I think I might have just lost my fucking mind. People keep reassuring me
that it’s all just a normal part of the grieving process. They could be right,
but I’m not convinced. I feel mad, and
if it was just a normal part of the grieving process, why do my friends and family keep
asking me if I’m still seeing my counsellor? My mood swings are epic, I have
outbursts of crying, I forget everything, including pin numbers, paying bills,
and where I have left the car. It’s not as bad as it was a year ago, but then
it isn’t a lot better either. Still, the decision to go up north doesn’t seem crazy.
Weekends away are always good. Packing the wairua of my dead husband into a hat to
accompany me, just so I could say, “Look, it’s Pat in a Hat,” well that’s a bit
more questionable. Pausing at the motorway on-ramp, I selected the play list I
had made for the trip, titled, Really Fucking
Happy Songs, and hit the road.
I decided to take the trip on the first anniversary. I was standing in the area of Waikumete Cemetery called Chapel View. It was sunny on the day I chose the site , and from Pat's plot you can look down the slope of graves, to the little chapel below. The smoke coming out of the chapel chimney was the deciding factor. I thought it was an interesting feature. Pat had insisted prior to his demise, while we were still in the planning phase, that I purchase a double wide, for pure economy of scale. I liked the idea of being on the hill, in the hill, with what was left of Pat seeping into the soil around me, till our decomposition was complete, while others disappeared in a cloud of smoke below. It cost nearly six thousand dollars, and it comes with a title document, like a house or a section. Auckland property prices are insane.
I decided to take the trip on the first anniversary. I was standing in the area of Waikumete Cemetery called Chapel View. It was sunny on the day I chose the site , and from Pat's plot you can look down the slope of graves, to the little chapel below. The smoke coming out of the chapel chimney was the deciding factor. I thought it was an interesting feature. Pat had insisted prior to his demise, while we were still in the planning phase, that I purchase a double wide, for pure economy of scale. I liked the idea of being on the hill, in the hill, with what was left of Pat seeping into the soil around me, till our decomposition was complete, while others disappeared in a cloud of smoke below. It cost nearly six thousand dollars, and it comes with a title document, like a house or a section. Auckland property prices are insane.
At the one year anniversary it was blustery
and windy. I stood shivering and crying,
getting cold and wet. I wasn’t sure how long I should stay. Not that anyone was
watching but I didn’t want to look like I had rushed it. Our section
still boasted a slight hill or mound. Some Maori believe that when the earth subsides
that means the soul has departed. If Pat was still around I wasn’t feeling
anything but rain dripping down my back. I went back to my car and as I drove away from the cemetery I
knew that with the plot nearly flat I had one remaining death duty to fulfil. Whanau from the far north had asked that I
take something of Pats back to the land and bury it, by the bach, beneath the
urupa on the hill behind, and looking
out on to Doubtless Bay.
In the last year I had been up north
plenty. I spent last summer, just six months after Pats death, working in a bar in Paihia. I had returned to where I had lived
before I returned to Auckland and married my best friend. I hadn’t been up to
Whatuwhiwhi though. I just couldn’t. The
thought alone made my heart break in another place every time I considered it.
Facing the place where we had spent so many happy times, and the people, all of
those who hadn’t come down for the funeral, the kind words, and just the loss.
Now though, a year had passed and I
knew Pat would have been honoured to be regarded as part of the hapu, and the
idea of it and the act of it seemed more real and relevant than the headstone
on his grave. It was time for me to select something that symbolized Pats
wairua, and put it in a box. The mound was nearly flat, the hill was receding.
Whether I felt ready or not, it was time.
I hit the motorway at speed, the
music is loud, and I feel myself relax after the mad rush of packing, loading
up the car and getting the hell out of the city. I only really decided to go
last night , and was still non-committal in the morning but my friend from Russell had rang and persuaded me by
saying that there was going to be a party and a band playing, and she was on
holiday. It had been a manic packing episode. Not that it mattered as
regardless of how carefully I planned, I always had the feeling of forgetting
something.
I love getting away. It’s not from
uni or the city, it’s from the house. The house is where my madness manifests
most obviously. I just can’t be rational. It’s not only the house, I have established
now that I lose the ability to function and am prone to breakdowns over anything
that I deem as ‘not my job’ and anything that isn’t my job, was obviously Pat’s.
Little things like remembering to put out the rubbish, any aspect of dealing
with the car, but these are things I have had to force myself to overcome. It
is still anything that involves the house, which is still likely to push me over the
edge.
