Crapping on a yak.....overland to the other side of the world and the rest: Day 236

Having noted that Christchurch is very similar to a large English market town in appearance, there are at least two notable exceptions to this.

Firstly, there is the troop of Maoris doing traditional dances for the tourists in the main square in front of the cathedral. Though there is still some evidence of resentment from some of the Maori populace regarding their historical usurpment by white Europeans, they are an integral part of the identity of New Zealand. In fact there are apparently no ‘fully blooded’ Maoris still alive today, so much have they become part of the modern New Zealand. Having said that, this latter fact may not be unrelated to the decimation of the Maori population in the Maori Wars of the 1860s, caused by tribal conflicts triggered by disputed sales of land to European settlers. Still, comparing the Maoris in New Zealand to the Aboriginals in Australia, I can’t ever see the Australian rugby team performing any traditional Aboriginal dances before the kick off of their games.

Secondly, you are unlikely to see prostitutes openly displaying their wares on the streets of any market town in England. Brothels are legal in NZ, and there are a significant number of ‘massage parlours’ of the non spa kind scattered throughout the city. It seems somewhat incongruous in these very middle class settings.

However, there is a more downmarket end of Christchurch which myself and Caz explored today. It’s Mary’s birthday tomorrow, and we have been priced out of central Christchurch in our search for suitable presents. Here the brothels are somewhat less discreet and sex shops proliferate along the street. Though Caz and I go into one, we decide none of the items on display would quite suite Mary. We manage to find a shop back in the centre with a woolly hat in Irish colours on sale, which will go nicely with the ‘kiss me I’m Irish’ badge Caz bought for her in the centre’s market square.

In the evening, we go ‘The Bog’, where I have arranged to meet Kirsten, a native Kiwi who used to serve behind the bar at my local pub in Reading. There’s a Scottish mandolin player performing mainly Irish songs – I request The Pogues ‘Streams of Whisky’. He’s a decent musician but his voice is quite weak so most of the pub’s patrons ignore him. This prompts him to take his cordless mandolin on a wander around, and then out of, the pub. He goes right across the street, and surprisingly the wireless system still works. With everyone getting used to him being nowhere near where the sound is coming from, when he comes back in, he sneaks up inches behind Kirsten, who doesn’t notice him for at least a minute.