the home of the giant Kauri tree, Tane Mahuta (the god of the forest). Onwards to the Hokianga harbour and a coffee stop at Opononi where there is a touching story about a tame dolphin that used to play with the children. It’s the view from the harbour heads which is the spectacular bit here. You come to the view point at the south end of the settlement. You can see the dangerous currents near the mouth of the harbour, swirling around and on the other side, a huge golden sand dune dazzling us in the sunshine.

We have to get the hire car back to Auckland and while the downtown drop would be convenient for catching the Waiheke Ferry. We’re not going to make it before they close, so we have to go to the airport leave the large suitcases at their motel then to the drop off depot, catch their courtesy bus to the terminal, then the bus into town to catch the ferry. I’ve left my car at the top of the hill where there is free parking, so we have to walk up, pack the hand luggage into my small Rav 4 (it only just fits) and drive to Rocky Bay.

Local Politics in Palmerston North

I’m sitting staring out of my glass doors at the rain. The tail end of cyclone Pam which has devastated Vanuatu has lost intensity and is now raining generously on Waiheke Island and much of the East Coast of New Zealand. My trees are grateful and the Tuis continue to sing raucously as they voraciously eat the purple Mahoe berries. It’s time to catch up on a few adventures.

I recently stole a few days to visit Palmerston North. In New Zealand, Palmerston North is a bit of a joke, being branded the most boring place, so people look at you askance when you tell them you are going there voluntarily. One of my oldest friends lives there and has led an artistically fulfilled and contented life for over forty years. I went to Massey University, on the outskirts in the early 70’s and found the adjustment from a small country town to this ‘boring’ city quite manageable, enabling me to progress to Christchurch, Auckland then London.

I took the Auckland to Wellington train which leaves three times a week but on a Saturday, there is no ferry from Waiheke early enough, so I had to stay in town. It’s a comfortable journey, with headphones if you choose to listen to the excellent commentary, pointing out interesting views and local history along the way.

Mount Ruapehu from National Park Station

There are stunning views from the Waikato area south through the Taupo volcanic plateau and the Tongariro National Park. The volcanoes were clearly visible, with hardly a cloud in the sky. The journey continued to be spectacular though the ex- timber milling area of the upper Whanganui River and then into the deep ravines of the northern Manawatu.

My friend, Stephen wants to show me the good news first so he took me to see the newly expanded Globe Theatre http://www.globetheatre.co.nz/

He’s very proud of the new space with flexible seating. There’s also an enlarged café area and space for exhibitions. This community theatre has been well funded by the local council over the years with top-up fundraising from globe supporters. It is a universal fact that community arts provisions have their detractors and champions on local councils. When times are tough, it’s often the arts which get cut first. It is therefore no surprise when I see some journalistic mischief on the front page of the Manawatu Evening Standard. There are photos of all the projects the Council is planning to cut and top of the page is the ramp the theatre needs to build to allow disabled access from the auditorium to the café. I don’t think whoever has suggested this realises that the building will be non-compliant. But then the Globe has always had its enemies. While I was there, the Mayoral elections were in full swing and each candidate was promoting their own achievements. One young candidate, who has consistently tried to block Globe development attempted to claim that its success was due to him. The interviewer pulled him up sharply. Needless to say, that candidate did not win the election, but will no doubt live to stick a few more oars in the works.

One of the best local council stories I have heard so far, was happening right here in Palmerston North. Here is my fictional dramatisation of what happened to the Plane trees in Broadway – one of Palmerston North’s main shopping and entertainment streets.

The Plane Trees of Broadway

Scene1: Council offices, meeting room

Council official: We’ve had loadsa complaints about the birds in Broadway at night. (He slides a huge file over the desk to a councillor)

Councillor 1: This comes up every year; we’ve got to do something.

Councillor 2: What’s the problem? No one goes to Broadway at night, it’s dead.

Councillor 1: I do, to the cinema and theatre. You see, my dear, the birds roost in the trees.

Councillor 2: Birds tend to roost in trees.

Councillor 1: If you park your car under one of the trees, it gets covered in bird shit.

Councillor 2: Don’t park under a tree.

Councillor 1: Just because you ride a bike, in fact you are the only one I know who rides a bike around. All those cycle lanes we put in, just for you.