When Pat was sick, transferring the house to my name, and sorting out the
will were paramount. I didn’t give a shit about money, I just wanted a place to
live. Now that the house is mine, it feels like a giant anchor to the past,
dragging behind me and holding me in place. It is a burden. Everyone keeps
telling me how lucky I am though, and warning me to look after the house, don’t
sell the house, “as long as you have the house you will be okay.” This ownership
is suffocating and debilitating, and yet it is the thing that is supposed to be
giving comfort and security. I’ve started worrying about the property market.
The toilet broke and I cried for three days. Finally I had to leave the house
and see my trainer. She asked me what was wrong, so I told her the toilet broke,
and I started to cry again. She gestured across the gym to a buff young guy
working out. “He’s a plumber, and a mate. I’ll give him your number and we’ll
sort it.”
I just kept crying, and Trainer Jo, trying so hard to be empathetic, leaned
in close and asked, “Is it because Pat sat on it? Is that why you don’t want to
replace it? You can’t keep it.” How can
I explain? It’s not my job. Easier to let her think I covet the broken toilet
seat where Pat shat. I stopped crying and finished my set. Leaving the house is
always a relief.
The road north is so familiar I feel
I could drive with my eyes shut, and I think I may have. I can do the trip to
Paihia comfortably in two and a half hours. You shouldn’t try to beat that. It
isn’t a challenge. The bach is a further two hours north.
I lived in Paihia for four years
before moving back to Auckland to take up a job at the New Zealand Prostitutes
Collective, advocating for sex workers, and marrying Pat. Driving over the top
of the hill, where the turn off down to Opua is, and where you
get your first glimpse of the Bay of Islands, still feels like a welcome return home. Today I pass
the intersection and drive straight into Paihia, instead of heading across the
water to Russell. I text Viv to ask her if she wants anything from Paihia. There are things that
you can’t get in Russell, like a cooked supermarket chicken.
Paihia, Russell and Opua, sit like bright white shiny spots, surrounding
Waitangi. Paihia is desperately trying to climb the social ladder of tourism,
and aspires to be the Queenstown of the North. I suppose they are both good
places to get drunk and laid, only Paihia closes at 1am so you have to be
quick. You need to start drinking faster and earlier. Paihia has changed in the
twelve years I’ve been gone, but as a constant visitor, the changes have been
incremental, happening too gradually to be a shock. The little tourist
dependent town is now a junky whore to the cruise ships. What started as an
occasional thing has developed into a full time addiction. By the time I left
there were maybe half a dozen ships pulling in each year. This summer alone they
are expecting forty eight.
On the morning a cruise ship is due to hit the town, Paihians’ will rise
at t the crack of dawn to start primping. A craft market selling shit designed
especially for ease of packing is set up on the green, people busking, roughly
assembled groups of teenagers getting ready to break out any kind of performance,
anything that allows them to collect some change. The buses, the souvenir shops
and the cafes are all pulling their tops just a little lower, licking their
lips, and praying for rain so tourists are forced to look for inside
entertainment. The whole town has turned into a great, glistening pussy that’s just
waiting to get fucked. Not that I object to whoring. As long as it’s by choice. No one likes trafficking.
Having purchased a couple of chickens, safe in the knowledge that this
what I will crave as soon as I know the ferries have stopped running for the
night, I drive back over the hills, down to Opua and the waiting car ferry. The
plan is to stay tonight, Friday, drive up to Doubtless Bay and the bach tomorrow
on a day trip, and then attend the party Saturday night at The Duke, heading home late on
Sunday.
As I sit on the car ferry, looking over to Okiatao Point, I am, as always
struck by the beauty of the area. Travelling to Russell by ferry gives it an
island like quality, and though the trip barely takes five minutes, it is a
different little world to Paihia. While Paihia wants to commercialise itself to
become the tourism centre of the north, Russell is trying to market itself to
the more discerning and cultured tourist. Russell isn’t marketing wholesale sex,
Russell is marketing love, romance and what sex workers call ‘the girlfriend
experience.’ But if Paihia is a vagina,
I ponder while watching the shore approach, what does that make Russell? Obviously I’m tempted to say clit, but to be
honest, Russell just isn’t that exciting. Apparently it used to be, back in the
day. The nerve centre that incites passion and response is obviously Waitangi.
Just saying the name is enough to get some people flushed and flustered.
Romantic Russell with its rose coloured glasses, still flaunting its colonial
past with pride. A couple of years ago some of the locals got together and
started a promotional weekend to raise the town profile, by focusing on the
towns sordid past. Promoting Russell has become a series of weekend events. This
weekend is the Tall Ships Weekend,
there is Bird Man Festival, the Oyster Festival, and now, thanks to
industrious locals, Hell Hole of The
Pacific Weekend. The festival consists of local women dressed as happy whores,
and some street theatre.
