An enjoyable lunch at Marzano in Battersea last weekend to commemorate yet another birthday. Decent Italian food and the largest gathering of tots and babies I’ve ever seen in one place – Clapham and Battersea being the Nappy Valley of upwardly-mobile Londoners. By my (admittedly biased) reckoning I can still claim to be a member of the mid-30s club for another six months or so. After that the plan is to start counting backwards.
Macau (or, if you prefer, Macao) returned to Chinese sovereignty in 1999, and like neighbouring Hong Kong, it operates as a Special Autonomous Region, entitling it to a certain local leeway. Hence the gambling, and the maintenance of a separate local currency, the pataca, that travellers are warned not to bother taking out of the city, because it’s next to useless as soon as you board the ferry.
The SAR status means visitors from Hong Kong have to go through border control both when leaving Hong Kong and upon arrival in Macau. This involves standing in a huge hall with several thousand mainland Chinese day-trippers for about 20 minutes each time. And if you’re me, it also involves the Chinese guy behind you slipping his snotty tissue into your bag when you’re not looking. Gosh thanks mister, you really know how to make a gweilo tourist feel welcome!
The swift catamaran journey from Hong Kong only takes an hour. On the day I travelled the skies were murky grey and visibility was low. (Services had been significantly disrupted the day before by an impenetrable fog bank that blanketed the region). After another border crossing I took a quick bus ride from the wharf to emerge into the heart of old Macau – a little corner of Portugal in the Far East. The triangular Largo do Senado (Senate Square) is surrounded by pretty low-rise official buildings decked out in brightly-coloured paint, leading to a twisting pedestrian precinct that winds its way up the slope to the site of Macau’s most famous building. Or, to be precise, the remains of said building.
After a 20-year programme of construction, the foundation stone of St Paul’s Cathedral was laid in 1602, during the 60-year Spanish rule over Portugal. The cathedral marked a new bastion of the Catholic faith in the far-flung corners of the Iberian empire. Following a destructive fire in 1835 St Paul’s suffered massive damage, and all that was saved for posterity was the ornately-carved façade that had been carved by exiled Japanese Christians in the 1620s. Now this thin sliver of history is visited by a torrent of tourists, and it has become the most prominent landmark in a city that, aside from its downtown colonial core, does not boast an enviable architectural heritage.
Walking back down from the fortress into the rabbit-warren of city streets I managed to get hopelessly disoriented, but this didn’t prove to be a nuisance as I had already seen the parts of Macau I’d intended to. I walked back to the ferry wharf past the modern harbour-side developments of spectacularly peculiar tourist attractions. First there was a scale model of the Coliseum with shops nestled around its circumference. Alongside was some berserk Aztec-style theme park, which must have been aiming for an Indiana Jones vibe. Further on there was an intricate replica of the sheer-walled towers of Lhasa and an imposing Chinese fortress surrounded by a moat heaving with well-fed koi carp. Lastly, not to be out-done, there was a volcano. A bloody volcano! Imagine the planning permission application for that one.
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Above: McLachlan Memorial on Puponga Point
A few weeks ago during my visit to the North Island I took a weekend bush walk with my mother and her friend Patricia. Our destination was a place I’d never visited before – the broad expanses of Cornwallis, a sparsely inhabited narrow peninsula flung southwards into the Manukau Harbour with a splendid swoop of dawn-facing sand. The peninsula is capped by a forested hill with a long pier at its base, and atop the hill, known as Puponga Point, is a 90-year-old monument to a forgotten settlement and a magnanimous gift.
As the trees planted across the hilltop have grown over the decades since the monument was erected, the regional park managers have trimmed back a slice of the woods so the monument is still visible from the beach. It’s an easy half-hour walk to the monument, and from the heights visitors have a fine view over the Manukau Heads and the western reaches of the harbour.
The monument records the gift of the surrounding land to the city to form part of the huge parklands that dominate the Waitakere Ranges. It also commemorates the attempts by Scottish settlers to build a township on the Cornwallis peninsula in the early days of the New Zealand colony – an attempt that soon foundered. The monument records the details:
This monument records the arrival of the ship Brilliant in the Manukau Harbour on 29 October 1841 with a band of settlers for the Cornwallis Estate which was controlled by the Manukau Land Company whose manager was LACHLAN MCLACHLAN, father of the donor of this park JOHN MITCHELL MCLACHLAN, who was born on the estate on 18 October 1842.