Councillor 2: Don’t be silly, lots of students cycle in the term time.

Councillor 1: Anyway, they’ll have to come down.

Councillor 2: Can’t we get a falconer in, or play Shirley Bassey loudly?

Councillor 1: There would be complaints about both of those suggestions. No, the only way is to cut them down.

Council official: Do you wana do a consultation?

Councillor 1: No way, there’ll be an environmental protest. We can’t afford that.

Scene 2

Councillor 1: We can’t afford that.

Contractor: Well, we can reduce the price by $xxx,000 if we cut the trees two metres above the ground.

Councillor: What happens to the stumps, won’t they send out shoots?

Contractor: Get the parks department to paint them with something. They’ll eventually rot away … in time.

Councillor: Just do it mate.

Scene 3

Arts Councillor: We are appalled by this decision, done without consultation.

Councillor 1: Well, we can’t put them back now.

Arts Councillor: They are an eyesore, and there’s already a surge of opinion about this.

Councillor1: The cutting down of the trees?

Arts Councillor: Interestingly, no. They’re unhappy about the ugly stumps.

Councillor1: What can we do?

Arts Councillor: It just so happens that the Arts Council has discussed this and suggests that the stumps are turned into works of art?

Councillor 1: Art?

Arts Councillor: Yes, we suggest either commissioning a wood carver or an artist to paint the trunks. It could re- vitalise Broadway.

Councillor1: Have you done a costing?

Arts Councillor: Yes we have, it’ll be $xxx,000.

Councillor 1: Do you have funding for this?

Arts Councillor: No, we thought you should fund this. Could be a good re-election move.

Councillor 1: (Head in hands) I’ll have to go to finance and get back to you on this.

The end – or not

20150208_104301 — the Lido – still looking good and shorter than I remember

I enjoyed Palmerston North. The drive around my old university grounds to marvel at the changes; training at the Lido where I swam as a student preparing for the inter-varsity meet; watching a powerful live recording of The Crucible from the Old Vic in London; a French movie and a great Thai meal all made the journey worthwhile. Of course the connection with old friends is always a delight. The flight home gave me a fantastic aerial view of Mount Taranaki and the West Coast.

Path of Discovery

Te Ara Hura (Path of Discovery) is a new walking promotional idea to attract visitors to the island. It’s mostly an amalgamation of existing tracks, and there are many, linked by roads and some new tracks, to create a round-the-island walk. Doing the whole lot might take 2-3 days, so I’m setting off with my British friend Ros, to dip into parts of Te Ara Hura before she meets up with her serious walking partner to take on more challenging parts of New Zealand.

We start off locally at Rocky Bay, walking down the hill to Kuakara Bay where there is a picnic area with a sculpture and a new children’s playground. We climb up the steep stepped path around the cliffs and down into the deserted bays which make up the Te Whau peninsular. There are still some late Pohutukawa trees in flower, adding some red to the ocean blues and forest greens. We’ve taken advantage of the cool morning, but by the time we reach Te Whau Drive, which runs along the peninsular ridge, it’s blazing hot.

We dip down to Okoka, aka Dead Dog Bay where once many years ago a small boy reported a dead dog on the beach. We then climb up to a little-used track which skirts around the houses nestled in the bush and emerge on Bella Vista, almost back where we started. After an afternoon snooze, it’s time to cool off in the high tide at Rocky Bay.

I notice in the local papers that free guided twilight walks ending in a sausage sizzle, have been arranged on Tuesdays, so I set Ros down at Little Oneroa to join in a walk of northern beaches, while I take the ferry to swimming training in Auckland. On Wednesday it’s Rotoroa Island so we drive along the island to Orapiu and catch the Auckland to Coromandel ferry. Rotoroa is only twenty minutes away, barely enough time for a cup of tea. Still, we manage to get to know Christine, another Rocky Bay resident. She hasn’t seen me before, so is surprised to learn that I live just up the road from her. Another connection is made.

