As a teacher in New Zealand, I'd sometimes
ask my children to retell a familiar story as a fortunately/unfortunately
story. Here's an example of what I mean.
Fortunately the first little pig built
himself a lovely house of straw.
Unfortunately the big bad wolf came along.
Fortunately the little pig just had time to
rush in and lock the door.
You get the idea? Well I’ve a story to tell
about the four weeks I’ve just spent in New Zealand overseeing the start of
earthquake repairs on our Christchurch home, and I’m going to tell it in a
similar way.
Last week I was sitting with my son in an Auckland café enjoying a hot cross bun and a cappuccino. This week I’m sitting outside on our very pleasant patio with the branches of the pink oleander beside me swaying every so often in the breeze. It’s pretty, but sadly no hot cross buns.
Last week I ate fish and chips in Akaroa
against a perfect view of harbour and hills. Akaroa’s a little township that
was originally a French settlement. It’s quiet, picturesque and about an hour’s
drive from Christchurch. This week I stood with my husband in the family queue in Panorama Mall Food Court and bought a lamb shawarma. And the only view as we sat to eat, was a constantly moving mass of black abayas and white thobes.
Last week I was shopping in the small town
of Shannon at Box of Birds Design. Upstairs I discovered picnic mats with a Made
in Arabia tag, and knew that I’d bought one just the same in Riyadh’s Kuwaiti
Souq. I’d lugged it all the way back to New Zealand in my baggage as an
engagement gift for my daughter and her fiancée. Finding a little bit of Saudi in the back blocks
of New Zealand was almost too hard to believe. This week I caught our compound
bus to the Princess Souq, knowing that this little bit of Riyadh was unlikely
to make it to any New Zealand retail outlet.
Last week I watched my niece perform in her
school production of West Side Story with family seated all around me. This
week I’m missing whanau and sharing music and moments like this.
Last week I helped lead the repair process
on our house, talking to building contractors, plumbers and engineers, then making
decisions and seeing things through. This week I’m a second class citizen,
unable to drive or do anything without the authority of my husband. This has nothing to do with him I must add, but everything to do with the way this society runs.
Last week, I stopped at Zara in the Hong
Kong airport terminal where I was in transit and tried on an armful of
clothing, just because I could. This
week I walked straight past Zara in Grenada Mall, because it’s all too
difficult here when shops don’t have fitting rooms and women are forbidden to
try anything on.
Last week just before I left I dug up the
daffodil bulbs in our Christchurch garden. I gave them to a friend to look after because they’re a very special reminder of a much-loved parent.This week as I look at the yellow marigolds lining the path to our front door, I know that
one day I’ll leave these behind and return to my daffodils, planting them anew.
Perhaps in a new garden and a new place, but surrounded by memories like
these, it’ll nevertheless be home.
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