Earthquake, resignation, weather — eventful start to 2023
When I was a teenager I was sometimes given a diary as a Christmas gift, a standardissue pastel-coloured notebook for recording daily events, and to be cleverly hidden from accidental scrutiny.
There was a brand available that had a dinky little lock and key but I never got one of those.
I’d start writing on January 1st, on holiday at Mt Maunganui, and each entry would have been pretty much rinse and repeat: ‘‘All day at the beach, fried myself in coconut oil but only turned a darker shade of pale. Mum wouldn’t let me go to the dance. I’m too young, and too many ‘bad influences’. So not fair. Tuatua fritters for dinner.’’
Such commentary lasted three weeks at most and I’d give up because January was typically sunny and bright, and nothing much happened apart from endless days in the surf with friends, and battling sunburn. The latter, of course, has done me a disservice in later life.
I thought about my old diaries during this ‘‘summer’’ at the Mount because stuff just kept happening and there would have been much more to record.
It’s almost a relief to flip the calendar into February and hope for calmer times ahead.
The earthquake that woke our holiday household early on January 4 was possibly a portent of things to come: the bach rattled and groaned in an unnerving manner and we checked our phones and found there had been a 5.1 magnitude quake near Te Aroha, about 90km away.
Everything rocked on from there. Next day, January 5, British novelist Fay Weldon died. Weldon was 91, famous and formidable, a literary hero from last century, perhaps best known for her brilliant revenge novel, The Life and Loves of a She-Devil (1983), later adapted for television with Meryl Streep as the lead.
Weldon spent much of her childhood in New Zealand, including summers in Coromandel, where her father (estranged from her mother) was medical superintendent for the peninsula, based in Coromandel town. I met Weldon there for a Waikato Times interview in about 1999 when she made a nostalgic visit from England.
She was known for her acerbic style, and the interview had the potential to be challenging.
After a friendly handshake she apologised that the hem on one leg of her trousers had fallen down and was flopping and fraying around her ankle. She said that she was never any good at putting herself together in the morning. I loved every minute of the time with her.
It was the around the day of Weldon’s death that we could no longer ignore the relentless rain that was blighting our beach days and barbecues. It was another portent of things to come.
Basically, we were cooped up indoors, various adults, kids and a new puppy.
The Christmas books, paint-boxes and model planes got a thrashing, the dog got taken outdoors (thus avoiding accidents) during brief fine windows, my mother’s old roasting pan had some rare summer appearances.
The weather cleared for the 50th wedding anniversary celebrations of good friends, a long lunch that began at midday and rolled on into the evening. With all the essential elements of history and treasured memories and things that are truly important.
Same lucky break a week later, another blue-sky day for a wedding in our network, with everyone splendidly frocked up and basking in sunshine and happiness. There was laughter, tears, toasts, dancing, and an outstandingly excellent time.
The day before the wedding, Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern resigned. It caught the country napping, and the circumstances around her move were widely documented and dissected.
Sufficient to say here that Ardern departed with characteristic dignity: her overall experience of New Zealand and New Zealanders in the job, she said, had been one of love, compassion, empathy and kindness. Being PM had been the greatest privilege of her life.
If the misogynists, the mean-spirited, the name-callers and the trolls who stoked the toxic anti-Ardern rhetoric and rumours had contributed to her decision, she wasn’t saying. Just as she never spoke the name of the Christchurch mosque killer, she gave no oxygen or recognition to any of the above.
On the contrary, she noted that she would not like her resignation to be seen as a negative commentary on New Zealand. It was a master-class in graceful exits.
What else could happen? Well, another formidable woman died, Titewhai
Harawira, aged 90, a similar age to Fay Weldon. Harawira was a vocal and uncompromising campaigner for Mā ori rights.
She was an utterly familiar face at Waitangi Day commemorations, in good times and in challenging times, and there will be a poignant gap in the ranks on Monday. RIP Weldon and Harawira.
A couple of days after Harawira’s death, as the month was drawing to an end, the rain got really serious and Auckland suffered unprecedented downpours, destruction and tragedy. Out of this, there have been stories of dramatic rescues, community heroes, heart-breaking loss, and heart-warming kindness. Auckland mayor Wayne Brown’s media ‘‘drongos’’ were clearly working around the clock to cover the chaos.
Coromandel, Bay of Plenty, Northland, and other areas, have been walloped by the weather, too, and months of assessment and recovery lie ahead.
Just before the rain bomb, I went to a dinner at Lazat Malaysian restaurant in Hamilton to celebrate Chinese New Year. The highlight was a Yee Sang Prosperity Toss, a traditional ceremony where participants toss bowls of beautiful salad ingredients together with chopsticks and make a wish for the year ahead.
The more vigorous the toss, the better the chance of a good outcome, and I’m hoping that we all put in enough effort in the interests of health, happiness and everything else for 2023. The first month has not gone to plan, and where is a pastel diary when you need it most?