A dip in the (hot) pool. UnZud Holiday Part 2.

Hanmer Springs is a resort town about 120 or so kms from Christchurch. Look:

Brrrrrr. Yes, there were piles of snow here and there on the ground, refusing to melt. Look!

 
Perfect day for a dip in the pool - the thermal pool, that is. The fine misty rain that has dogged this holiday kept finely misting all over us, but the temperature in the thermal pool was 42C! Just like a hot bath, but with a farty sulphurous pong. It was very very difficult to get out and scurry through the freezing air, in wet cozzies (or in my case, flapping wet t-shirt and boardies) to the change room.

What a great day! We sang It's Now or Never very raucously in a gift shop, while the proprietor accompanied us on her pianola. We ate delicious food in Mumbles cafe, surrounded by a big Harley-Davidson and a million Pukeko pics (the chunky chilli vegetable soup was to die for) and wandered through some foresty bits that Chris and Ingrid had planted when they were in the Conservation Corps. We drove back past Seal Rock, which looks just like a seal (surprise surprise) and Frog Rock, which looks just like an enormous squatting frog (bet you didn;t see that one coming!) and then stopped at Brew Moon on the way home, for some of their very fine, er, brew. The mulled wine was a delicious way to round off the day.

You know when you're getting closer to Christchurch because the roads suddenly turn to poo and long strips of road cones materialise.

'Must be high tide', murmurs Ingrid as we drive through the flooded streets that are a new feature of Christchurch, post-quake. At high tide, water rises out of the drains, rather than flowing down them.  Something else that residents have taken in their stride as the 'new normal'.

Tomorrow: Sumner, and a tribute to the humble shipping container.

Destination Christchurch

What’s it like, coming out of marking hell? Well, this time I'm actually still sane (thank you Prozac.) It's been a bit like stepping out of a fog. All of a sudden I can hear my thoughts. I notice the mess in the house and the pile of unpaid bills on the table. Oops. I can think straight and acknowledge tomorrow and next week. I can actually think beyond this exam, this report, this frantic and inhumane pressure. It’s like waking up from a coma. I feel human again, and it’s time to enjoy the school holidays.

First thing on the agenda – visit the Christchurch Hineses! Off to Aotearoa, the Land of the Long White Cloud. Fortunately I made all my travel arrangements a couple of months ago, before the descent into marking hell – sometimes I surprise myself! So this is how it goes: a bus trip to Sydney – I finished two blanket squares for my Tutor Group knitting project (more about that in a separate post), a night at the Ibis Airport hotel, an early morning shuttle-bus to the airport, and I’m up, up and away!

Uneventful flight, but as usual I’m sitting next to a fat person who insists on oozing into the seat I have paid for… but I get to read a library book on my Kobo (more about that in yet another post, too!) and after an uninspiring gluten-free airline meal (fish! Erk!) I touch down in Shakytown at 2-something pm.

Chris and Ingrid collect me from the airport and we head across town to Dad & Diana’s place in the eastern suburbs.

It’s been 6 years and several thousand earthquakes since I was last in Christchurch. The recent biggies – the ones that split Dad’s former house in two and filled it with the silt of liquefaction – may seem like old news to those of us in the rest of the world – but they’re daily conversation and an ongoing fact of life for the people who live here. The roads are bumpy and pot-holed, fences and walls are falling down, and shipping containers have demonstrated their versatility in many ways: as storage places for all your worldly goods, holding up damaged buildings, shoring up crumbling cliffs, becoming coffee-shops and boutiques… being covered in artwork or a knitted container-cosy… 

Shipping container shopping mall - called 'The Restart Mall'

 Cantabrian quirkiness and good humour abound, however, and people have developed their own coping mechanisms. ‘Guess the magnitude of THAT’ is a popular game, as is ‘Guess the epicentre’. ‘What used to be there?’ is another. I liked this sign, in a craft shop window in New Brighton:

 

It’s now Tuesday, and I haven’t felt the earth moving – yet – let’s hope it stays that way. In the meantime, here are some photos taken from the periphery of the Red Zone in the city.  The scale of the destruction is hard to imagine – Christchurch has become a city of car-parks (seriously!) and sprawling vacant blocks. The soundtrack that plays in the background is the unceasing thump-thump of construction work – or rather, deconstruction work. Clearing the rubble is a gargantuan task. 

