This morning we hung about hoping for a great exodus from the Domain,
leaving space for us to relocate to a more suitable spot; alas there was no
such event. We gave up and set off for the railway station across the grassy
fields, backpack packed with lunch and the day full of promise. The train
arrived moments after 9 am, and we found ourselves joining the cauliflower brigade
travelling free on the public transport system into the capital city.
I had expected to find a small Information kiosk at the station on
arrival or at worst, a rack of maps and brochures to inform the arriving traveller.
Alas there is no such thing at the rail station, but outside there are maps
with “you are here’ and “Information centre is up here” kind of signs; quite a
hike, but then there is a solid line of taxis to transport the weary or lazy.
Our primary motive for travelling back down into the city was to call on
the British Consulate to seek information on renewing Chris’s passport. Now
this is a typical story of a stubborn male; he had phoned them (apparently)
some time ago about this and been told that he would have to obtain another
full birth certificate and do his application on line. This he found unacceptable,
especially since the person on the end of the phone line had not inspired confidence.
I had suggested we revisit the website because systems change with technology,
but no, he would only accept personal advice, as in, in person. So we arrived
at the gates, were told by the guard that these matters should be done on line
because the Consulate did not deal with such matters anymore. No, my husband
had to see someone, so we were divested of our bags and phones and allowed
entry to the reception area. There we were spoken to by a delightful woman,
from behind layers of bullet proof glass, who told us that the Consulate no
longer dealt with passports, that it had to be done on line. She did hand us
some documentation, which gave us the website address …. surprise, surprise.
What we did learn was that with his Australian passport Chris could only
stay in England for six months, and even if he renewed his British passport, I,
as a “foreigner” (a Kiwi), would only be allowed six months and would have to
have a return ticket on entry. In summary, there was nothing to be gained by
his renewing his British citizenship, unless I could then succeed in gaining a
visa for a longer than six month entry.
For me, none of this was a surprise; for Chris it was and most unacceptable.
He had been under the miscomprehension that because I was his legal wife and
that he was English born, we would have open slather to legal entry.
We walked back down the hill from the consulate, through the parliament grounds
which today were the venue for an exhibition of World War I vehicles and
machinery, all to be set in motion later in the day for a special parade to commemorate
one hundred years since the landing at Gallipoli, because tomorrow is ANZAC
Day, New Zealand’s unofficial National Day.
We had read of the new Australian Memorial at the National War Memorial in
the papers over the past week and thought we should take the opportunity to
check it out. We found our way to the Information Centre, in our opinion poorly
located, but informative all the same. Armed with a tear off map and
instructions as to the most direct and convenient walking route, we set off up the
hill once more, walking up Taranaki Street, closed to traffic and busy with
event preparation, to arrive at the Pukeahu War Memorial which was also the
scene of preparation for the services tomorrow; that at dawn and then the later
at the more acceptable 11 am.
There has been some controversy about this new installation at the War Memorial,
the fifteen red sandstone pillars supposedly to represent the red earth that Australia’s
servicemen left behind when they went off to war. The materials were actually
sourced from a stone quarry near Agra in India, close to the home of the Taj
Mahal. Some commentators say this spoils the whole narrative and we were keen
to see this for ourselves. The stones have insets of carved grey granite and
the whole work is impressive, the source of the materials really quite
immaterial in our view. Apparently Australia’s Prime Minister Tony Abbot had
been oblivious to the fact the stone was Indian, which is a little bizarre; $5
million of Australian tax payers money was spent on this as a gift to New
Zealand.
The design of the Australian memorial, by architects Tonkin Zulaikha
Greer in conjunction with artist director Janet Laurence, was chosen from a
competitive tended process. Each of the fifteen columns is six metres tall and
is made up of ten sandstone blocks, each with a core of steel. The columns are
surrounded by a type of eucalyptus tree know commonly as the red flowering
yellow gum which grows in western Victoria and coastal South Australia. When
they mature, they will be about ten metres high.
