Photos of Singapore in 1970 & 1988

 

I first arrived in Singapore on the Chinese New Year in 1970

Singapore is a city that has changed immensely over the last 50 years, perhaps more so than any other city in the world. I have been to this interesting city just twice - in 1970 and in 1988 and to celebrate the 50th anniversary of my first visit, I have dug out a further series of photos from both my visits from my photographic archive. This will supplement those I published in a blog three years ago, which has proved to be most popular.  

A street scene in downtown Singapore in February 1970

Sampans in the harbour in Singapore  February 1970

A Cluster of Sampans in Singapore Harbor, 1970

Not so many of the traditional boats in Singapore Harbour in 1988

The rooftops of Chinatown from the New Seventh Story Hotel, Rochor Rd., February 1970

When I next visited Singapore in August 1988, high-rise buildings had appeared along the banks of  the Singapore River

...and Raffles Hotel was about to close for a big modernisation programme. 

Text & photographs ©Neil Rawlins 

Selected travel photos from these & other blogs are available from my photo gallery

 https://www.picfair.com/users/Antipodeanneil

My paperback books on my Overland travels in Asia, Europe & Africa in the early 1970s and the experiences of a tour guide on the Asian Overland routes & leading Camel Safaris in Rajasthan in the 1980s are available from Amazon.

 

Postcard sent from Carcassonne, France in October 1972

 

   In recent weeks, to keep myself occupied during the covid-19 lockdown, I have been collating my travel letters & postcards to my parents and copying them onto my computer. The first letters date back over 50 years, when I flew first to Singapore and then to Kathmandu to join an Penn Overland tour to London. As I read through my letters I begin to realise just how much my parents must have looked forward to them. I was on the other side of the world and a sometimes infrequent letter was the only reassurance my parents had that I was Okay. This was the days before faxes, and many years before email, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and the now modern means of communication.

 I can still see my mother walking to our roadside letterbox at 10 River Rd.  Te Atatu, or, in later years at 1360 Whangaparaoa Rd, Army Bay, to collect an envelope with a grouping of colourful exotic postage stamps. Looking intently at these small colourful postal labels, she would rush inside to open and read of the adventures I had been having. I had asked her to preserve my letters after they had done the rounds of family and friends, which she did assiduously and, I dare say, probably re-read them.

  

 

Envelope of letter posted in Moscow, June 1971

I remember the excitement when, as a child and teenager, I received letters from overseas. The colourful stamps and exotic postmarks added to a sense of mystery and an eagerness to read the contents. The letter may have been from a family friend who had recently gone overseas, or maybe it was from a penfriend of whom I had a number during schooldays and after. I was also an avid stamp collector in those days and consequently always hoped a letter would have many colourful stamps. 

Aerogramme posted in Kabul, Afghanistan. March 1970

In 1970, when I headed away from New Zealand, first to Kathmandu to travel Overland to Britain, I began writing on a regular basis.   It is now, as I transfer my letters on to computer, that I began to realise how important my letters were to my parents.  Sometimes there were sizable gaps between my communications, especially when I was in Third World countries. There must have been times when they were concerned, especially when I was in darkest Africa in 1973. It is possible some letters may never have arrived, although looking through the correspondence of these years, I would think the most did. In those days it was really the postcard that took the place of a quick text to say all was okay.  I would send postcards between lengthy missives, and I know my Mum, in particular, always enjoyed these colourful postcards. Today an email is received the second it is written, even from the remotest of  destinations.  

 Following are a few colourful envelopes and postcards from these pre-computer days when the only means of of urgent communication was by telegramme,  or phone call, then expensive and having to be booked hours, or even days, in advance.  