Rotoroa is a small island once owned by the Salvation Army. General Booth made several visits to New Zealand and chose this island as a drying out place. Drunks were picked up on the streets of Auckland, brought over by boat where they sobered up to find themselves in a cell to dry out. There was little opportunity to escape as it is too far to swim and of course there was no alcohol to be had. The accommodation catered for men and women and there is a well curated museum near the pier, telling the story of the almost self sufficient farm which used the inmates/patients as labour. The island had been cleared of trees to graze stock, but now a trust has taken it over and thousands of native trees have been planted by volunteers. We walk around the island along well made tracks and everywhere there are Wekas.

These are chicken-sized brown birds which are very tame and amusing. Being ground dwellers, they thrive in this predator free environment. Recently Kiwis have been released here, so hopefully they will multiply, but as they are nocturnal, won’t be as evident as the Wekas.

We find ourselves at Men’s Bay, presumably so-named because the male inhabitants would swim here. It’s very hot and we are grateful to cool off in the sea before continuing on around the island to North Tower where we can get a panoramic view of nearby islands, including Waiheke.

We descend to look at the island cemetery, perched on a promontory. It contains staff and patients. We end up at Ladies Bay which is in fact just around from Men’s Bay and cut off at high tide. We’ve brought lunch and sit on a grassy bank eating sandwiches and enjoying the beautiful and dramatic beach.

The ferry returning from Coromandel, collects us after we’ve been counted out by the deputy conservation officer. She had counted us all on to the island and given us an introductory talk.

We chat to Christine on the way back – she’s been in Coromandel to shop for the day and is loaded with bargains. When we disembark and the ferry this just leaving, she exclaims ‘Where is my Daughter.’

‘How old is she?’ I ask.

‘Forty’ is her answer.

The ferry is hailed and stops just in time to let two women off. They had been unaware that we had arrived.

On Thursday I decide to take Ros on the ‘Friends of Dorothy’ route from the November walking festival. It’s another scorching day, lucky that we’ve set out early. We start at Oneroa Beach where there is a very high tide and then up along the high coastal paths and beautiful bays, all the way around the headlands to the ferry port at Matiatia.

On the way we pass some dramatic and architecturally impressive houses, presumably owned by the super rich. The following week we do the biennial Headland sculpture walk, beginning at Matiatia and ending at Church Bay. Four years ago I was a volunteer, but arrived on the island too late this time to get involved.

This year everyone is bussed to Church Bay and pointed the other way, ending up in the massive marquee where you can look at and buy sculpture, listen to bands and taste Waiheke food and wine. It’s a retail opportunity. It suits us to start off at the Marquee and walk the other way – it’s less congested. As usual there’s a range of exhibits for all tastes. A trail of wooden Maori figures emerging from the sea and coming ashore to be buried in the sand represents the sculptor’s loss. He had twin boys, one of whom died at birth and was scattered at sea. Small brightly coloured bundles of plastic cable clips cover objects hung like litter in the trees. Gigantic silver-like dandelions impose on a promontory.

There’s a dramatic mirror installation that reflects according to where you stand while the only traffic lights on the island (so far) are spaced throughout the walk and change colour. At night you notice them from the ferry and hopefully no one has confused them for nautical port and starboard lights. James Bond takes a selfie while telegraph T bars and cables are arranged like string instruments with sound effects to match.

The winning sculpture has been attacked overnight so we are not able to judge it and there’s another one which has been destroyed by the wind. Right at the end, which is really the beginning there’s a sound sculpture which requires my mobile to scan a bar-code. I can never get these things to work and suddenly can’t be bothered. The volunteer sitting under a gazebo tells us we’re walking ‘the wrong way’. It was apparently designed to be enjoyed ‘the other way’.

‘No, it’s not the “wrong way”, just another way of looking at it,’ I respond. I’m getting quite cross, particularly as we enjoyed ‘the wrong way’.

I’ve wanted to go to Rangitoto for some time, and this is the perfect opportunity. The island is a dormant volcano, a mere 600 years old, with a classically shaped cone. I pass it every time I take the Waiheke ferry. Today we have to go all the way to downtown Auckland and then get another boat to Rangitoto. There used to be quite a community here but new batches have not been permitted since the 40’s so only a few remain and the place is now a wildlife sanctuary. You can take a tour in carriages pulled by a tractor, up to a walkway leading to the summit, but we opt to go by foot up the dark grey pumice track.