The memorial is a counterpart to the New Zealand Memorial on Anzac
Parade in Canberra, which was opened on Anzac Day 2001, that we saw when we spent
time in the Australian capital.
Today we watched a small group of Australian servicemen practice manoeuvres
amongst the stones as part of the ritual celebration of the ANZACs disastrous
landing tomorrow.
Speaking of which, I revisit my comments made some days ago about symbolism
versus reality. I do get the symbolism of the commemoration tomorrow, although
I do question words used like “glorious” and “heroes”. There was little
glorious or heroic about either of the World Wars.
And as a memo to myself; it is quite curious that our family have two
representatives attending the centenary celebration in ANZAC Cove in Turkey
tomorrow, or rather our grandchildren do. My maternal first cousin Wayne is
attending as grandson of our grandfather, Fred Bettjeman, who survived the event,
albeit invalided, and our son’s partner’s mother, Lyn, is attending as granddaughter
of her grandfather, William Griffiths, who perished in the field. This is all quite
special.
We spent some time absorbing the preparatory business going on about the
site; the black uniformed special police combing the area for bombs or the
like, the female cornet player practicing the Last Post, groups marching hither
and thither to drum rolls, and hundreds of spectators such as ourselves. The
closed streets were now lined with portable fences and yellow vested officials
stood about at all corners waiting for the parade still some time off. We descended
to the lower streets, found a spot along Vivian Street below the Architecture
School and shared our lunch with a flock of pigeons before making our way down
Cuba Street, a mass of colour and vibrancy, pungent with the medley of ethnic
restaurants and hashish indulgence.
As crowds gathered along Wakefield Street and Taranaki Street we
returned to the scene of the action and waited along with everyone else. Finally
the parade arrived, bands, marchers and the collection of soldiers, including a good turnout of Ghurkhas,
and volunteers, making their way under
the bright sun shine, an almost summer day with temperatures of 18 degrees, the
2.8 kilometres from the Parliament to the Pukeahu War Memorial.
Peter Jackson’s fleet of WWI vehicles were joined by thirty eight descendants
of the New Zealand Tunnellers who served in Arras, France. The horses all
decked in parade paraphernalia were followed by a couple of period costumed chaps
pushing wheelbarrows charged with cleaning up the inevitable horse-poo along
the way. Further up the street from us, a great shower of red poppies was released,
then as the last of the parade passed, street cleaners followed up to restore
the roadway to its former functionality, with the same efficiency that truckloads
of athletic looking guys arrived to dismantle the barriers. We departed before
they were finished but I suspect that within an hour there was no evidence of
the poo, poppies or spectator refuse.
With still time before the final free train at 3.03 pm, we made our way
back down to the waterfront to revisit the National Portrait Gallery, today with
a special exhibition titled “Tranquillity
Disturb’t: A contemporary look at historical New Zealand”, with work by
Nigel Brown, Gavin Hurley and Lisa Reihana.
The main focus is the impact of English navigator Captain James Cook’s
three visits to this country and the wider Pacific region in the late 18th
century, a subject open to wide interpretation.
I liked the photo portraits by Reihana, Chris complained that there was
too much photography in galleries these days. Neither of us were impressed with
Nigel Brown who seems to be a reincarnation of Colin McCahon, an artist we
absolutely do not appreciate. Gavin Hurley’s work left me bored; at least Brown’s
work stirred up criticism. But with free entry, a visit to the Portrait Gallery
is never wasted and we will go again next time we are in Wellington.
There was just time for a Scottish ice-cream before making our way to
the station and joining the crowds heading north on the train. Arriving at Mana,
we called into the nearby New World supermarket, shopped for provisions and
then walked across the sports fields back to our motorhome. There were even
more vans in this afternoon, so moving to a better spot was out of the question.
Perhaps we will move tomorrow, perhaps not. Chris is still coughing and we are
taking one day at a time. Hopefully the morning will reveal some plan for the new
day, but one thing I do know; we have no intention of rising before dawn to
attend the dawn ANZAC service. I shall leave that honour to my father and like
ex-servicemen.
No comments:
Post a Comment