A local artist, Helen Pick, has
been commissioned to paint cut out portraits of historically clad figures as
decorations. They have been attached to poles throughout the three streets that
make up the village. Attaching effigy like figures to poles in my mind was just
the first really doubtful decision in the epitome of community art gone horribly
wrong. The figures show wahine wearing bright western dresses with a lot of
cleavage, looking slutty, and warrior’s with blankets, clutching guns. Of course there’s no pakeha figure clutching a
beach. Russell residents were shocked
last summer when some of these works of art were vandalised. One was
decapitated.
I noticed the figures on my last visit. Some business owners liking the
art so much, they have opted to keep the figures on permanent display. When I
asked Viv about them, and she told me about the shocking vandalism, she was
offended by my comment, “I’m not surprised.” There isn’t one in front of the
Duke of Marlborough Tavern. Mind you
since Simon Gault’s mate took over the picture perfect, historic Hotel, it
really is a great place for an Aucklander to get the kind of food and service
we are used to. A chocolate mousse to die for.
I called into Vivs’, and without even unloading the car we head down to
the Duke for a drink. Viv runs the local Swordfish Clubs. A highly political
job that takes diplomacy skills rarely seen, even at the UN level. It helps that
Viv is local. Viv used to run a little music shop, and sometimes she talks in
song lyrics. Born and bred in the Bay, her family still own a few of the shops on the main drag in Kawa Kawa.
The part of the main street that isn’t the Hundertwasser Toilets. Thinking of the toilets makes me
think of Pat. I remember the first time we stopped at them, and I asked Pat
what he thought and he told me that Hundertwasser must have been a piss-head to
empty all those bottles that help make up the walls, and that they might be
‘art,’ but they still smell like public bogs.
Viv noticed my eyes getting moist
and asked, “So, you sort out Pat, and put him in a box?”
“It’s a hat,
actually. A Pat in the Hat.”
“Ahhh,”she
cooed, “That’s nice. He’d like that. He was always forgetting his hat. Remember
in Houhora when he got so sunburned his nose melted.”
“How could I
forget?” I replied, clearly getting emotional. “Do you think I should pop in
some sunblock?”
Viv looked thoughtful. I had called
her and asked what to pack. What objects captured Pats’ wairua? I had decided
to go with a hat, a t-shirt, a clock and some photos. It all fitted within the
hat which was nice. Was there was room for some sunblock? Then Viv, always the
problem solver, offered me a sample sized bottle of sunblock, and she might
have an insect repellent as well. As the next round of vodkas arrived, I sipped
thoughtfully and then reached a decision. “Yes to the sunblock, no to the
repellent. He never got bitten.”
“Fair call. What
time shall we head off?”
It hadn’t
occurred to me that Viv could come with me and that I didn’t have to do this
alone and that it didn’t have to be sad. I smiled at her gratefully. “No rush,
lunch time-ish.” I looked out to the
water, with the sun in my eyes, and I was happy to be here, in this little town
of iced cake architecture, good vodka with real limes, and a past nailed up on
posts, yet still oddly invisible to those who lived here.
The next morning I got up and went
for a walk. Walking around Russell is one of its delights, and has recently
become another one of its weekend profile raising attractions. Russell Walking Weekends. The first
had just been and attracted around four hundred people. You could walk anything
from a guided stroll around the towns of the Bay, or for the super keen, the
full day trek out to Cape Brett. My goal was just a quick forty minute walk
from Vivs’ down to Long Beach, back to the village, a stop for a coffee and through the
church yard. It wasn’t until I was walking down from Long Beach and toward the
waterfront that I saw it. Sitting just off Tapeka Point, was a cruise ship. No
matter how many times I see them they still unsettle me. It’s like waking up to
find someone has magically built a high density, low cost, apartment block in
your back yard. Of course I know not to vocalise my thoughts. When a social
user becomes a full-fledged junky, there is often a sense of denial. Paihia was
dependant, and I, not being a resident was in no position to judge. After all
one of the reasons I had left was lack of work. I had left for the job at the
Prostitute’s Collective, and there was no demand for that here.