It was a harrowing ‘tour’ that made me feel a little ghoulish, but even worse than looking at the scenes of dereliction in the war-zone that the inner-city resembles was a visit to Dad’s former home.

It used to be a comfortable home with a lovely view of the river. Now it’s a broken shell awaiting the arrival of the deconstruction men. The hallway is a downhill slope. The bath, if filled, would be nearly empty at one end as it overflowed at the other. Ruined books and records litter the floor and the overgrown ‘garden’. Along the whole street, curtains hang in houses where no one lives any more. The street is deserted, apart from demolition workers and their trucks. The river glides past between the built-up gravel banks that run through this ghost-town.

Stuck in the mud - Dad's record cllection

 

The road to Sumner snakes along the coast, and walls of shipping containers act as barriers against the falling rocks and crumbling cliffs. Broken houses hang precariously from the clifftops.

I can’t imagine the noise of the rocks grinding and rumbling, houses being torn apart , trees falling, or the terror that must’ve gripped people as their world crashed down around them. Just looking at the aftermath, all these months later, was enough for me.

The Travel Bug(s) - I got the lot!

In which Betty has literary adventures, finds the English heartland and succumbs to some travel bugs.

So the rest of my English sojourn taught me several things:

•  England, despite being the country of my birth, is a foreign country. And a cramped and crowded one.  And overheated in the winter, except for the train that I took from York on a freezing morning – the heating in my carriage had broken down, and the air-con was blasting colder air into the already frigid air. I could barely feel my toes by the time we reached London – and it was warmer off the train than on it.
• Heating problems notwithstanding, it’s far better to catch a train than a bus – road traffic is an abomination over there. Gridlock on a Sunday arv at Clapham Junction ("Ladies & gentlemen, due to works on the railway line, please change to the bus") stretched what should've been a one-hour train trip into a two hour road-ordeal.
• English birdsong is magnificent.
• I have no immunity to English germs.

 I don’t think I could live in England again – it’s so crowded. However, I had some wonderful times. Cousin David drove me and Auntie Min around Epsom to show us around – we went to Epsom Downs, where the famous Derby is held, and the Epsom Well (reputed to have therapeutic waters). 

Epsom Well

 

 

Epsom Well again - up close

 I had a family New Year at Cousin Helen's, in Kent - great fun.

Auntie Min tripping the light fantastic with Helen on NY Eve. Cousin Ray makes sure he gets a photo of this momentous event before heading back to the wilds of Penzance.

 I visited my other aunt and uncle in the (very) little village of Coleby, in Lincolnshire. It’s the England you expect after watching The Vicar of Dibley, with endless green fields and hedgerows, old stone houses, a village green, an old parish church with an old churchyard – English heartland stuff. I went to one of the (in)famous village parties and met lots of neighbours.

Jan & Brian, my 'village people' aunt & uncle. You can tell from Brian's impish expression that he's about to say something wicked. He's a (very funny) mine of information about architecture, English history and the difference between toffs and the middle class, and Jan filled me in about family history and showed me the how and why of setting up binoculars properly, to further my birdwatching education. The pair of them also made me eat lots of Chorley Cakes. Had an absolute ball!

The village green (and I think that funny structure may be the old well?), Coleby

 I fed my love of literature and history when we motored through the Wolds and visited Somersby, where we went to the tiny church of St Margaret and I touched the baptismal font where Alfred, Lord Tennyson, was christened (his father was the rector there.) We saw the Dambusters memorial in Woodhall Spa, and looked at Windsor chairs in an antique shop. 

The tiny St Margaret's Church, Somersby, where Tennyson was baptised

 I had a Dickens experience, visiting Gravesend and Rochester in Kent, and a bit of a Jane Austen moment on an outing to Box Hill in Surrey when Cousin Janet came visiting from the West Country. Ann and I drove past the place where Charles Kingsley is buried.

Kent: The house where Charles Dickens honeymooned, and did a bit of writing

Rochester Cathedral, seen from the walls of Rochester Castle

The lookout at Box Hill: Jerry, Janet & Auntie Min

 I went stomping around York with my friend Abhay until my legs almost dropped off. It seems that no matter which way you go, you end up going past the Minster. York is beautiful, and the National Train Museum there was great fun.

York in Turner-esque morning light

York - monastery ruins, courtesy of Henry VIII

Australian ruin (oooh my aching feet!) courtesy of my youthful, long-legged guide Abhay (left)

 I found myself in awe of the driving skills of the Brits – so many of the roads are far too narrow for two way traffic – especially when cars are parked along both sides of the road – and yet they manage somehow.

RANT:  found myself not a fan of the NHS when, the day before I was due to fly home, the Killer Sore Throat bug was worsening rather than improving. I had no voice, couldn’t swallow, was shivery and miserable, and I started to worry that I wouldn’t be allowed on the plane home. Auntie Min was also a victim of the bug, so we taxied to the doctor.  Here’s where I got cross. I had to pay fifty pounds to see the doctor, and the receipt they gave me was just a cashbox receipt – no indication that it was from a medical practice – I will never be able to claim anything back (despite the reciprocal agreement that England and Australia have regarding doctors’ visits...) To add insult to injury, the doctor said the bug was probably viral, not bacterial. He prescribed antibiotics anyway, telling me they would probably have limited efficacy – and then the chemist told me that as the doc had prescribed capsules rather than tablets, the prescription would cost thirty seven pounds to fill, rather than five. Rather a lot for something that the doctor doesn’t expect will be very useful anyway, don’t you think? I told the man in Boots "Thanks but no thanks, a funeral would be cheaper", and took my germs and my prescription away in disgust.

Some fast talking (well, squeaking) on my part and a kind-hearted community-minded pharmacist who must unfortunately remain nameless (i.e., not Boots!) took pity on me and let me have the tablets instead. For God’s sake, the actual drug and dosage were the same – but ridiculous prescription rules mean that if you are prescribed a 250mg erythromycin capsule, you have to have the 250mg erythromycin capsule, not the 250mg erythromycin tablet. Duh!

The tablets were far more effective than the doctor had led me to believe. Within 18 hours I felt human again.

So – that was the rest of my trip. Because I was so sick I wasn’t able to catch up with Ann again, or my friend Fran in London – and my plans to visit the Victoria and Albert Museum had to be shelved. Bugger. Perhaps next time.

Because there will be a next time! It was very hard to say goodbye to everyone. As long as I have family in England, I’ll keep going back. I’ll try to avoid germs next time though.

The journey so far.

Picking up the thread from Abu Dhabi...

We are delayed by thick fog, and when we finally leave, it's through a surreal landscape of desert sand and white mist. I hope to get a better look at Abu Dhabi on the way back.

The second leg of the flight is an odd one. I can't sleep and can't watch telly (the in-flight entertainment system is dead). By the time I arrive at Heathrow I’ve done half a dozen cryptic crosswords, read 50 pages of When God was a Rabbit, and am well and truly ready to put my feet on solid ground, breathe some proper non-pressurised air and meet (dramatic music) The Family. I have no trouble recognising cousin Helen at the airport, and off we go to Epsom.

It’s been almost 30 years since I last saw Auntie Min, but the years have just melted away. My cousins – even the ones I’ve never met, like Helen – don’t feel like strangers, and it's lovely to reacquaint myself with those I’ve met already. We spend hours looking at old photos of ourselves (and taking some new ones).

 Alan & I  used to be best buddies when we were little, and got up to all sorts of mischief. It was Ally who taught me to play Knock Down Ginger (sssssh, don't tell Auntie Min!)

 Steve is my Epsom tour guide and shopping buddy. I have to run to keep up with him. He has an amazing memory for dates and events, and knows heaps about the history of the local area.

 Ah, my lovely Auntie Min. A wicked sense of humour and a heart the size of Phar Lap's!

