Another hang up. Hopefully

Why yes, it is pleasing to see my name in the paper again. There is a downside, though - I only knew my photo was being used because of a Google alert, and most definitely not because of a payment appearing in my bank account. Stuff has quite the library of my images, sent in over the years accompanying scores of my travel stories. They all got filed away, even the ones they didn’t use, and pop up occasionally in other people’s stories. I suppose I’m lucky to get at least the (non-monetary) credit.

It’s a shame though why the photo has had to appear at all. The Skippers Canyon Bridge is a classic, in use since 1901, 96m long and 91m high, enabling access for gold hunters along the Shotover River and all their supporting industries, up to and including a very chilly school. It was the world’s biggest and most productive gold rush for a while there, through the 1860s, Typically, it was built towards the end of the action, when the miners were already moving on, so its use was limited, but it did get a second life as a tourist attraction, which is why I was there in 2021, to do a story. 

Apparently, after its latest annual inspection, the 14 wire cables it’s suspended from are now suspect, so not even pedestrians are allowed onto it, which will really be stymying operators like Nomad Safaris who took me on a really good day’s outing along the canyon. Shame. But better than yet another disaster story, of tourists plummeting to their deaths, eh?

New Year!

 

Early this month, I was going to post an entry about what a brilliant year it was turning out to be for our national (well, northern) Christmas tree, the pōhutukawa. They were everywhere along our beaches and in the bush, apparently vying with each other to be more scarlet and spectacular. 

Then, still with no blog entry written as Christmas Day approached, I thought maybe instead I could post my cop-out tree substitute decoration, that I would boast took a scant five minutes to erect (apart from the half-hour plus spent burrowing past all sorts of unthrowable-away junk to get to the furthest recesses of the under-stairs cupboard where the decorations live for 48 weeks of the year).

Then the awful Bondi Beach attack happened, and I was sad thinking about all those lives lost and the horrible pall thrown over what has always been one of Sydney’s glories, at the time of year when it should be shining its brightest. It was too hard to try to be cheerful.

And then suddenly Christmas Day itself came and went, notable for its being the first one ever here when advertisements were allowed on TV. Not exactly progress. And still I hadn’t written a word for this drooping blog. Which brings us to today, the last day of 2025, when it finally does feel at last that people/commentators have started to realise that hoping for a better New Year hasn’t worked now for at least a decade. There’s a wry, shoulder-shrugging, one eyebrow raised attitude, which I reckon is much more realistic and kind of unifying. We really are all in this together, friends. Onwards!

Overseas. Sort of.

 

Two hours from home to destination, mostly spent on two separate boat trips - that counts as travel, doesn’t it? It does for me these days, anyway, even if I didn’t actually leave the city limits. The second half was especially enjoyable, from Auckland CBD to Hobsonville Point, because not only were conditions just perfect (see above), but I had the whole ferry entirely to myself. Very regal. I actually said “Thank you, my good man” to a crew member as I disembarked. I hope he realised I was joking. 

I was there for partly personal, partly professional, reasons. I’ve read that city-dwellers rend to hang around during the Christmas-New Year period, making the most of the relative peace and quiet, only heading off on their proper hols when the popular spots have settled down a bit. Makes sense, in Auckland, since it’s summer, after all.

So, how should they perk up their weekends? How about popping across the harbour to Hobsonville for a taste of the future? I really mean that: it’s a former Air Force base, still with plenty of reminders in the form of huge hangars, and a cluster of gorgeous wooden villas built for the staff - obviously, the officers’ quarters being very much a step above.

Now, though, it’s all about the future: stylish apartment blocks with lots of communal spaces like gardens, parks and playgrounds. The residents really like it there, out along the walkways with their kids and dogs, and full of friendly greetings. Lots of shops and eateries, a brewery, outdoor art, trees and water features… Plus it’s got the harbour on three sides, where it’s quiet with lots of birds. Nice.

Read the story here: https://nzmcd.co.nz/destinations/auckland/tiny-towns-hobsonville/

Haere mai, kiwi

 

This is a kiwi, New Zealand’s national bird, emblem and citizen nickname (with a capital K). Today ten of them were brought to Waiheke from a nearby island sanctuary to, hopefully, establish a population here. It must have been a disturbing and anxious time for them, as well as dazzling (they’re nocturnal - also, flightless and endangered, sigh). Still, it was pretty special for the big crowd, who waited patiently for the barge to arrive, nearly 2 hours late (headwind) from Ponui. 

It finally chugged up to the beach and the 10 boxes were carried carefully along past media and excited spectators to the nearby Piritahi marae, where they were to receive a traditional welcome. It was a significant moment in every way - including personally because, in an echo of my NYC helicopter be-bold revelation, when one of the organisers asked for help in carrying the first box onto the marae, I stepped forward instantly, ahead of other volunteers. So I got to head the procession, holding one handle of the box as we filed onto the marae atea while the seated audience watched. That’s me in the lime-green top, feeling smug.

Then it was all long speeches in Māori, waiata (songs) and ceremony, before the boxes were loaded into cars to be driven away to a distant, predator-free (ie nasty introduced stoats eliminated) peninsula where it’s hoped they will settle, mate and start to repopulate Waiheke, helped by another 30 kiwi joining later. Fingers crossed!

UPDATE: A report in the Gulf News on 28 August states that one pair of kiwi appear to have laid two eggs, and another pair look to be courting. Great news! Though not for the poor mother - kiwi eggs are the biggest per body size in the world - like a human squeezing out a 3 year-old child. Ouch.

A non-stinging memory

This is Rosie. She is, her owner told me with a touch of resignation, stingray-spotting. “She doesn’t realise the season has ended.”

Well, I didn’t realise there was a season for rays either; but it was still very soothing to sit on the beach bench sipping my coffee and watch Rosie slowly prowling along. Not everyone knows we have rays of many sorts cruising our beaches, but I’ve seen them myself right up at the edge of the water, and been vaguely unnerved by the thought I could inadvertently stand on one. Apparently, though, our sole stingray fatality so far (human, not squashed fish) was back in 1938, so I can probably live with that. Literally. (Mind, an orca was stung to death here in 1998. Nasty.)

What was a bit disturbing though was being reminded of a marine tour I did in Tahiti, in the stunning Bora Bora lagoon. Part of the experience was the ‘stingray swim’, when we were expected to jump into the super-warm, super-clear water to interact with a cluster of rays that had been trained to come swarming up for a feed. They were big, and were all over us, smooth and rubbery - but we weren’t to be scared of stings, we were told, because they had been “de-stung”. That is, the barbs had been removed, and some of them had even had their tails chopped off, leaving just a stump. Horrible, eh? That was in 2016 - hopefully, they’re more enlightened now.

To finish on a pleasanter note, Rosie also reminded me of my first visit to the Cook Islands, where I was delighted to see, on Muri Beach, one of Rarotonga’s very many laid-back dogs doing exactly the same thing.

Disaster #?

Oh dear, poor Myanmar. That was a massive earthquake for Mandalay on Friday, 7.7 - our 2011 one in Christchurch was 6.2 and that was a forever spike in the city’s history. As if Myanmar hasn’t had it bad enough, with a civil war that’s been rumbling on for so, so long.

When, in 1980, we dipped into Burma as it then was, we were told as we approached that we shouldn’t take photos from our Thai Airways plane, because of military restrictions. We had so many forms to fill in that we hardly had time to look out of the windows anyway, recording all our financial assets on top of the usual immigration stuff; and then, once landed, had to write out duplicates before our bags were searched. Then we were driven into Rangoon/Yangon in a Vauxhall Velox so old that rust fell onto us with every bump we went over. And there were plenty of them. The city looked quite run-down, but had clearly been grand in its colonial days, and it was still colourful and lively, and the people were friendly.

