One Weed, Two Reads

This pretty little plant, with its three-petalled flowers, caught my eye today in Wellington's spectacular and rather lovely Central Park (and I had noticed it earlier in other parts of town). It is Tradescantia fluminensis, a kind of Spiderwort, also fancifully known as the Wandering Jew. Although it's highly invasive and regarded as a noisome weed, it does make the most delightful ground cover...
 Meanwhile, I find myself with more reading time than I expected on this holiday, and am reading in tandem Flannery O'Connor's The Violent Bear It Away (her second and final novel) and Michel Houellebecq's Submission (his latest).  An unlikely pairing on the face of it, but both are works of fiercely individual imagination that make no concessions or compromises - take it or leave it (and many, understandably, find both writers too strong meat). O'Connor's God-soaked world and Houellebecq's God-abandoned one are equally absolute; there is no way out of either. Oddly, however, religion does find its way into Submission, which is in its typically perverse way a kind of acknowledgment of the inevitable 'return of religion' - this time in the form of the near-future Islamisation of France. It's a fascinating book, and, as always with Houellebecq, horribly readable. I shall probably have more to say when I've finished it.

 And I saw another Monarch in Central Park.

To the Botanic Garden

Yesterday we took a ride from the city centre up to Wellington Botanic Garden on the 'cable car' (actually a funicular railway, fact fans). This is surely one of the world's great funicular rides, delivering you in a matter of minutes from the noise and bustle of the CBD as they call it (Central Business District) to the peaceful airy heights above town, and to the spectacular botanic garden which spreads itself greenly over a steeply sloping hillside site. Winding paths thread their way through a unique mixture of dense (evergreen) native woodland with specimen trees and plants from around the world, floral displays and the usual features - visitors' centre, cafe, an excellent playground. And all this is free, gratis and for nothing, in marked contrast to our own ludicrously expensive Kew Gardens.
 There is also a fine rose garden and, near it, a duck pond - where, to my delight, a splendid Monarch butterfly was gliding in elegant circles over the water. Until I came here, I didn't know Monarchs were to be found in New Zealand, but so they are - and across much of the South Pacific. They are in fact one of New Zealand's 'iconic' butterflies (they like things 'iconic' here), along with the Red Admiral (of which enough said).
 Yesterday was sunny and bright (though of course windy), but today is a horror - ferocious winds and rain blowing in from the bay, lowering skies, a day to batten down the hatches and stay indoors. Considering the dramatic contrasts in weather from day to day, it's a wonder the New Zealanders' temperament is so calm and equable, but so it undoubtedly is.

Butterfly

I have seen my first New Zealand butterflies - or rather butterfly: one species, three or four sightings. It was the New Zealand Red Admiral (Kahukura, for my Maori readers), a common species here, even in town. In pursuit of my quest for early deportation, I must report that, aesthetically, it is very much a poor relation of our own native Red Admiral, but I was glad to see it. That any butterflies at all manage to thrive in a city as windy as Wellington seems wellnigh miraculous. However, we've had a couple of beautiful days of sparkling sunshine and only light breezes. Yesterday I even took a bracing dip in the sea.

To the Zoo

One of the treasured books of my early boyhood was called the Sunday Dispatch Animal Book - a tall hardcover bound in dull red cloth, containing grainy black-and-white photographs and descriptions of a wide range of zoo animals. It was given to me by a young Frenchman we had staying with us one summer as, I believe, a 'paying guest'. Though unimpressed by Hampton Court (c'est magnifique mais ce n'est pas Versailles), he had enjoyed London Zoo and, noting my interest in the animals, had given me the Sunday Dispatch book as a parting gift. I was quite bouleversé by his generosity.
 I was reminded of this book, and that long-ago zoo visit, when we went yesterday to Wellington Zoo, a cheery modern zoo in a fine hilly setting, with plenty of activities and attractions. It has a decent collection of animals and shows them off inventively and as humanely as possible, all the while hammering home the conservation message - well, that is a large part of a zoo's job these days. The animals, as zoo animals generally do, rise above the indignity of their circumstances, carrying on their animal lives regardless, often rewarding eager spectators with a no-show, a defiant glare or (if they're really lucky) an act of gross indecency. The stars, by and large, live up to their billing - Wellington's Sumatran tigers are particularly magnificent - and the chimpanzees, well aware that they are performing for their kin, put on a splendid, all too human, show. These agile, mischievous beasts were a big hit with the grandsons, as were the tiny marmosets that, along with a torpid iguana, entertain (from behind glass) diners in the zoo's café.
 At day's end I discovered that my face had turned a rather startling lobster red. New Zealand sunshine is famously strong, thanks to a hole in the ozone layer. They say it's healing itself now, though, as nature is wont to do.

England

Today - or yesterday, or whatever it is - I see my piece on the bizarre film England, My England is on The Dabbler...

To the Museum

Yesterday we all went to the Museum of New Zealand, Te Papa Tongarewa. This is a fine museum - lively, enterprising, welcoming, well designed - and it has much to commend it, especially to children, thanks to the range of interactive exhibits. It is also full of Maori art and artefacts, ranging in size right up to a full-scale meeting house. Now, this stuff is no doubt of great enthnographic interest, but from the purely aesthetic point of view (i.e. mine), there's no denying that it is for the most part hideous and dispiriting. The compulsion to cover every inch of every surface with elaborate repetitive patterns seems downright pathological and the effect is very wearing, while the grotesque faces that stare out at the unfortunate viewer at every turn - grimacing hideously, eyes bulging, tongues protruding - seem to bespeak a culture of terror and darkness, rather than the prelapsarian idyll we'd prefer  to imagine. Yet Maori imagery and symbolism is incorporated into virtually everything visual in New Zealand as so much benign and innocuous decoration, and no visitors to Te Papa seem anything but delighted by the overwhelming profusion of Maori material.
 The Antipodean nations used to be known for their 'cultural cringe' towards the vastly richer culture of the mother country. Now the cringe is directed towards the earliest inhabitants - in Australia's case, in a determined over-celebration of Aboriginal 'art'. You could call it political correctness (and you wouldn't be far wrong), but New Zealand's celebration of Maori art probably has more to do with the Kiwis' fundamental niceness and good nature, for which God be thanked. However, I think I shall have had more than my fill of all things Maori by the time I head home from here.

From the Antipodes

A belated Happy New Year to all, from Wellington, where the haunting cry of the Tui [above] rends the air.