And on the reverse:
Erected by the AUCKLAND CITY COUNCIL to commemorate the gift of the CORNWALLIS PARK of 1927 acres to the City of Auckland by JOHN MITCHELL MCLACHLAN in memory of his mother ISABELLA MITCHELL MCLACHLAN. Unveiled on July 17 1918 by J.H. Gunson Esq, Mayor of Auckland – H.W. Wilson, Town Clerk – W.E. Bush, City Engineer.
John Mitchell McLachlan was the best-known scion of the settlement that failed to leave a permanent mark on the map of the young country. The Cornwallis Estate was the site of extensive plans for development of a frontier settlement at the behest of the Manukau and Waitemata Company, a speculative venture akin to the New Zealand Company. Town plans were drawn up, about 80 of 100 sections offered were sold and a rickety vessel, the Brilliant, was outfitted for what turned out to be a mammoth journey of ten months from the Clyde. The ship was presumed lost by the time it finally sailed into the Manukau at the end of October 1841.
The 27 settlers who had remained on board during the long voyage, turning down the chance to jump ship in Cape Town, Melbourne and Hobart en route, were greeted with what must have been a bitterly disappointing sight. Temporary raupo (flax) huts were being erected for the settlers by local Maori, but there was no other sign of civilisation. The Company had even failed to properly secure ownership of the land on which Cornwallis was to be built.
The early days of Cornwallis were marred by the all-too-common plight faced by colonists: drowning, which was known at the time as ‘the New Zealand death’. Attempting to take medical supplies to a stricken missionary’s wife, Captain William Cornwallis Symonds and three others were thrown from their boat and drowned on 23 November 1841. The news of Symonds’ death was reported throughout the colony, and Symonds Street in downtown Auckland was named in his honour. The New Zealand Gazette and Wellington Spectator of 8 December reprinted the reportage of the Auckland (later New Zealand) Herald, which included the following eye-witness account:
Captain Symonds, who was an expert and powerful swimmer, was observed to make the most extraordinary exertions. He swam for more than an hour and twenty minutes encumbered with a particularly heavy kind of nailed boots, and two thick pea coats, (which latter he was seen attempting to take off), and had nearly gained the shore, when he disappeared.
Following this melancholy loss, the new settlers at Cornwallis laboured to build a home for themselves under the leadership of Lachlan McLachlan, whose son would donate the Cornwallis land to the city some 75 years later. Two further company vessels, the Osprey and the Louisa Campbell, brought a prefabricated steam-powered sawmill and more settlers.
The Cornwallis settlement struggled from the outset. Despite rumours of coal being found nearby in 1843, there was little money to be made locally. The sawmill closed in 1843, which removed a major source of employment for the settlement at a stroke. Later that year the Daily Southern Cross published a scathing editorial, lambasting the Manukau and Waitemata Company for its failure to deliver what it had promised in its prospectus:
Of all the schemes devised for gulling and deceiving people, the Manukau Company was decidedly the most barefaced and impudent that we have ever heard of… Many of these purchasers of ideal town allotments and fine imaginary country sections have been for the last three years in this country patiently waiting, in the hope that the Manukau Company would fulfil their promise to them, but we fear they may wait long enough before they hear any thing further of the Manukau Company.
The inhabitants of Cornwallis soon drifted away, with only a few scattered dwellings remaining. One such cottage played an important role some two decades later when the catastrophic wreck of HMS Orpheus on the Manukau Bar in February 1863 sent shockwaves through New Zealand and the rest of the British Empire. While nearly 200 drowned in the wreck, a few lucky sailors managed to escape death and were rescued from the stormy shore by John Kilgour of Cornwallis. Kilgour, a Scot, and his wife nursed the sailors back to health and assisted them to slip into Auckland clandestinely to avoid being returned to naval duties against their will.
For decades the ownership of Cornwallis was neglected, until in 1903 when John Mitchell McLachlan bought the area with the intention of adding it to the city’s parklands. The land was gifted to the city in 1910 after McLachlan’s death, but the hilltop monument was not erected for a further eight years, presumably due to the distraction of the Great War. Cornwallis was isolated and hard to reach, and the Council began to allow the construction of holiday baches along the beach as early as 1916. Emma Louise Joyce records that a series of baches existed along the Cornwallis beach until as late as 1977, when the Council’s programme of bach demolition that had begun in the 1960s was completed.
With the baches gone Cornwallis remains as a largely unsullied corner of Auckland, free from development. Visitors enjoy walking the length of the beach, and enthusiasts fish from the pier. McLachlan’s generous gift has meant that this unspoiled environment will be preserved for future generations of Aucklanders to enjoy.
Above: Cornwallis viewed from the McLachlan Memorial at Puponga Point
Further reading:
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There’s nothing like watching a bit of cricket to evoke strong memories of New Zealand summers past. I couldn’t get a ticket for the reduced-capacity Eden Park ODI versus Australia yesterday, but enjoyed watching the match on TV with friends in Grey Lynn. The nostalgia value was fairly high from the outset, with the music played through the stadium wafting out through the TV’s speakers.
This quickly reminded me that as far as the DJs who select the music for cricket matches in New Zealand are concerned, the 21st century is a foreign country. Indeed, with a few exceptions it seems that their watches must’ve suffered major structural damage around the year 1990, because there’s next to no hints of contemporary music in the ultra-conservative playlist that’s dished up in grounds across the country. This is a real pity, because in playing it safe by selecting only the most well-worn songs, the DJs are reinforcing foreigners’ views that New Zealand is culturally backward and out of step with the modern world.
It’s hard to argue when you start to keep a list of what’s being played. (Yes, I did - I really am that boring). Excluding signature songs played when batsmen emerge for their innings and thematic songs such as Eurythmics’ Here Comes The Rain used to illustrate a weather delay, here’s a sample of the fare played to the crowd (and, intermittently, to TV audiences in New Zealand, Australia and around the world) during the New Zealand innings:
AC/DC – Thunderstruck, Bon Jovi – Livin’ On A Prayer, Oasis – Wonderwall
Some ageing raspy-voiced late-80s Australian rock leads the way (Thunderstruck), and later on the mid-80s pomp rock of Bon Jovi ups the pop factor. Harking back to the mid-90s, the sub-Beatle copyists Oasis offer the sound of the ‘60s re-filtered through the slightly whiffy fabric of a rather worn and beery Ben Sherman shirt. A selection of music that averages 20 years old.
Bob Marley – Could You Be Loved, Buffalo Soldier
He died in 1981 so these can hardly be regarded as recent hits. Mind you, given the choice between Marley and most contemporary reggae artists you’d probably opt for Marley every time, so I guess I shouldn’t complain.
Supertramp – The Logical Song
From 1979. Don’t get me wrong, I like the idea that a band as terminally unfashionable as Supertramp can still get airtime in the 21st century. But we are talking about largely inconsequential music that was released a third of a century ago.
The Champs – Tequila
From the ‘50s! This 1958 song is still remembered today no doubt in part due to its starring role in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, it also helps that New Zealand cricket crowds love any reference to hard drinking and potential inebriation (see also Th’ Dudes – Bliss).
Split Enz – I See Red, Six Months In A Leaky Boat
Sure it’s good to hear New Zealand music being played, and Split Enz are of course local legends. But these tracks are the best part of 30 years old – has nothing happened in the New Zealand music scene since 1980? And couldn’t they pick slightly less obvious Enz tracks to play? Not that I’m suggesting Maybe/Titus – that might be a step too far.
Netherworld Dancing Toys – For Today
Oh Jesus. Do we have to hear this every single bloody game? Just because it went to No. 1 and unleashed the vocal histrionics of Annie Crummer on an unsuspecting nation in the mid-‘80s, it doesn’t mean we have to flog it to death decades later.
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I’m not criticising the quality of these individual songs (well, mostly) but rather the idea that this represents the listening habits of everyday New Zealanders when they gather together in large numbers in the presence of alcohol and sunshine. I find it hard to believe that cricket crowds in New Zealand only enjoy ancient music, and it’s sad that in playing only the oldest possible material, cricket DJs are failing to reflect the fact that we now live in the second decade of the 21st century. Surely a more up-to-date musical selection would help to entice a younger audience to the game, which is vital if the sport is to maintain its place as New Zealand’s predominant summer sport.
