easter in Christchurch

Easter Sunday.

Not a hot cross bun. Not a Cadbury’s Easter Egg.  Not even a rendition of

“ There is a green hill far away.”

But there was homemade peach jam. My brother has been saying Melocoton like some sort of mantra all day yesterday when he was looking for a worthy baguette. He says it like a waiter of a fictional Spanish holiday camp.

This morning, we had the worthy baguette, the best butter we could find and the melocoton jam he made from the fruit of his peach tree.

He says ‘melocoton’ as opposed to peach, because as a family we spent our holidays in the north of Spain in a tiny flat. And because we spoke very little Spanish, the words like mantequila and melocoton were thrown about with confidence and abandon.

So, as we talk about our Easters in Spain, about the jigsaw puzzles and the games of Totopoly, we cut the bread and spread it with butter and slather it with melocoton jam. Cadbury’s be damned.

Stephen and I went for a walk this afternoon to a place called Taylor’s Mistake.

It is one of my favourite walks. Starting in the bay called “Taylor’s Mistake” up around a promontory to Godley Head. Black sand to crashing waves to caves and flowers and views across an ocean to nowhere other than water.

Taylors mistake

Lyttleton Harbour

It is so called, because a man called Taylor brought his frigate into this little bay thinking it was the port of Lyttleton. He jumped ashore and made a big noise before learning of his mistake… and there you go……

proof of stupidity

And then I forced Stephen to come with me to the cathedral for an Easter Evensong. This odd plastic A-frame. Looking like an oversized greenhouse for a tomato plant or two. But when we got inside and sat down whilst the choir practiced and looked at the design that felt ephemeral and from found objects, it all changed.

Stephen…you remember….the one who makes people light up…..knew the Dean. Lawrence was his name. 

He had been on a school board with my brother.

He came up to us, “ Stephen….” he said….. “ Just a regular old evensong.”

And Stephen and I read the “reflection” he had written in the hand-out.  “ when we give voice to those who are powerless, to those who have been silenced, and when we stand with them and empower them to speak the truth, we answer the cry for justice and healing.” And then he walked by us with his embroidered robes on a hanger. “ We get to wear fancy dress here too.”

We drank wine that we bought last Sunday from a wonderful woman who worked at a vineyard up in Blenheim. “ Sisters” it is called. They grow vines and give support to local women who are struggling.

The flooded road from New Brighton

Easter Sunday in Christchurch. Coming to an end.

The Totopoly horses were called, “ Priory Park, Dark Warrior and Marmaduke Jinks.” By the way. My brother looked it up on the internet.

It was that kind of day. A resurrection of sorts…….

after the cyclone

Yesterday was Cyclone Cook.

For me, it was just a lot of rain. Because most of the roofs here are made from corrugated iron it makes for a lot of noise. Rain and Noise. And Because they have a lot of rain here they don’t worry about rain. They just lie in bed and hear it crashing down above them. Or they stand by the kitchen window and watch it cascading down in front of them. Or they put up their brollies and unfurl the hoods to their waterproof jackets and go out for a walk with the dog.

Today Cyclone Cook has moved on to places south. There are only a few places south before you hit Antartica. There’s Dunedin and Invercargill. And then there’s the tiny Stewart island where the ferries leave. And then there is Antartica.

The water here is very cold. Very cold. But yesterday, when the cyclone was moving away and my brother and I went for a walk with a brolly on the beach there were children playing in the water up to their waists.

Hardy, you could call them. Foolhardy, ….no.

It’s good being with my brother. We’ve traveled enough years so that the annoying bits are just annoying and are over with by the time the kettle boils.

We don’t make scrambled eggs the same way. He loves red onion a little more than is healthy. He is so much neater than I am. But top to toe, I think he is a totally admirable man. With a genetic backbone of integrity that has cost him some things in his life and brought him others. And a capacity for loving people which is sometimes larger than his chest can hold.

stephen and Helena picking Feijoas for me to try

feijoa bushes

He has a daughter, Helena, who is fourteen and knows the words to all the songs played on the radio. He calls her many things including “ Dawg.” For her inordinate love of animals.