           An envelope posted in Kigali, Rwanda during my Trans-African odyssey in 1973

                                                     A letter from Gibraltar in November 1971

                    A cluster of Nepalese stamps on a larger envelope posted in Kathmandu in 1981

        Stamps in particular, could be topical, such as the marriage of Prince Charles to Diana in 1981

        

Sometimes the placement of stamps can make things a little difficult, as there's not much rooms on a postcard at the best of times. This postcard was posted in Yazd, Iran in November 1979, during the American Hostage crisis, hence the reference to 'the troubles with Americans'.

     A post mark on a letter can also conjure up images of exoticism. The postmark can tell its own romantic story.   I have selected half a dozen, mainly from the '60s, before individual post offices & theor postmarks disappeared.           

                                                                              Nuku'alofa, the capital of the Island Kingdom of Tonga.

Banana, a small town in central Queensland, Australia.

    

Eureka, in the Waikato District of New Zealand

 

             Cyanide, Tarkwa, Ghana. Postmark from the Cyanide Mine dated 1964

    

Anchorage, the capital of Alaska

            Yeppoon, another small town in                               Queensland,  Australia

    

    Today, letters, postcards and postmarks are now a thing of the past, now replaced by emails and instagrams.

Text & photographs ©Neil Rawlins 

Selected travel photos from these & other blogs are available from my photo gallery

 https://www.picfair.com/users/Antipodeanneil

My paperback books on my Overland travels in Asia, Europe & Africa in the early 1970s and the experiences of a tour guide on the Asian Overland routes & leading Camel Safaris in Rajasthan in the 1980s are available from Amazon.

Swayambhunath: a Temple in Kathmandu

On a hill overlooking Kathmandu city is Swayambhunath Stupa, also known as the Monkey Temple, said to date from the 5^th century AD. A visit to this ancient monument is a must during any visit to Nepal. I made my first visit to Swayambhunath 50 years ago. Along with a companion, we hired bicycles and cycled to the base of the hill where we left our bicycles under the watchful eyes of a couple of small boys - for the consideration of a rupee. Passing two guardian Buddhas, we began the hike up a long flight of stairs, passing small chaityas and a rather interesting group of mani, or prayer, stones on the way to this magnificent structure. 

The Buddhas & small chaityas at the beginning of the stairs to Swayambhunath

Interesting mani, or prayer stones on the path to Swayambhunath

As we neared the top of the stairs, a couple of young monkeys (rhesus macaques) were playing on the railings, sliding down a section, then bounding back to the top and sliding down again. They took little notice of us. Above, a spectacular golden canopy of rings appeared, followed by the eyes of the Buddha, gazing benignly down at us. A large white hemisphere, streaked with yellow paint, came into full view as we reached the top of the stairs.  Immediately in front of us, guarded by two lions, was the Vajra, the sacred thunderbolt that is the symbol of Vajrayana, the Diamond Vehicle, the common form of Buddhism practiced in Nepal. This form of Buddhism has adopted various aspects and manifestations from the Hindu doctrine of Shaivism, the cult of the god Shiva, often worshipped in Kathmandu as Bhairava.

The Vajra, the sacred thunderbolt, the symbol of Vajrana Buddhism, largely practiced in Nepal

Beyond the sacred thunderbolt, in all its splendour rose, the great white hemisphere of Swayambhunath. There is an incredible amount of symbolism entwined  with legend in this great structure which is, to the outsider, both fascinating and confusing.

The large white hemisphere, known as the garbh or “womb”, symbolizes the creation of the world of nature. This is surmounted by a gilded square tower called the toran upon which stands the churamani, a conical canopy of golden rings.  Painted upon each of the four sides of the toran are the eyes of the Buddha. These glaring eyes are symbolic of Buddha's all-pervading presence. In place of a nose there is a representation of the number one in the Nepali alphabet, signifying that the single way to enlightenment is via the Vajrayana path of Buddhism prevalent in Nepal. The third eye, signifying the wisdom of looking within, is depicted on the forehead between the two eyes and no ears are shown as it is said the Buddha is not interested in hearing prayers in praise of himself. 

