Gudrun Frerichs's Blog, page 2

Taumaruni on the Main Trunk Line

(Taumarunui, Hakiaha Street, June 2014)

I don’t know whether to believe in rebirth and several life-times. Maybe I should because there is no other explanation for my relationship with Taumarunui.

I heard about the place 20 years ago and we bought a little cottage there  as a ski hut – Mt. Ruapehu ski fields are 30 minutes away – and sold it again 13 years ago. Ever since I am ‘home sick’ for it.

Last weekend we went to the ‘Mountain’ for a break. The moment we left Te Kuiti and got onto the hills on that 70 kilometre stretch to Taumarunui, my heart did all sorts of jumps, from delight to joy to love to sadness and a deep-seated pull with a strong sense of ‘coming home’.

Now, let’s be clear, my ‘home’ is as far from Taumarunui as you can get. If you would go any farther, you would come closer. We are talking about the opposite end of the world. So what is going on?

Nobody understands my feelings about Taumarunui, including me. It’s a forgotten township that had its great days in the 50s till the 70s, when the rail way unlocked and shed light to hidden corners of New Zealand. Nowadays the train doesn’t even stop there anymore.

The railway station is empty, no conductor is calling people to quickly finish their pie and their drink and get back onto the train. No uniformed men are loading suitcases and cartons into the baggage wagon. No fearful parents shooing their kids away from the rails, no more steam escaping from the locomotives.

These times are long gone and with them precious jobs, all together resulting in an exodus of possibilities and people – all in the name of progress, of course.

Nowadays the main road is only busy when cars from up North hurry through town to get to the mountain or even farther South giving Hakiaha Street a fleeting sense of busyness. The long row of shop fronts threw its shadows comfortingly halfway down the road, giving shelter from the hot afternoon sun to the few people lingering in front of the cafe and the ATM machine.

Among colourful windows that promised quality goods costing next to nothing, empty shop windows glared accusingly at the passer-bye with big ‘For Lease’ signs asking them with a hint of resignation to stop, help to turn back time, or become the beginning of an economical upwards trend. But not much energy is left from the good old times. Embarrassed houses trying to hide the peeling paint work, the fading shutters, the broken window panes, and the wrecked doors that don’t shut anymore but hang in their hinges like old flags on a forgotten flag pole.

There is a difference between shabby old and antique. No, there were no fancy shops or trendy cafes in Taumarunui. If you want fancy or trendy you have to step on your gas pedal and go straight through to Taupo or Wellington.

And yet, Taumarunui is where I dreamed I would end up spending the sunset years of my life. On the top of a hill, surrounded by sheep or just pine trees, reflecting, thinking, writing to my heart’s content. Away from the rush, busyness, and pretence of a large city. Just resting. No phone calls. Just enjoying Taumarunui on the banks of the Whanganui river, a river steeped in the history of the land.

When you sit at Cherry Grove getting whiffs of pine trees mixed with the rotten smell of submerged foliage and icy mountain freshness, you can listen to the river as it dances with gurgling sounds over the rocks of the rapids, tearing lose some moss, catching some sun light here and there through the branches of age-old trees, creating a mystical, quickly passing impression of spirits touching down here and there, whispering of times of peace and times of war, loves lost and loves won, hardships and blessings, births and deaths, all in ever recurring cycles.

As we approach the end of our active, professional life, my kids want us to live close to them for comfort, company, and family, and in case we get ill they would be close at hand. I dream of Taumarunui in the middle of nowhere. I think what ever way the dices will fall, it will involve a missing and letting go of a dream.

And now I know my affinity to Taumarunui has to do with my life. The aging process, being all sought after and wanted when young, and then not so much anymore. The younger, the more modern are now steering the boat. Yet there is something that we offer, a connection to times long gone, a security, a wisdom born of a life lived fully, a resting point. So, maybe there is a second lease on life possible as long as we dare to take it. Even when our paint is peeling off slowly.

Travelling In Style

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(Lounge at Singapore Airport)

If you want to travel in style – trust me – you better have enough money to fly at least business class. Anything less is torture. You better stay at home.

I, of course, did not heed my own advise. I booked my flights in the most crazy way, all with the intention to save a few bucks. When my husband heard of my travel arrangements, he rolled his eyes … you know the kind of rolling that earned Anastasia Steele a severe spanking. But I digress.

Even though I am usually not endorsing big companies, this post will end up to be a praise of Lufthansa – a partial praise would be more correct. Why, because their inland planes suck. There is no softer or kinder way to convey it. They have all the trimmings of a normal air plane, BUT the layout of the seating is designed for the transport of people not taller than 135 centimetre or 4 foot something. So you can’t sit and you can’t stand because that is forbidden during flight. Unless you want to use the ‘facilities’ which of course are – again – for little people. I still don’t know how the 300 pound heavy passenger fitted in there, he barely made it through the aisle. And I won’t even talk about the food. I won’t!

After having spend my day flying around Germany, covering Hamburg, Munich, and onto Marseille, my flight from Marseille to Frankfurt (don’t ask, it was cheaper that way!) was delayed by about 30 minutes. A devastating fact given I had only one hour time to change air planes. When asked, the smiling Stewardess assured me that it will be plenty of time, I will have no problems, the plane will wait for me. Whom was she kidding??? I have seen TV reality shows like Easy Jet. They don’t wait. They leave you stranded!

Then finally, sitting on the little people plane – I was smart enough to get an aisle seat, so at least my legs had some space – stressing out just a wee little bit, a guy came and took the seat next to me who looked liked one of the gun slinging guys one sees on the news when they report of unrest and anti-American demonstrations in the Gaza strip. He appeared very nervous, twirled his fingers, and read in a very worn book with arabic signs. So my mind goes crazy imagining headlines like “Plane disappeared over Frankfurt”.

After having had my usual 4 minutes pre-take-off-paranoia, I was fine and landed well in Frankfurt. No terrorist activity – it turned out later he was just as nervous as I to catch his connecting flight. I am deeply sorry for suspecting an innocent man for a few minutes just because of his attire and beard. I had thought better of myself.

And now the ‘praise Lufthansa’ bit! Because we were late they had to park the plane on some distant paddock. BUT they managed to bring special busses to the plane, whisked me and 5 other passengers to a special pass control point and customs, drove like crazy all around the air field to drop us off at the plane to Singapore with 5 minutes to spare. That was absolutely marvellous. Of course it would have been saving some stressful minutes had they told us already during the flight, but who is complaining? I still wait for my luggage to catch up with me. I think it’s somewhere between Nairobi and Hanoi – but that is a small price to pay!

I repeat: Go business class or stay home!

Touching the Past

(The Sacred Spring – Glanum, greek-roman settlement, St. Remy de Provence)

There is something mystical about walking through ancient ruins. At least, for me it is. It’s one thing to open a book and look at monuments, statues, and remnants of cultures long gone. It’s a totally different experience to visit such places, to be there.

The weather was on my side. A crisp, clear morning waiting for the sun to rise higher and start warming up the air. Not many people were about on this public holiday. Armed with my new pair of sun glasses, my trusted old Lumix, and heaps of time on my hands I was ready to be transported into the past.

Not a difficult feat standing at the beginning of what used to be the main street of a settlement that was started about 2600 years ago. I am sitting down on a boulder that used to be part of the entrance of a housing complex and closed my eyes to see better. In my mind the walls and buildings, ruins for Centuries, restored again became the back drop of life stories.

I could hear people talking, debating, whispering in a language I did not understand, but still held a fascination or me. I could see a woman filling a large ceramic container with water from a well. I could smell the evening meal simmering in a pot over a fire place.

A couple on a bench under a tree gasping in the throws of passion; a woman bending down attending to a sick child; men clad in white togas congregating in the forum to discuss politics or what’s needed for the welfare of the people; people worshipping Gods unknown to me, asking them for guidance; people preparing for war fare; people dying; houses falling to ruins.

Places like this show us the rise and fall of cultures, the ruthless passing of time, the impermanence of our dreams and creations. They are a reminder of how brief our visit is in this world. It’s humbling and my every day worries shrink into insignificance.

My walk took hours and every time I closed my eyes, I caught a glimpse of the life that was once lived here. Mistook the rustling of the leaves for the rustling of togas as people walked past. I am convinced, just because we can’t see them anymore, people (long) gone leave something tangible behind that is there for us to connect with when we close our eyes and open our minds.

A Natural Woman

 

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Hearing the song “A Natural Woman” performed today, made me think of the men I have met over time, beginning with my dad and my grand dad who all in their idiosyncratic way helped me to develop or unlock parts of myself I didn’t knew I had then.

With some of these ‘gifts’ I wasn’t too happy at the time, but looking back over 60 odd years, I can see that even they held a learning for me – propelled me on my way to becoming the woman I am today. So, here the lyrics – be glad that I am not singing LOL – as a tribute to the men who inspire us woman to be the best we can be!

A Natural Woman

By Aretha Franklin, Lyrics by Carole King and Gerry Goffin

Looking out on the morning rain

I used to feel so uninspired

And when I knew I had to face another day

Lord, it made me feel so tired

Before the day I met you, life was so unkind

But you’re the key to my peace of mind

‘Cause you make me feel

You make me feel

You make me feel like a natural woman

When my soul was in the lost and found

You came along, to claim it

I didn’t know just what was wrong with me

‘Til your kiss helped me name it

Now I’m no longer doubtful of what I’m living for

And if I make you happy I don’t need to do more

‘Cause you make me feel

You make me feel

You make me feel like a natural woman

Oh, baby, what you done to me?

You make me feel so good inside

And I just wanna be close to you

You make me feel so alive

You make me feel

You make me feel

You make me feel like a natural woman

You make me feel

You make me feel

You make me feel like a natural woman