We went to the cinema the other night to see “ Beauty and the Beast.” We ran into a young man who used to work at Willowbank and has now moved to another zoo in Darwin, Australia. He lit up when he saw Stephen. He peeled off his jacket so he could show him the tattoo he had just done of the chimpanzee he had been taking care of. Stephen evokes that from the people he has in his life. They know, I think, how much he cares. And they light up……

my morning bicycle ride

 I went for a bicycle ride up the beach road. Me and nobody else. 

On the way back I saw with some excitement people setting up for a farmer’s market. There is a stall where an elderly lady is selling hand-knitted tea cosies. And garlic sauce with a sign that declares it to be “ Bloody Brilliant.” And vegetables greener than one would have thought possible in nature.

just bloody brilliant

food trucks ala New Brighton.

 Everyone said, “ Hallo there.”

I said, “ Hallo” back. It was nice to see people.  Because, as I have said, people are few on the ground here.

I’m going back there in a minute with my wallet. I’m not leaving without a tea cosy.

Upside down, down under

they call it the land of the long white cloud

My brother lives in Christchurch, New Zealand. He used to live in Finstock Road. He used to be an accountant. Then he had an emotional crisis and did what all public school boys should do and put on a backpack and went walking round the world. When the emotions of the crisis had subsided, Finstock Road didn’t seem to have much allure, and tax avoidance a profession that missed the mark; so he threw the cap of his travels in the air and landed where he had been happiest.

I’ve been to New Zealand twice to visit him. Both times at Christmas which is as close to summer as they get down here. This time it is April, which in northern hemispheric terms, is mid-October. Apples are on the trees. Umbrellas are by the back door. Soup is on the stove.

But this is New Zealand. Where people are very, very hardy. They stride over puddles. They use Goretex as a noun. They walk their dogs in winds that would bend a tree over.

It was in New Zealand I learned the phrase, ” There is no bad weather, just bad clothing choices.”

morning mist at the end of the garden

My brother lives in an area called New Brighton. Which is by the seaside. Not fancy seaside. More like 1950’s seaside. He is the financial officer at Willowbank Wildlife Reserve, where they have endangered species and they make sure the kiwis don’t die out.

While he was doing that, I went for a tootle kind of bike ride along by the seaside. It was a rare day of sun. There were about four cars that passed me on the road. One of them was a police car. He asked me through the window if I could pull over.

“ You’re not wearing a helmet.” He said.

“ I just arrived here last night.” I said. “ “it’s my brother’s bike.”

“ Ah well,” he said, “ if your brother has a bike he will have a helmet. It is a requirement here. You may not have known”

“ I didn’t know. “

“ Be safe now.” He said as he got back into his police car.

New Brighton beach.

What I have noticed is how polite people are. The lady at the botanical gardens went to the other end of the building to find me a map so I didn’t miss the orchid house. Everyone who gets off the bus says, “ Thank you driver.” People wave at you whether they think they know you or not.

the river....no people

The maples in the Botanical Gardens

What I have also noticed more is how few people there are. Walking around the city it is like a permanent Sunday. A permanent curfew of pleasantness. As if people tided up their gardens and swept the sidewalks and then left town. 

I have seen a couple of pan-handlers outside the main department store

 ‘ Ballantynes”, but I notice they are sharing the same hand-written sign.

And of course, because I came here before the earthquake, I cannot help but notice the path of devastation that February 22^nd 2011 left in it’s wake. A lot of the city is just gone. 

Christchurch cathedral

Streets of houses sunk. Schools razed to the ground. The Cathedral, the very centre of the city, now missing it’s tower, just sits there gaping open. There is a small field of 185 white chairs. There is a curved marble wall with the name of the 185 who died down by the river. There is an exhibition called “ Quake City” . There is a new collection of stores and restaurants in pre-fab buildings called “Re:Start Mall”.

For Christchurch, it was a very personal disaster.