Mandalay, though, where we flew the next day (our battered Fokker was the only plane at the airport when we landed) was quite different. Mostly flat, it was very spread-out, with no tall buildings other than the many imposing and elaborate pagodas. The streets were wide and tree-lined, and there were just a few battered buses and old cars trundling around - most of the traffic was horse-drawn carts, trishaws and bicycles. There were even cattle, sheep and goats grazing the grass verges. The pagodas though were breathtakingly beautiful and splendid.

The people were a bit shyer in Mandalay, but still friendly, though we were clearly seen as a resource, nagged by the bolder ones for money, pens, cosmetics, combs, anything. Fair enough - their lives were hard, and we must have seemed impossibly rich. Which of course we were, in comparison, though we felt we were doing it properly basic - especially when we were sleeping on bare boards on the Irrawaddy steamer going downriver to Pagan the next night, but that’s another story.

Our hotel was just outside the moat around the (even then destroyed) Palace, and we had a stroll around the extensive grounds. Lots of greenery, which rapidly became less attractive after I went up close to look at a flowering shrub, and disturbed a snake in its branches. It was all very lovely though, and we took a trishaw to the base of Mandalay Hill, to climb the 1,729 steps up to the summit. We had to do it bare-footed, because of all the temples along the route. That was a bit nerve-wracking, after the snake, and also because of lots of little brown frogs everywhere. Lots of golden Buddhas too, and pretty pagodas, and finally long views over the city which from there seemed to be mostly trees.

The next day we were taken to a workshop where small girls were hunched over looms, weaving silk thread into elaborate cloth, another where young boys hacked at blocks of wood held between their feet, bought some mosquito coils at a market that turned out to be a major production, and even watched a wedding in the hotel, very colourful and traditional, where the guests wandered in and out as the priest droned on. I had several offers during the day to buy my very ordinary watch. And then we headed off through the warm dark to the Irrawaddy River for the next stage of our Burma experience.

All that was, gasp, 45 years ago now, so presumably the city grew, getting taller and more crowded, full of buildings that are now, at best, full of cracks and, at worst, reduced to rubble. The death toll is currently 1700 but will inevitably rise. It’s just awful. Poor, poor Mandalay. (But not forgetting Bangkok either - where, apparently, most of the workers in the under-construction skyscraper that collapsed were actually Burmese. Sigh.)

25/3/20

Today it’s been five whole years since everybody’s phone beeped at 6.30pm, and all the awfulness that we’d just been watching on the news came and hit us hard. Well, up to a point. Our definition of lockdown meant eliminating the virus, not just suppressing it, as in most other countries (same as China - no comment - and Australia, Taiwan, Singapore, most of SE Asia) and though shutting our borders was hard and sharp, it did mean we had very few deaths for the first couple of years, and were able to enjoy almost normal lives (socially-distanced, masked, in bubbles) while the rest of the world was in lockdown. The numbers shot up in 2022, but overall we’ve had now only 5,700 total deaths in a population (or ‘team’) of 5 million. Bad enough, but could’ve been so much worse. We had some very tedious lockdowns, especially here in Auckland, and there was, finally, discontent and rebellion against the rules and mandates, some of which were certainly OTT. Generally, though, we came through well, compared to most other countries (and we Kiwis love nothing better than to compare ourselves to other countries).

For me, though, and for this blog, it was a kind of death. All my travel plans were eliminated - goodbye, scheduled cruises to Japan and to Greenland - and they have never, thanks to boring stuff that happened in the meantime, been revived. All my former colleagues are back at it again, but my passport is now totally redundant. Even domestic travel has been restricted to short and generally local destinations. Big sigh.

But at least I, and everyone I care about, we’re all still here. I’m still producing the occasional story. And every single day that 6pm news bulletin features somewhere I’ve been where, in most cases, I’m currently happy not to be again. So on we go…