Duncan Forbes in The Heart of Nepal gives the following description of the symbolism of the stupa: ‘These grave, all-seeing eyes are the yes of God. They represent the Adi Buddha, the primeval mind out of whose consciousness the world was formed. To the European the nose looks like a question-mark, the symbol of enigma and mystery of creation, but it was not intended thus. Buddha, more correctly written “Bodh”, means “Mind” or “Intellect” and is the force that creates order out of chaos. The Triratna, or “three jewels”, which are the primeval Trinity, include the Adi Dharma, Primeval Matter, and the Sangha, or Visible World, as well as the Adi Buddha, but it is the Adi Buddha that stands in the centre as Creative Mind. Without Mind the Adi Dharma is simply Chaos, the domain of the flaming, wild demonic Ugra Tara.’

Surrounding the Golden Temple are numerous shrines, the small stupas known as chaityas, Tantric statues, prayer wheels, Shiva lingams, and the large Vajra or sacred thunderbolt. There is a Hindu temple to Harati, Goddess of smallpox, a manifestation of Kali, goddess of time, creation, destruction and power. This temple also signifies the intermingling of Hinduism and Buddhism; Vajrayana Buddhists have no incarnation in their own pantheon to protect against the dreaded smallpox, so they have adopted this Hindu deity for protection. 

A monkey sits in the facade of the Temple of Harati, the smallpox god.

The macaque monkeys also have free reign throughout the temple complex, hence Swayambhunath is often referred to by Westerners as the ‘Monkey Temple’.  

 The legend of the origin of Swayambhunath is rather beautiful. Once upon a time the Kathmandu Valley was a vast lake which, since ancient times, had been a holy place for all Buddhas (those who have achieved enlightenment) and Bodhisattvas (those on the road to Buddhahood). Vipaswi, one of the early Buddhas, visited the lake and noticed there was all types of flowers growing there except the lotus. Acquiring the root of a lotus, “from the mouth of the womb of the universe”, he chanted a mantra and threw it into the middle of the lake. Vipaswi then made the following predictions to his disciples: “In the future this root will make a lotus flower with a thousand petals. On the top of the lotus will appear the light of Svayambhu Dharmadhatu, the self-created.” The lotus then bloomed ‘like a dazzling jewel, the Vajra (sacred thunderbolt), like a rainbow produced by the sun’s rays being spread or diffused by water droplets’. (from the Mythological History of the Nepal Valley from Svayambhu Purana).

  Centuries later, after seeing a vision of a lotus, the Bodhisattva Manjushri travelled to Swayambhu on the lake to worship the lotus. On looking around, he saw that the valley would make a good place for settlement, so he cut a gorge through the mountains through which the water drained. The lotus became the hill, the flower became the golden Swayambhunath Stupa and the drained lake became the fertile Kathmandu Valley now made suitable for human habitation.

We walked around the minor shrines and temples of this sacred hill, avoiding the squabbling monkeys clamouring for food. Swayambhunath is a serene retreat, certainly a place of peace after the hustle and bustle of downtown Kathmandu. I spent some time watching the pilgrims, many of whom were Tibetans, now refugees from their homeland not so very far away across the mountains. These colourful people, circumambulating the Stupa, praying at the shrines  and  spinning the numerous prayer wheels, were happy to pose for a photo. 

Three Tibetan women making their way around the great stupa.

A Buddhist monk spins prayer wheels at Swayambhunath

After a couple of hours, we retraced our steps, back down the flight of stairs and retrieved our bikes, still being watching over assiduously by the small boys, who insisted on leading us into a Tibetan refugee settlement where we saw girls weaving traditional rugs.

Tibetan girls weaving the distinctive Tibetan rugs, in a small refugee settlement near Swayambhunath

  Taking leave of our young friends, we made our way to the Vishnumati River, a smaller tributary of the larger Bagmati River. The river was low, with piles of rubbish along the cityside bank  being turned over by pigs. We made our way, wheeling our bicycles, over the lower makeshift bridge, before cycling back to Kathmandu.