There are still great areas of lava which has only been colonised by lichens. It’s a perfect example of ecological succession which should eventually end up as forest. The closer we get to the top, the more established the bush. Everywhere are mature Pohutukawas which must look amazing in December. We take a detour to walk through lava tunnels. The map guide provided on the boat, recommends us to bring a torch. Lucky that I’ve managed to find the light widget on my phone and that the battery is charged.

The Views of the mainland from the crater rim are fantastic, with the city of Auckland nestled away to the South West. We descend onto the wooden walk-way and take a westerly track. It takes an hour on a hard and hot pumice road to reach McKenzie Bay.

By this time we are melting and gratefully plunge into the sea. A few others have gravitated to this beautiful beach. There’s a yacht anchored in the bay and suddenly two old guys appear, get into a tender and row ashore. They have a net and proceed to sort it our on the front of the tender. One of them rows out and round in a semi-circle, returning further along the beach. They have caught quite a few small fish which they tell me will be used for bait to catch snapper. They offer some to me and other on the beach, but I have nothing to carry them in or any way of keeping them cool on the journey back to Waiheke. It’s another hour or so to walk back to the pier past the historic batch sites and the few remaining ones in good repair. It’s been a lot of hard walking, but worth it.

Ros’ walking friend, Michael arrives and I drive them to Awaawaroa to walk over the hill to Te Mauku. Later I collect them at the other end as there is no public transport on that part of the island. The big walk is from Rocky Bay down to Whakanewha, past the endangered Dotterills on the beach and then up though the most amazing forest, much of it Nikau Palms. This is the coast to coast walk I did in November in pouring rain. Today is sunny and hot and I’m glad to be in the shade of the forest for most of the time. We stop at Peackock Sky winery for coffee and then continue down though the Onetangi Reserve, looking at Kauri trees and then to the beach where we can have a late lunch. Michael is impressed by the Waiheke walks, which is a bit of a relief. He’s also quite impressed by the beer in New Zealand. They go off to explore Northland the next day leaving me a couple of weeks to get ready for the next lot of visitors.

Capital Swim and Culture

View of Wellington from the balcony where I stayed

It’s the annual swim meet between TAMS and Different Strokes (DSW). I’ve got my friend Ros staying so we take a break from walking around Waiheke and fly to Wellington. I’m staying with Rangimoana and Bill who live within walking distance of Freyberg Pool which juts out into the harbour from the trendy Oriental Parade. It is here that we will race. My hosts have a newly acquired pet called Caf – a long haired Chihuahua which Bill refers to as ‘Pussy Dog’. Also staying is a guy called Hans – an interesting Kiwi Bear who now lives in Berlin doing a drag act called Princez Hans. As it’s Friday night it’s fish and chips for tea. The shop has got the order wrong and there’s too much to eat. Never mind, I’m supposed to ‘carb up’ for tomorrow.

Ros has friends to visit nearby and also wants to watch the swimming so I collect her in the morning and we walk to the pool, pausing to have coffee on the sea-front. Once again, I’ve forgotten which events I’ve entered in this 33.3 metre pool and as we’ve got team relays which count towards the challenge cup, I think that 6 events might be too much. What to scratch? The warm up decides it as I finish off with a long length of Butterfly, I think ‘Nah, not going to do the 133m Individual Medley.’

The next shock is that I’m in heat 4 of 4 for the 67m freestyle and heat one of the next event, 100m Backstroke. All I have to do is change from lane 3 to land 2. I hold back on the freestyle but it’s still a struggle doing the backstroke. Kevin from my club and a few years younger just beats me by a second. It’s his first race of the day. My family have also come to watch and cheer. Cousin Marie and partner Anne then later my niece with her partner and 8 month son. It’s quite an occasion and with only 42 competitors, it all goes very quickly. There’s last minute reorganisation of the relays and I move from the Mixed Medley to the 4x67m freestyle relay plus the 15×33.3m relay which counts towards the Challenge Cup. There are some very young, fast and beautiful guys from Australia who’ve flown in for this meet – they are mostly from a Melbourne gay club called the Glamourhead Sharks. They actually win the relay but as it’s between Wellington and Auckland clubs, that doesn’t count. The Wellington swimmers are younger and faster than us and we have to graciously admit defeat and in the process get to hug and kiss everyone. There are no medals or age group categories, it’s just a fun swim, but I do take note of my times.

Wellington is experiencing a heat wave and the harbour is looking great. When it’s like this, Wellington harbour is one of the best and when it’s cold windy and wet, one of the worst. I go off with friend and family to a harbour-side bar for a beer and a meal. There’s a play on at the National Museum, Te Papa, and Anne has nipped out during the swimming to get tickets for us. Helen Pearse-Otane’s play ‘The Ragged’ is the first of a quartet following the life of a family from the 1840 new British Colony at Port Nicholson, Wellington through the years and into the future. This is the early days of the New Zealand Company, acting independently of the British Government and headed by the unscrupulous Edward Gibbon Wakefield. An illiterate immigrant (Samuel) from Manchester, England, has paid for land. When he rows out of the harbour to Te Miti on the south coast he finds that the local tribe has not sold it. He decides to stay and is adopted by the chief. There is a Pakeha (white man) slave who is trouble and following the murders of the chief’s sons and grandchildren, the slave is served up to the self-important dignitaries from the new settlement. Samuel marries the chief’s daughter-in-law and thus a new family is begun and he has his land after all. It’s a powerful piece of work, beautifully spoken in Maori and English. Veteran director and actor Jim Moriarty has directed strongly and also plays the ailing Maori chief. At the end, we are invited to comment on the experience. After several enthusiastic replies, my friend Rangimoana, who works at the museum, gets up and does a long speech in Maori, congratulating and acknowledging each performer and their origins. I get the gist and everyone is moved by his powerful oration. We take Ros back with us for wine and talk, into the night.

Sunday is the day of the harbour swim, which also happens in Oriental Bay. Some of my team-mates are doing this 3K event and I go down to see if I can spot any of them. I arrive as the last few swimmers are emerging from the sea but I’ve missed most of it. I do, however, manage to meet up with Coach Cynthia and others who have swum. After the prize – giving we go to the same harbour-side bar for beer and food. I’m off for the rest of the weekend to spend some time with my great nephew, George. Ros and I meet up on Monday in the departure lounge of Wellington Airport for our return flight to Auckland.

First Masters Swim in New Zealand

This is my first masters swim meet in New Zealand and of the New Year. It’s in the small Bay of Plenty town of Katikati. I’ve looked at some of the results from various meets around the country and noted that there are quite a few fast swimmers in my age group. The Taupo club seems to have a few of these and there’s a guy in his early 60’s called Les who is very fast.

It’s a leisurely start from Waiheke on a mid-day ferry followed by a drive of just over two hours. There’s even time for a power nap at the Katikati motel before walking a few blocks to the Dave Hume Pool for a 4pm warm up.

It’s an out-door 33.3m pool, a distance I haven’t raced since my teens and as I arrive, the last few casual swimmers are leaving. Inside, the lane ropes are being rolled out so I head for the changing room where 85 year old Syd spots me putting on my TAMS t-shirt (the rest of my gear has Out to Swim logos).

‘I’m an honorary member of TAMS’ he says and we introduce each other. It’s good to know I’m not the only gay swimmer here.

Kati Kati pool

There isn’t seating and we all find a spot on the grassy bank on one side. There are about forty swimmers and I get a warm welcome from one of the organisers who tells me I’m the first Team Auckland swimmer to come to this meet – he had to add the club to his data base. The next thing that happens is a woman introduces herself as Sue Pollard, and I’m thinking British comedy actress, who says she’s a colleague of Sara’s. Sara? I’m thinking hard and eventually twig (the brain is a bit slow these days) that Sara who has the weekend house down the bottom of my garden has told be about this woman. So Sue and I become fast friends for the rest of the day.

I’ve forgotten what events I’ve entered and there’s been no sending out of heat sheets. I’m in Event 1, Heat 2 – the 400 freestyle, so it’s best to get warmed up. There’s a guy behind me and Sue and I overhear something that suggests he’s from Taupo. I turn around and ask him if he’s Les. He is, so I shake his hand and tell him that he’s faster than me. At it turns out in the 400, around a minute faster – wow. As there are mostly two or three heats in each event, things go pretty quickly and I find there’s only one heat for the 200m Backstroke. The time’s a bit slow, but I’m the only one in my age group. It’s the same for the 100m Backstroke and Les tells me that his shoulders aren’t up to doing this stroke at the moment, though I’ve noticed that he did the 200m Individual Medley at last year’s Nationals. The whole meet takes less that two hours and Les wins all his races, I win two backstroke races and come third in all the freestyle while a guy called Mark comes second. Mark, however, wins a butterfly race so the overall result is that Mark and I share second place for the event and get a silver medal.

While we are getting changed, the lane ropes are rolled up and the barbecue lit to cook sausages and steak. There’s a great selection of salads and second helpings of steak followed by ice-cream. It’s been one of those lovely small meets but quite a challenge to do five races in that time. The main thing is that I’ve worked out my place in the pecking order in New Zealand swimming and what I have to work on for the long course Nationals in March.

A Loss

I’ve lost a friend, Warwick Broadhead, who met me off the ferry on my return to Waiheke and drove me plus luggage in his little red car to Rocky Bay. He’d organised two Argentinean Guys to un-pack my store room, unroll the rugs and place the furniture. Warwick unpacked some kitchen boxes until the teapot and kettle came to light then made tea. He was famous for making tea. I’d been away – off Island – for the first performance on his new solo show, Monkey, which he planned to perform in 30 episodes on the first Saturday of every month. It is now Friday and I am about to phone him to find our how it all went. There’s a voicemail on my phone from mutual friend, Richard asking me to call, and an email from both Richard and my cousin Mary Taylor saying that Warwick had died.

I collect Richard from the ferry and drive him to the Warwick’s house, collecting victuals on the way. His house is on top of a hill above Palm Beach, looking over native bush to the west towards Auckland and east over the Hauraki Gulf. Warwick’s friends and family, led by his younger sister, Anne are gathered – there are nephews, wives, partners and close friends. The house is mostly one large bare room of specific and magical dimensions. It has a curved ceiling meeting at a high point in the centre where a cupola entertains a small glass chandelier. At the kitchen end the wife of one nephew is preparing food – people sit on the built in banquettes talking, but the main activity is through the hall in Warwick’s small bedroom where he has been laid out. Strict instructions have been left for the procedures around his death, preparation and burial. There is to be no embalming or refrigeration and he is not to be cremated but buried on a bier (no coffin) at a depth of less than two metres. There is to be no headstone, just a Kauri tree planted on top of him. It’s a hot January and Richard is worried about the no refrigeration rule. Warwick’s sister and family are washing the body and rubbing on fragrant oils and eventually we are invited into the bedroom where he is lying on his side wearing only a loincloth. As predicted, the body is already starting to go black and we are all invited to place Kawakawa leaves on him. These have great medicinal properties and were used by the Maori people, so it seems to make sense. I place a few leaves on his feet, but there is a crowd all eager to help, so I pick the leaves off the branches and hand them to the other mourners. He has to be turned and with guidance from Anne, everyone contributes.

The family want to use St Mathew’s in the city but are worried that a non religious ceremony may be unacceptable. I’m able to offer reassurance as the service for Phillip three years ago was held there and they are known to be inclusive. I make myself useful by driving a couple to catch a ferry, then go home and ring my cousin Marie, the celebrant for Phillip’s funeral. She confirms that St Matthews is inclusive and that there should be no problems and also there is an Auckland cemetery for natural burials. I ring Warwick’s number and talk to Anne. They are in the middle of discussing arrangements and so are glad to get the information. Apparently the natural burial cemetery is full and he will have to go in Waikumete Cemetery in west Auckland at a depth of two metres. He can’t have everything. Richard phones, asking me to come and have something to eat and collect him but there’s not much left by the time I get there and we are just about to leave when there is another arrival.

‘Will we see you tomorrow?’ Anne asks.

‘Just to bring Richard up, I think you need the space and there are so many others to visit.’

Her face brightens in tired gratitude.

The funeral is on Tuesday, five days after the death and I’m worried how decayed the body will be in the summer heat. It’s time to get the black suit on but wearing the jacket is just impossible in this heat. I pack sandals and shorts and my swimming gear for training later. There are others on the ferry obviously going to the same funeral. I’ve time for a coffee in town, but this means that when I get to the church it’s fairly full – standing room only or seats behind pillars in the nave. I eventually find a good seat in the gallery at the back with a clear view of the proceedings. Warwick is already in position on a bier which has low plywood sides with cut out handles. He’s covered with white fabric, an ostrich feather fan and flowers. Someone is swinging an incense burner around to reduce detectable odour of decay.

Once the family and close friends have entered, Anne begins by telling us how he died – on his bed reading a book about angels. She then goes on to itemise Warwick’s demands for the post death process, which apparently pushed the limits of the Natural Funeral Company and some compromises had to be made on both sides. Anne describes the fascination of watching the body decay, something that Warwick wanted her to experience. She links this to the many dead, decaying in the heat, in war-torn parts of the Middle East. Family difficulties are acknowledged and his nephews speak about the life of their gay uncle, who they clearly adore. They are proud of his achievements and particularly grateful to him for showing them how to be sensitive men – not always easy in this country. Two of the nephews have been brought up speaking Te Reo Maori so there are speeches and waiata (song) in the language. The wife of one of the nephews is Maori and sings beautifully as does one of the choristers from his choir. There is a woman from the Waiheke Spinners and Weavers who speaks. They were very much a part of his life in later years.

Some weeks ago I happened to be on the same ferry and sat chatting with him as he spun his wool using a spindle – amazing. Three years ago I’d collected lichen and used it to dye wool for him to spin.

There are tributes from friends, many of whom performed in his astonishingly creative productions. They speak of the inspiration and the frustration and of Warwick’s playfulness, bordering on wickedness at times. His search for spirituality was a life-time journey to escape his Catholic background. This search took him around the world. He studied the tea ceremony in Japan and brought it back to New Zealand, adapting it to his own design. One friend tells the story of waiting for a train in Turkey and Warwick engaging with a group of very handsome guards in uniform. With no common language, friends were temporarily made, creating an impromptu play. Photographs were taken in every combination with the eventual discovery that the train had been cancelled.

And so the stories continue for two hours. My friend Richard speaks last – about his relationship with Warwick, describing them as ‘Play Mates’. Richard wants to explore the darker sides and, using the quote form Monty Python’s ‘The Live Of Brian’ explains that Warwick ‘was not the Messiah, he was a very naughty boy.’ He had a need to be the centre of attention and his crimes are listed, including ‘attempted murder’. This reference goes back to the time Warwick was staying with me and Phillip in London during his ‘Hunting of the Snark’ tour – a one man show he performed in people’s living rooms, using little figurines and props. Phillip and Warwick took to each other and became firm friends. Phillip however was a wind up, teasing person and one evening at dinner the play became too much for Warwick who threw the cutlery down the other end of the table. A deathly silence ensued and Warwick was mortified. Friendship cooled and forever after, Phillip would always remind him of his attempted murder. I guess Warwick had some vestiges of Catholic guilt but they eventually patched things up and three years ago on Waiheke, Warwick was a great support when Phillip died.

Richard also recounts his own Father’s funeral only a few weeks ago when Warwick, feeling a lack of attention, began hitting him on the head – hard. It is all delivered to us so comically that we are roaring with laughter. Throughout the service there is sadness, silence and great laughter. One woman gets us all to stand and clap – it goes on for ages. Warwick liked applause. He is carried out by his nephews and nieces leaving us to tea, savouries and cakes.

Four of us eventually pile into Richard’s Rav4 and speed out to West Auckland and the grave-side. We are the last to arrive and screech to a halt just in time for the last ceremony. Some of the children have questions, like ‘Do the eyes rot first’ and ‘how will he get down the hole?’ A girl offers a polished stone to be buried with him and one of the nephews had been wearing their father’s silver tie pin all day. Should this go in as well? No, some of the other nephews haven’t got to wear it yet. Finally they are ready to lower the bier with the straps, when Anne cries out that there is plastic. An artificial rose is recovered – he didn’t’ want to be buried with any plastic. Someone points out that the clasp on the Ostrich feather fan is plastic. She makes a gesture of resignation and defiance as if to say that if he wants his Ostrich feathers, he will have to put up with some plastic. Shovels have been provided and everyone takes a turn to fill the grave while a Maori chap plays a guitar and we join in the singing. A man with a digger waits quietly to one side, in case. But the family are determined to complete the job and eventually the digger man, un-needed, trundles his machine up the hillside and away.