Already the ships tenders were
disgorging aging tourists, who were walking the tiny town determinedly getting
photos of everything. This ship was a Celebrity
Solstice, which carried around two thousand five hundred souls, all
desperate to make land. I smiled benevolently at the woman on her own, dressed
in starched khakis, and obviously channelling David Attenborough. The entire
ensemble looked brand new, including the hat which looked to be decorated with
fishing fly, sturdy hiking boots, and a utility belt, complete with water
bottle. I may have imagined ammunition belts across her chest. She nodded curtly, not smiling back, and I
wondered if her costume in any way reflected what she had read about the town
before arriving, and if she would be disappointed at being over prepared. I
didn’t smile at the couples in matching track suits. That was just sick.
On my way home to Viv’s I noticed that two of the cut-out figures were
missing from the main street. I walked back up the hill through the beautifully
restored church grave yard, enjoying the sun.
I was even looking forward to the day ahead. When I got back to Vivs we
decided to drive down to the village for some breakfast, and then we would head
up the coast to the bach, singing loudly. I could complete my tour of duty, by leaving
something of my beloved in the land.
Now that I had come this far, I felt relaxed about the whole process.
There was no rush. The sun was shining, the land wasn’t going anywhere, and the
time constraints I had put up were self-imposed. I didn’t feel sad at the
thought of revisiting the bach anymore. The bach and its location couldn’t have
been more different from Russell.
The bach is situated on a dune, in
the centre of a sandy beach called Patea Bay on the Karikari Peninsular. The
bach is the only building in the sheltered bay, apart from the marae, tucked
into the furthest corner. This is Maori land. Land that’s has been returned to Ngati Kahu, through the Waitangi Tribunal, and
the bit of beachfront that the bach sits on belongs to the Pivac’s, who were
awarded close to thirty acres, that spread back from the beach, up into the
hill behind, running beside the urupa, that looks out over the entire vista of
Doubtless Bay. What started as a summer rental from a friend, became a lease
and a ten year relationship with a whanau that will not end with the death of
my husband, or the death of Helena, with whom we struck the initial contract. I
met Helena at a Rotary meeting. I was the guest speaker from the Prostitutes Collective.
As Viv and I drive back down the
hill to Russell, with its perfect villas, and picket fences, I’m struck by the
difference. Here each house is fenced and bordered, individually separated, for
the use of its inhabitants. Compared to the bach, where we quickly realised
that the use of the bach included an extended family that would join us
throughout the year, and share not only their land, but their children, grandchildren,
ex-wives, and cousins, and we would gradually through this sharing and caring,
become part of it all. The land really belonged to all who used it and loved
it, not those who occupied it most. Nobody buried at the urupa, with views of
Doubtless Bay, were paying nearly six thousand dollars, and being issued with
title. They were brought back there because they belonged. The value in the
land was that it was treasured. Property in the far, far north is cheap.
As Viv is still sipping her coffee,
I go to the car and pop the boot to reorganise all the shit that was hastily
thrown in when I left, so I can put the roof down. I did put some clothes into
a bag, but the rest of the stuff I had just thrown into the boot free range.
Protein powder, dog toys, water bottles, three pairs of boots, two pairs of
trainers, my gym bag and about twenty recyclable grocery bags that I always
forget to take into the supermarket. I start shifting and sorting. I start
pulling everything out of the boot until its empty and then as I realise what
has happened, I start repacking the boot, slowly and methodically. I close the
boot and go back to join Viv, ordering another coffee on the way. I sit down at
the table and breathe deeply, looking out across the water to Paihia.
“What’s the matter?” asks Viv.
“I forgot Pat in
the Hat. I left him on the kitchen bench with the keys to the bach. ”
“You forgot to
bring him?”
I nodded.
Viv looked at me with concern. She is waiting
for a reaction, sitting still, poised and ready to jump into action, should I
start to fall apart.
Viv has witnessed the hysteria that normally followed these incidents of forgetfulness,
which I was sure were indications of my grief actually morphing into insanity.
Viv had been there in the weeks following the funeral, when I locked myself out
of the house repeatedly, locked the keys in the car, and when I got lost in the
car park, so overwhelmed I couldn’t move my car, because I didn’t know where my
home was. Viv knew about the broken toilet.
I exhaled slowly and started to smile. I didn’t have to go to the bach. I
wasn’t sad. The land would wait. It would wait as long as it took for me to
return, and accept that part of Pat, and part of me, now belonged there. The
relief as the realisation hit me was almost palpable. I sat back into my chair
picked up my coffee and felt the tension leave my shoulders. As Viv sat, still
poised for action, a thought from earlier suddenly returned.
“Where are the
whore and the chief with the musket from the main street?” I asked.
