The Primeval Thrill of Those Snow Capped NZ Mountains

New Zealand does it to me every time – the first sight of those snow-capped mountains and primeval, dark craggy, body of the North Island has me in An Emotional State!

The thrill of flying over the theatre of the New Zealand landscape, over the Canterbury plains to the mountains and beside the coastline towards the jutting curves of the Wellington Harbour on a clear winter day. Emerging into the bright wintry sun, pure air and energy of the Capital City of this enterprising small country, triggers my own creativity on overdrive – or maybe it’s just the fact that I’m away.

Waiting for the flight from the southern city of Christchurch, I am carried away by the casual chic of the New Zealand corporate woman. Before I know it, I’ve approached a black and white leopard-style dressed fellow traveller to tell her how good she looks. As it happens she works in the fashion industry for Trelise Cooper -one of New Zealand’s top designers.
She immediately invites me to lunch at their superstore, which incorporates a French restaurant and I vow to go.

However disparaging Australians are about New Zealanders there’s no disputing that this is Style City – Wellington, that is, but so is Auckland – and Christchurch where I’ve just inspected the top end of High Street and groovy designers, specially my personal favourite, Ricochet. Luckily for my wallet, I only had time for a cursory whirl.

Queenstown, my soul’s home, is about to host its Winter Festival from June 26 – 5 July. Fireworks, Night Skiing, races, street parties and other revelries in the town of a continuous jolly parties. It’s all snow and go – how about it?

And the Band played Waltzing Matilda...

“Keep in time with the town hall clock, “ the serviceman said at my spontaneous decision to join the march down the main street of my little country town. Why not? I hadn’t remembered to polish the medals won posthumously by my father and had trouble matching them with the right ribbons in the box on my dressing table, but had proudly donned them on this one day of the year.
Anzac Day is part of my heritage – of every Australian and New Zealander and becoming acknowledged by younger generations every year.
Since my early childhood I had worn them to the Dawn Service in Christchurch, New Zealand, more recently, Melbourne, Australia and the year before last in China - Shanghai. That was special as the service was held jointly by the Australian and New Zealand Consulates – with the Turkish Consul as a progressively invited guest. In a rare occurrence, I got to sing both National Anthems and realize both sides of my identity.
I was made to feel special as a young child baring those medals. I hadn’t known my father – he was killed in a freak accident after 17 missions flying a Wellington over Europe with the RAF’s Bomber Command, four months after I was born.
Nor had he known me – his only child and wife of only a short time back home on the other side of the world. Like so many others, his life was cut off before it had really begun – at the age of 25.
Much as I tried, I could never conjure him up, although I wrote a film script of his story a few years ago in that vein, but Anzac Day was Dad day to me – the day I honoured him.
There were three or four of us marching behind the eight or nine so diggers and straggle of scouts behind the Kyneton Band. The years walking of boarding school “crocodiles” made it natural to keep in step. The rain had stopped as we marched down the short stretch of street to the town hall. My cheeks were wet with the unexpected poignancy of the occasion.
The service was short and the least formal I’ve attended. School children gave readings, a local singer guitarist performed “I was only 19,“ and a country and western singer sang “And the Band played Waltzing Matilda, “ flat and checking the words.
All over the country, in New Zealand and many parts of the world – particularly Gallipoli where it began 94 years ago, similar commemorations are happening. It has become more than a day of remembrance – a day of reckoning, of identity, an audit of life purpose. As I age, this solemn day affects me more each year.
This is our culture – formed by war as throughout history, rather than peace. Australians and New Zealanders are never more conscious of their national identity, than on this day.
The little local service in my new life in the country is as significant as any of the massed ceremonies – and the bugle player’s Last Post was far superior to the Oriental rendition in Shanghai!

Living with Victorian Bushfire Alerts

Words truly can’t describe the emotions a crisis like this engenders.
Since that fateful February day when the sky turned dark and the wind swept the streets with a sense of foreboding, country Victorians have been in a suspended state of nervous tension.
In the words of Victorian M.P. Fran Bailey, whose constituency covers most of the ravaged areas: what can you say when a man comes up to you and says he found the bodies of 17 of his friends?

I really can’t go through many more days like Friday. For 99% of the year your home is your sanctuary and there is nothing to fear. But in the current circumstances, it’s the pot at the end of the rainbow – the place you want to be when you’re anywhere else, but where you can’t relax when you are.

Friday was predicted by all to be a dangerous day and the warnings were so intense that I received messages and calls from friends and family far and wide. “Get out of there,” they said, “Now, tonight or at least before 10am tomorrow.”

One of my email messages was telling me that there would be Relief Centres open all Friday – including the local Town Hall at Kyneton. I had no intention of resorting to that. But on Thursday night, I was strongly urged to do so by a member of the Macedon Ranges council staff at the local Malmsbury Planning meeting.
Back home, the calls and SMS kept coming until midnight. When I settled down to sleep, I found I couldn’t and started planning to pack my car.
By 6am the sense of urgency had escalated, at the same time as the day dawned without sign of the heat and wind expected. Nevertheless, I packed 3 of my favourite paintings in the car beside my grandmother’s chair and took off with a loaded car to spend the day in Kyneton.