These precious days of just being family run into one another. We’re not doing anything special, but every minute feels special. There’s no pressure. The daily rhythms and routines are soothing – and of course, once I’ve organised a SIM card and a dongle, life is complete!

Waitrose, Sainsburys, Poundland… call me weird, but I really like poking around supermarkets in foreign places. Leave me in the main shopping precinct, and while I won’t exactly shop till I drop, I’ll certainly browse for hours - it's all about getting a feel for local tastes and habits, I suppose, and exploring the similarities and differences between home and here.

Early in the year my friend Lucy’s mum, Ann, came to Australia and we did a girly road trip to the chocolate factory and ghost house at Junee. At that time (and occasionally during our online Scrabble games as well) Ann had said to be sure to contact her when I come to the UK – so of course I make sure I do - besides, I am delivering Lucy's Christmas mail to her family!)

 Lunch at the pub in Worcester Park

Ann and I take Auntie Min to the pub for lunch on Thursday, and then Ann whisks me away to Wokingham. My head is in a whirl – I don’t know what’s where or what – things seem familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time. I really do feel like a stranger in the land of my birth! The traffic is chaotic (‘this is nothing!’ says Ann) and fast, on such narrow streets. I can’t get used to darkness falling around 4pm. It feels like the middle of the night by about 6pm!

I'm waking between 3 and 4am most days, which is around the time I often wake at home, so I think I’m pretty much over my jetlag. I use the wee hours to get started on a new novel (and, today, to catch up on blogging!) I’m having a ball.

(Next: a Neolithic Adventure)

In which Betty seeks (and finds) Equilibrium

Marking and reporting hell seems to hit harder each semester. It lasted for half a term this time – that’s some serious hell-time, and I wasn't the only one who struggled. In combination with everything else going on around me I suppose it’s little wonder that I fell in a heap.

After almost 2 weeks of doctor-ordered rest I had to go back to school – and what a shaky old time I had of it. Exams had to be marked, there was an Everest of paperwork to do, and the end-of-year activities were full-on. It was ugly, and I drifted through the days like a ghost, mostly, trying to keep my head down. One big panic attack, bucketloads of misery and (a bright spot!) a very successful Morris Dancing workshop, run by ME (yes you read that right) later, I’m pleased to report that I limped – ok, crawled – to the finish line, horribly battered and bruised, but still breathing.

In amongst all of that there was a lovely visit from Dad & Diana, who came over from Christchurch for Boomerang Boy’s wedding; the wedding itself and the purchase of Chez Betty in Mallacoota; the relocation of much of my furniture to the aforementioned Chez Betty and the acquisition of a new housemate in Canberra.

 Mr & Mrs Boomerang Boy - beaut day, beaut location, sterling weather, stellar company!

 The Groom, with Mummy & Grandies (Mummy is the one in green)

Two new housemates, actually.

My daughter Kate (the Tetris Queen) and her evil sidekick Aldwyn Grandkitty have taken up residence with me – a mutually beneficial arrangement that should save us both some money. Aldwyn has made the place his own, and entertains us by climbing doors and curtains. As a cat lady who has been without cats for several months now, I am amused by this, in the same way that grandparents are amused by the antics of children when they no longer have to raise them. The Tetris Queen is finding the challenge of fitting her stuff into my house, um, challenging. Surrounded by boxes, we bumble along one day at a time and drink a lot of cider. It’s nice.

I’ve spent the last 2 days in Mallacoota doing a lot of nothing. Very Good Medicine. My modest little house is just about set up for holidaymakers, and I’ve spent plenty of time enjoying the outlook from the back yard (and the front yard, which is lovely) and the antics of the wildlife. I’ve been feeling the school-induced stress just evaporating, the way it always does in this magical place – ah, Equilibrium, there you are!

A (shaky) Tale of Two Countries

On 22 February, Christchurch, that most English of New Zealand cities, behaved most un-Englishly. It did a shake, rattle and roll routine that left scores of people dead, and thousands homeless.

Here in Australia the horror was metaphorically and literally a bit close to home. Aussies and Kiwis, while we poke fun at each other all the time when things are going well, are really pretty close. Some of us, like me, even have family over there on the other side of the Tasman Sea.  

Even though, like me, he’s a Pommie by birth, my dad, who’s in his 70s now, has spent more of his life in Christchurch than anywhere else on earth.  He’s officially a Kiwi citizen, a Cantabrian, and a resident of that grand old lady city, Christchurch – she who has so recently been brought to her knees by the greater power of Mother Earth (and that’s been one helluva mother-daughter stoush, I have to say!)

I’ve avoided blogging the whole Christchurch earthquake thing, probably because I have felt it from such a personal angle, despite being across the Tasman. Besides, I’ve been part of the chain that’s been busily passing messages between family members here and in the UK. 

But now it’s time. Over the last few weeks I’ve made many phone calls to my dad. He and Diana were rendered ‘earthquake refugees’, without power or water, not knowing whether their home would stand, be condemned-but-habitable, or condemned-and-get-out-now-coz-it’s-unsafe. They still don’t know. At the height of the awfulness, they had to abandon their home - and their traumatised cats - for a while. They’ve stayed with my youngest brother and his lovely wife in another part of town, and also with Diana’s family in faraway Nelson (which sounds like a lovely spot) but are now back home and sleeping in their own bed , despite continuing aftershocks, while they await the engineers’ pronouncement upon the stability and habitability of their home. 

“Come back to Oz, Dad,” I’ve said, more than once since the first very nasty Chch earthquake back in September 2010, and about a hundred times since the latest shake-up. “You have family here – and no earthquakes.” His response?

"Canberra? Bah! Too many bushfires! Brisbane? Floods! And then there are snakes and poisonous spiders! No way, Australia’s too bloody dangerous!"

Ah, Kiwis – shaken but not stirred.

There have been some amazingly heartening developments in amongst all the doom and gloom. Armies of uni student cleaner-uppers have been working around Christchurch, digging tonnes and tonnes of silt from people’s homes, gardens, streets etc. Random people from all over the place have converged on Christchurch, shovels in hand, keen to help wherever they can (many many thanks to the wonderful-but-anonymous people who, out of the blue, helped my brother and a mate of his clear the liquefaction damage from Dad & Diana’s house).

New Zealand is an amazing place. It has a disproportionately massive heart, perhaps because it’s really so small in international, as well as geographical terms. It still has an enviable 'community' feel. 

Despite Christchurch’s own straitened circumstances, New Zealand was one of the first countries to offer help to Japan after the devastating  earthquake & tsunami that hit Japan's east coast on Friday. That selfless response made me a bit teary.

You see, I have a Japanese connection, too. I spent 1977 living and going to high school in Mito-shi – in Ibaraki Prefecture – as an exchange student. My host families and old school friends are all there, in a place that copped a hiding on Friday from that bloody tsunami. As I have gradually and foolishly managed to lose touch with my Japanese friends and families over the last 30-odd years, I have no way of contacting them, or knowing whether (or how badly) any of them were affected by Friday’s unimaginably awful disaster.  It’s a feeling that niggles at me and makes me feel uneasy, unsettled – guilty, even, because of the lack of contact.

Something in particular that’s stuck in my craw, though, since then, is this: 

Only two days after the Japanese quake disaster (and OMG, that news footage is bloody terrifying) I am getting streams of jokes about it on my mobile phone.  I’ve yet to get one about the Chch quake. I’m still trying to think it all through – why do people feel that it’s ok to make jokes about the Japanese situation, but not the Christchurch one? If, as so many people say, humour is such wonderful medicine, why are we leaving our Christchurch cousins out of these bleak, 'healing' earthquake jokes, hmmm?

Oh, maybe that sort of humour isn’t quite so funny after all, when you’re talking about something  close to home. Maybe it’s only jokeworthy when it happens to people who don’t look like us; to people who don’t speak our language; to people who were our enemy in a fucking war that finished a couple of generations ago.

Oh dear, I’m having a rant, aren’t I? Maybe I'm being oversensitive about it, I don't know. Am I? The more I think about it, the crankier I get *sigh*.

Japan, my thoughts are with you.