Viv, well used
to my insanity and sudden change in tact, rolled with the punches and sitting
back in her own chair, answered,
“Chris has taken
them inside. She’s worried about the vandalism. She’s not going to put them
back out till later in the season.” Chris is an American who now lives in
Russell and runs an art gallery where they sell incredibly expensive pieces of
glass, some beautiful wearable art and some paintings that don’t seem to sell.
Her taste in glass is impeccable.
“So are they
like in protective custody?”
“Yes,” replies
Viv, “It’s for their own good.”
“Do you think I
could see them, and maybe take photos of the ones still walking the streets?”
Viv is concerned
and suspicious of my motives, as she should be.
“Are you sure
you still want to go for a drive up to Doubtless?”
“No,” I reply,
“I want to find the missing wahine whores. It’s what I should be doing.”
Viv and I head
off for the gallery but not before Viv gives me the warning talk, about not
upsetting the locals, who meant no harm. She thought that maybe it was better
if she did the talking. The gallery is called Just Imagine.
Outside the art gallery, on the
street running parallel to the waterfront behind the Duke, was another hanging
figure. This one dressed in European clothing and carrying a brush and paint
palate. As we entered Chris, came over and Viv introduced us. She introduced me
as a writer from Auckland. She said I was interested in the Helen Picks portraits.
“Was it a
community art project?” I enquired, very politely. Chris was happy to tell us
all about the figures in her Californian accent. As it transpired she was the
driving force behind the Hell Hole of the
Pacific Weekend’s. She knew all
about the figures, and was happy for me to photograph the ones in protective
custody. They were merely portraits, not quite caricatures, but accurate enough
to depict the town’s folk of 1830, she informed us. I asked if they were
supposed to be specific historical figures. She leaned forward,
conspiratorially and said that would be totally inappropriate to local Maori.
“Really? Why are
they all of Maori?” Her answer was quite
reasonable. She pointed out that they weren’t. The ones painted with a paler
complexion were supposed to be pakeha, as all the Maori back then were very
dark, and it is only through inter breeding they have gotten lighter. As to why
all the women were wahine whores, well that’s just because they were. The
whores would have been all Maori, as they had been sold or traded into
prostitution. I wanted to ask why they were so happy then, but I knew the
conversation was going nowhere.
Tourists were browsing below the
mezzanine where she stored the figures with their heads peering over the
balustrade, smiling at the people milling in the space below. I snapped some
photos and started to follow Chris back down, Viv was looking relieved, until I
asked, “Chris, what about the vandalism? Do you think it’s racially motivated?”
“No.” Her answer
was quick and firm, but I didn’t think she had really understood what I meant.
I should have worded it better, but Viv pinched my arm, so I stopped. Outside
the shop, Chris tried to convince me that the figure, with the prominent wide
nose and lips was pakeha, because he was an artist, and of course, paler.
The rest of the weekend was spent
enjoying Russell and I decided to make like a tourist. Viv was happy to comply,
as long as we had regular stops to enjoy the food and wine of the waterfront,
and took time to speak with all the locals. We went inside the tiny church,
where we saw community art at its finest. Every seat and every pew boasted a
hand embroidered, tapestry cushion. There must be over one hundred, each
cushion paying tribute to some aspect of the town. The buildings, boats, clubs,
flower and fauna, and families. All lovingly represented and waiting for arses
to be parked on them every Sunday. They were almost as good as the Hundertwasser
Toilets.
We even took time to check out the
Russell museum, where I read about the town and its seedy origins. The in house
literature said that Russell had twenty eight brothels and thirty something
pubs. I wondered where Chris came from in America, and if there was a town
decorated by swinging effigies of slave whores.
On the Sunday as I drove my car onto the ferry I thought about returning
to the empty house, with its weight of memory and responsibility, but for the
first time I didn’t feel like it was going to drown me. I had a plan. I would
come back to the north. Not just for the weekend, and to bury Pat in a Hat, but
at some time in the future I would be back, to make a home, and count the
whores. Someone needed to look out for them and make sure they weren’t still
getting exploited.
I glanced out to Tapeka Point, beautiful again without the cruise ship. I
glanced around the ferry and then noticed that tucked behind the bin on the
portside there was something that looked like feet sticking out. I got out of
my car and walked over. I bent down and
pulled the feet to reveal a cut-out, which judging by the height and size of
its feet was a whaka wahine. She had no head. The clippie who was working came
over and told me that they had found her floating this morning and would drop
her back to Russell side on the last trip of the day. As I drove off the ferry,
and out of town, I still had that uncanny feeling that I had forgotten
something, and I wondered what it was I had left behind this time.
Published on The Travel Writing Anthology
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