At the town hall, the staff were not particularly welcoming and gave an outright “No” to my request for the internet encouraged by the staff member the night before. I turned away dispiritedly, still desperately wanting to be quietly working at home and headed for the friendly faces at the local cafes. The supportive owners of Slow Living invited me to spend the day. I plugged my computer in and alternated between my comfortable proximity to the healthy food and Little Swallow Café over the road. All of this was intercepted by hourly sessions sitting in my car listening to fire updates on the radio.
A friend at the café offered to plug me into the internet at his house, so I eventually took advantage of the offer and continued working in pleasant circumstances in the dining room of his charming bluestone cottage a few streets away. So the day dragged on…. and the reports, with thankfully no serious fires.
I had a meal at a Kyneton restaurant, with a weather eye on the anticipated South East Change – this was the biggest threat to my property. It was surreal – the filling in of time before I could safely return to my home in the country with my lack of outside water. The pump to my bore is currently in pieces at the fixer’s place, while he recuperates from a back problem.

The next day I thankfully unpacked my grandmother’s chair and the paintings and my bag of clothes. The box of other treasures remains there. I was wrung out by the end of the day, limp and drained, yet there had been no serious fires and no further losses.
I have just received an SMS from the Victorian police. They have sent messages to 5 Million Victorians. Extreme weather is expected tonight and tomorrow, high wind and fire risk. We are instructed to listen to local ABC radio for emergency updates. It’s on again.. . How much longer are we country people to be subjected to this tension? Don’t even mention Global Warning.

Tears, dust, ashes - and celebration.

Last Friday I cancelled a lunch and went to St Paul’s Cathedral in
Melbourne to attend a memorial service for the bushfire victims – twelve days ago, today.
Tears, dust and ashes – a service for those affected by the Victorian bushfires – of prayer, hope and remembrance.
It was Friday 13 February – a day regarded by many as full of gloom. Gloom there was not on this occasion, just sadness, reflection and celebration. Candles were lit and white stones placed on the altar by representatives of each of the communities affected. Tears were shed at the devastation and bewilderment at the scale of the crisis. Explanations? How can anyone possible attempt such?
At the crux of the crisis, on Black Saturday as it’s now known – the day I arrived back from the New Zealand mountains and drove into the holocaust, I wanted to flee this country for that verdant land where I had just come from – the land of my birth and no bushfire history or forecast.
Suddenly New Zealand seems the place to be facing the onslaught of Global Warming.
My resolve firmed during that stressful night during my listening to the urgent fire alerts on the radio, checking the CFA (Country Fire Authority volunteer force) website and paranoiacally looking outside for any signs of fire on the horizon.
We sang the Australian National Anthem during the service in St Paul’s – the first time ever for me during my forty years’ residency and my raw emotions overflowed into the thought, “ This is my community. How can I leave it?”
It’s the fate of an ex-pat to have that dilemma never fully resolved. You belong here – and there, but never fully in either. At some stage you make a choice, but not necessarily for ever. Or you divide your time – if you are lucky enough to be able.
It's at times like this that you think of home and Australians round the world are rallying right now. Among the consolatory calls I've had from around the world was a homesick Australian friend in Beijing.
The dust may have settled, but the fires are not out and the bushfire season far from over. The debate is raging over the prevention strategy and will be paramount in our planning for long to come, but the lives of those affected and surviving the maelstrom of the Victorian bushfires of February 2009, has been changed for ever.
Our emotions are on a raw edge, and we are still in shock - and I'm talking about those not directly affected, but the community spirit is high and everywhere you go there are bushfire appeals. More offers of help – clothes, food, accommodation and pairs of hands, have been offered that can be utilized
Victoria might no longer be the place to be in the long term despite its considerable cultural clout, but the spirit of the people is a powerful force.
The vineyards of the Yarra Valley have suffered enormous loss, but tourists are the restorative needed. Come visit you wine lovers and culture soaks. There are great galleries amongst the vines in this corner of the globe. And always a plethora of delights in Melbourne.
ADVANCE AUSTRALIA FAIR.

New Zealand Mountains, Pinot and Bushfires

After three days of intense wine talk and tasting in the burgeoning pinot district of Central Otago (English Wine Guru Jancis Robinson said last time she attended – in 2005, that it could be the most exciting area for Pinot Noir outside Burgundy. She came back this year - and said a lot more this time), it was a salve for the palate to take a walk up the mountains – actually one of the Great Walks of New Zealand – the Routeburn Track.
After driving to the bottom from Kinloch at the head of the lake – Wakatipu, on which the international alpine resort town of Queenstown is also located and where the Pinot Celebration was held, it was embracing to lose myself nature and the process of trudging up the track. I had forgotten the marvellous camaraderie of mountain people – that everyone you encounter is your immediate best friend. It was a glorious day – not too hot, not too cold, the rivers sparkled turquoise below the dark line of the bush. And despite the volume of fellow walkers, there was plenty of time alone with the birds, just walking in the bush.
Even more refreshing was the friendly Ranger at the Routeburn Falls Hut who offered me a cup of tea and the query,” What’s Pinot?”
I was wearing the relaxation as the plane touched down in Melbourne and I stepped out to a temperature of 46 degrees – the hottest ever on record.
My son collected me with the words that I needed to keep tuned into Emergency Radio. I had walked into a crisis, with bushfires erupting by the second and it was almost too sudden to keep track.
I drove back to my home in the Victorian countryside on instant alert, not knowing whether the fire had crossed the Calder Highway towards my hamlet as it had the day I left (and came within the outskirts of the nearest small town). My mind was in a whirl of survival plans and worry about my lack of water. There is a problem with my bore that I hadn’t succeeded in having fixed before I left.
Well my property was and is OK and I’m OK. It was a sleepless night that night for me and many others. Unlike others, I’ve been lucky so far, but with a 12-year drought and predicted further high temperatures, it’s not over yet.

Thailand is Trisara

Trisara – name that rolls off the tongue. After the increasing cold and grey of Shanghai, Trisara is magic… after a journey via Bangkok I arrive at Phuket in the middle of the night and am whisked away to a bed of great comfort. Cool sheets, room to stretch, peace, quiet, luxury..
I awake to the beauty of a tropical morning – warmth, colour, light. I pull myself out of my cocoon to breathe in the beauty on my private poolside patio overlooking the sea. Palm trees, white umbrellas, aquamarine water, a stretch of beach. And no people!
I hurry down the steps – or saunter, through the foliage to the breakfast terrace and am met by smiling locals preparing the resort for the day. I linger over a perfect breakfast of tropical fruit, toast and top notch coffee facing the sea outside, but my breakfast partner fails to appear. Eventually, I realise – after she has been called, that there is a time difference between Shanghai and Thailand.
I am an hour early for my appointment.
So… more time to enjoy this day in the paradise that is Trisara –“the third garden in Heaven” in Sanskrit, this sanctuary with its private beach, away from the world of rush.
I try my private pool, I fall back on sun lounge, my book drops from my hand.
Later I come close to Heaven with a Four Handed massage – two sets of hands working in tandem, one set of which I feel but never set eyes on its owner!
Normally this signature massage is performed with three sets of hands, befitting its tri – identity.
Waved off by a smiling team, I drag myself away on schedule after less than day at Trisara, rejuvenated already, but Trisara I’ll be back. I’ve found the perfect resort, lucky me…

Beijing is the word on everyone’s lips and it’s not all good, right now, but whatever the opinions, there’s no disputing that it is one of the key global cities of the future. There is so much of interest going on.

Visitors to Beijing are privileged to experience a developing society: as one Western entrepreneur working in China observed; “I can’t imagine doing what I am doing now (opening three restaurants simultaneously) in any other place in the world or at any other time.”

There’s a sense of pervading excitement and unfolding plans that one imagines existed in colonial days – in establishing Western civilization in outposts of the known world… Shanghai in the 1930’s… India under the Raj…

That coupled with the age-old mystical attraction of the East – the Orient, the ancient Chinese culture, which has influenced so much of the 21st Century world:
French cuisine, for instance, which originated in China.

Philosophising aside, Beijing is beguiling … and addictive…. I didn’t want to leave on my last trip a couple of weeks ago. “This is about to open and I haven’t seen that”… It took me a while to feel my way into the Imperial City. It is built on a far grander scale than Shanghai and harder to get around. Now, on every trip, I discover more hidden corners.

With the ambitious building program prior to the Olympics, there’s bound to be so flack – some hotels or restaurants that don’t work, or have over-extended. The fascination now will be the Beijing of the post-Olympics. Many of the planned restaurants such as the Beijing establishment of Michele Garnaut of M on the Fringe, Hong Kong and M on the Bund, Shanghai, wisely made the decision months ago to wait until after the Olympics to open. Now she has been joined by many others who didn’t make it in time, held up by building plans and other complications.

I can’t wait to see the Beijing of 6 months time – or a year. Chinese American attorney Handel Lee’s redevelopment of the Legation Quarter in the former U.S Embassy to the Qing Dynasty will be completed and the redevelopment of the historic Foreign Legation Street it is on, complete with trolley buses – Qianmen, known as “Heaven’s Passage” during Imperial Times. The CCTV “Trousers” building will presumably be finished, “The Egg” - National Centre for the Performing Arts and “Bird’s Nest” Olympic Stadium will be settled in and many more.

Come to think of it, don’t think I can wait till then – excuse me while I book my flight…I really need another exquisite dinner at Maison Boulud and duck dinner at Duck de Chine in The Hidden City….and all those other places that haven’t opened yet …