Makeshift bridges over the Vishnumati River on the way to Swayambhunath

Text & photographs ©Neil Rawlins 

Selected travel photos from these & other blogs are available from my photo gallery

 https://www.picfair.com/users/Antipodeanneil

My paperback books on my Overland travels in Asia, Europe & Africa in the early 1970s and the experiences of a tour guide on the Asian Overland routes & leading Camel Safaris in Rajasthan in the 1980s are available from Amazon.

Thoughts, on the Way to War by Pvte J.E.J. Westbrook

I recently came across this hand-written memoir as I was sorting through family papers. It was written by my Uncle 'Winks', Pvte J.E.J. (John Edgerton Jury) Westbrook. He had entitled the paper simply 'Thoughts' and it describes his feelings as the Auckland Division of the First New Zealand Echelon leaves Papakura Military Camp in January 1940 to embark for, as they thought, war-torn Europe. The second section of this memoir was written on board the troopship Orion, as it steamed across the Indian Ocean. I find a passage in this second section particularly poignant and moving, as I know it refers to his mother, my maternal grandmother: "I’d never seen tears in her eyes before."

  Private Westbrook was promoted to Lance-Corporal in Egypt after the Greek and Crete campaigns, but he never returned to New Zealand. He was killed on the 1st December 1941 during the furious Battle of Sidi Rezegh, during the relief of Tobruk, where he is buried. He was an aspiring writer, perceptive and emotional, as this short piece shows This memoir was returned to my grandparents along with his diary and other belongings.                 
  Neil Rawlins

In the pre-wars years Pvte Westbrook spent holidays here at Sullivans Beach in Mahurani

Papakura Military Camp   1940                       Thoughts

Volunteers marching to camp in October 1939.
Pvte Westbrook (insert) is in the 3rd row. 

The afternoon sun beat down as we laid seakits on the ground and stood at ease. Here and there a shoulder hitched, manoeuvred, the heavy pack on his back into a more comfortable position. Here and there a handkerchief came out to mop a perspiring forehead. The faces around me were not the smiling, carefree faces of yesterday; they were set, more serious…. This was our final Battalion Parade on New Zealand soil.

The lines of khaki swayed, polished brass flashed in the sun.  In the distance a bitumen road dividing them, stood more lines of khaki, more brass flashed. The green glass looked cool, inviting the men to rest, to run their hot hands over its soothing coldness. The band stood on the road, instruments gleaming brightly…. The Auckland section of the First Echelon was saying “Goodbye” to its camp.

“Battalion!” It was the Colonel. The lines of khaki were rigid. “Battalion will march in column of route ----“ The band was playing, orders were shouted, seakits were heaved onto shoulders, rifles were placed onto the other shoulders. Boots began to lift up and down to the steady beat of the music, faces began to crack into smiles, eyes began to gleam – “We’re going!”

“Goodbye, fellers, see you over there!” “Give my love to the French girls!”  “H’ray Dick”, “So long, Tom”. “Leave a Hun for me!”  And so, with a smile and a wave they passed through the few remaining soldiers of the camp and the nurses from the camp hospital.

The column of soldiers was long. It wound along the road to the entrance of the camp where the dust began to lift from under heavy, hobnailed boots as the bitumen terminated. It wound past cars and people who had gathered on a corner to bid them farewell. It wound along a rough country road – a huge khaki serpent, its flashing head breathing a stirring march. The three long white strips on its back waved as seakits were shifted to different positions.

The road was dusty. The sun still blazed down. The serge uniform was hot. Perspiration streamed down faces, trickled off chins. Some cursed and swore freely as the perspiration found its way into eyes.

The bulky seakit was an awkward thing to carry. Tuck it under the arm - that’s alright for a while, then it starts to slip down. