The rain started the day before I left
Methven. Slow, but steady, just enough to be a nuisance. By the time
Monday morning dawned, the pat-pat-pat on
the roof was a steady monotone, and not long after I parted ways with
my all-too-accommodating hosts and unlooked-for friends, I was near
soaked and squinting between the wiper blades to see the road. The
problem with these country roads is they lull you into a false sense
of security – you can go the speed limit most of the way, but a
sudden dip in the road can lead to a build-up of water that's
somewhere between a puddle and a small lake. That meant slow going to
Rolleston, where I officially handed over the keys to the wee car to
Cara's sister and got a ride the rest of the way to the Christchurch
Airport.
It was
a bittersweet kind of morning. In some ways, it was a lot like the
last time I got a flight: disappearing in the early hours of the day,
leaving something behind (both the South Island and the people in
Methven who have become like a second family), but then that sudden
burst through the clouds into the sunny sky. There's something about
flying that's akin to driving on a summer day, the first time in the
year that you need to switch on the air conditioning. It's got to be
more than just the sun's heat in the cabin – it's the excitement
and anticipation that comes along with the trip. It doesn't matter
where you're going, just as long as you're going somewhere.
The
domestic flight, a 45 minute scoot up the top half of the South
Island and across the Cook Strait, cost about as much as the ferry,
and was a whole lot more convenient. I wondered how they could do it
for so cheap – maybe it has something to do with cutting down on
frills for the 70 or so passengers, like in-flight movies. Or
pre-boarding security.
Wait a
tick. When I dropped off my bag (miraculously, I managed to put all
my crap, including a sleeping bag, into my backpack, without going
over the weight limit) and scanned my e-ticket to get my boarding
pass, I was directed to the departure gate. And when I got there,
there were rows of benches, and a sliding glass door leading to a
corridor that opened onto the tarmac. No place to take off your
shoes, no trays to put your keys in, not even anyone to check my ID, just a little desk where they
scan your ticket as you prepare to board. Seemed a bit odd to me –
sure, it made my day a bit easier, and meant that the guy who
normally has to shove cocaine up his butt got a break, but is that
safe? Am I just hardwired to be paranoid when it comes to air travel?
I'm not sure – the system seems to be working fine down here, but I
can't help but feel that it's like wearing your seatbelt or not. You
probably won't need it, but if you do, don't you look recklessly
irresponsible and stupid for not bothering to have clicked it in?
At any
rate, I made it to the North Island without incident, finding that
the rain was just a bit lighter up here. It turns out though that I
barely dodged a weather bullet – Canterbury has been getting a
relentless assault of heavy rain for the past few days, with roads
washed out and major flooding not far from where I was based. My bag
rolled off the conveyor belt (I always assumed, when a bag got lost,
that the door flew open mid-flight and the stuff fell out, so I was
pretty relieved that some Air New Zealand employee didn't have to
paddle across the Cook Strait to try to fish out my backpack), and a
few minutes later there was an airport shuttle to take me into the
centre of Wellington.
Sweet
as. Windy Welly has been called the coolest little capital in the world, the centre of New Zealand government but not as bustling a
city as Auckland or Christchurch. Sprawled out on the hillsides
around a gaping harbour, it's also called Wellywood, since Peter
Jackson turned it into the South Pacific filming and
effects mecca over a decade ago with The Lord of the Rings
trilogy (“Welcome to the
Middle of Middle-earth” a sign on the airport terminal says). A
city of traffic lights and skyscrapers, but also a genuine community
feel and sense of character, as if an Atlantic Canadian city broke off and drifted to the South Pacific – a place I'd been waiting to come back to and be able to
call, if just for a short time, home.
Wilton
is a suburb of Wellington, on a hill handy to the greenery of the
town belt. The spot that I'm staying is a mini-lifestyle block tucked
into that hillside, a narrow staircase going between trees, gardens,
and sheds. We can't be more than a few kilometres from the CBD, but
you'd believe that we're in the shelter of the wilderness up here on
Norwich Street.
The
rain kept pouring this morning, so there wasn't much sense in mucking
about the garden. My host, Linda, had a few things to do in Miramar
on the other side of town, and brought me along for a rainy day
activity: checking out the Weta Cave.
Weta
isn't just the grasshopper-like monstrosity that scared the bejesus
out of me when it clicked across the floor in Havelock – it's a
production and digital effects company that's been operating for over
twenty years, but came to worldwide prominence thanks to Frodo and
the his pals (and enemies). The company has a real long resume
outside of Middle-earth though, dipping their hands into the effects,
makeup, and production of a slew of other films, including Tin-Tin,
King Kong, Avatar, Prometheus, and
The Hobbit (incidentally,
the last bit of filming for that movie is being done right now, just
outside of Wellington).
It's a
huge operation, and the Cave, a fairly nondescript building (besides the Trolls guarding the door) alongside the actual workshop, is a public display of some of that,
presenting handcrafted miniature displays of characters and sets (if
you had money to waste, this would be a decent spot to fulfill all
your nerdy collector fantasies), as well as a video that's something
of a highlight reel to demonstrate the company's scope, and some
actual costumes and props from Weta's history. That includes the suit
that the Witch King wore, Theodred's armour, a pair of prosthetic
feet for Bilbo, and the helmet that the Mouth of Sauron wore. Seeing
this stuff was a testament to that unwavering work ethic of the
company – you'd never notice the runes etched into a helmet or the
rust spots applied to a suit of armour, no matter how many times you
watched the movies. Believe you me.
There
was a break in the rain, enough to get to Te Papa Tongarewa, the
national, six storey museum along the harbour front. You gotta make
sure you stop here when you're in Wellington, that's pretty much a
rule. I spent a few hours here, wandering past a colossal squid from
the deepest regions of the oceans around Antarctica (apparently this
monster, with eyes the size of soccer balls, is the only intact one
in the world), Moa bones, a house that shakes to simulate an
earthquake, a Maori marae, and a fairly large replanted forest that
has all the green hues of the New Zealand bush.
I
filled the rest of the afternoon with sushi and wandering – the
clouds parted for a brief spell, just enough to poke around the shops
and water edge, and totally get in the background for a One News
story Renee Graham was shooting (even though they didn't use that
take – presumably because the guy in the background was distracting
from the piece). The route back went along narrow Victorian-style
wooden houses and walking tracks through the forest – seriously, I
think I get this
place.
Even when it pours and the wind sends it right back in your face – actually, maybe especially then.
Cheers,
rb
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