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Roger Rabbits with |
She was brooding and craving attention. You could sense it.
Because, usually, I would begin most days gazing on her, admiring her poise and dignity, relishing her in all her moods. Not recently though. Uh-huh! Not since 9.30am, January 22. The moment things changed dramatically, drastically, fatally. The big slip.
But this morning she had made a big effort; she’d put on her party dress. It was a sassy, frothy little number of white misty organza. Sea smog. Eerie, but she wore it well. It billowed cheekily from her waist, just below the bush line, and tumbled away into the tide below. Her upper reaches, a rich Linwood green bodice and crown soared 232 metres into the skyline. She looked magnificent.
Flouncing in finery
I’ve often seen her in a bonnet, a white smudge, a ‘cap cloud’ they call it, sitting stationary atop her peak. I’ve seen her obliterated by storm clouds, but I’ve never seen her flouncing in her finery, her party dress. “Do I have your attention again?” she seemed to be asking? “Do you like what you see?”
Well, yes I do. Very much. She had inveigled her way back into my life with a bit of frippery. I liked that and promised I would drop by and say hullo. Because she loves attention, she’s a diva, a mountain amongst hills. She needs people crawling over her, around her, scrambling up her, abseiling down her, soaring off her, photographing her.
The party dress of sea smog had been burned off by a sun yawning awake on the eastern horizon. She is true to her Māori name – “caught by the light of the day”. The party dress is back in the closet, and Mauao, The Mount, is in her daywear.
Except I call her ‘Fedora’ because her profile from my deck reminds me of the Indiana Jones-style hat. The Fedora. Very Harrison Ford.
Mauao in her bonnet mood. Photo / Supplied
Before it became hero wear, the Fedora was a feminist “symbol of empowerment”. So, to me, Mauao is also a monument to the independence and strength of women. A mountain of many hats.
Sound of sorrow
So I spent time with Fedora in Adams Ave this week. Sad. Very sad. Barricades, fences, signs. None beckoning or welcoming. “Closed”, “Do not enter”, “If you hear sirens, evacuate ….immediately!”
“Good morning” smiled a security guard. Well, no it’s not. Security guards on Adams Ave 10am Wednesday? But it has to be this way for the time.
We just miss the other signs, the signs of summer – pizza, ice cream, beach towels, sunscreen, bare feet, salty sandy bodies, hurley burley, commotion, traffic, lots of cars, people, lots of people. Noise.
But the only noise today was the haunting sound of sorrow – hearts still quietly weeping for Sharon, Max, Måns, Lisa, Jacqualine and Susan whose spirits will dwell forever at the foot of Mauao. How should we commemorate them? An issue for another day.
Divine hope
I sat there fiddling with my ‘rosary’ – a ratepayer key fob to the hot pools, or where they once were. The pools were my sanctuary from whatever crap life chucked at me. Soak and forget. The fob did the same job as a rosary, a tangible prayer and comfort. I will continue fiddling in the divine hope the pools will be delivered back.
Across a deserted road, a deserted ice cream shop is screaming “indulge yourself, please!” So I try to kickstart the local economy. A Super Waffle – ice cream, fudge, cream and nuts – at 9.40am. Glad to have helped!
I don’t want the empty takeaway joint next door on my conscience. So at 9.53am I buy a $17.99 snapper burger combo. I give it to a hard hat across the road. I pay. He eats.
Above a buttress of shipping containers just inside the camping ground boundary, there’s a deep scarf in the hillside. The slip. Curious things don’t have to be massive to be deadly.
That’s a reason a mountain is “temporarily closed”, why security fences tell me what I can’t do and where I can’t go. But there’s still an urge to charge, well waddle, up her tracks to the summit. Been there a squillion times but every time feels like the first. Part of her magic. I also need to talk to Monica who lives eternally at the summit. I need to touch the memorial and tell her that her rape and murder 37 years ago is as senseless today as it was then.
Blobs and boats
The base track is “temporarily closed” – how long is “temporarily”? Because I also need to check in with ‘Blob’, a big brown fur seal on the rocks just above the shipping channel. When he sees me, he will throw his head back as if judging, “Where the hell have you been?” I also watch the Maersk mega-ships ploughing through the gut – containers going out, money coming in – a sight to delight Treasury. You can hear massive marine diesels throbbing away. What exotic destination are you off to? When will you return? It’s a sideshow but a goodie.
Is that new green growth on the face of the slip. Is the scar healing? Are we healing?
Can we have our mountain back soonest, please?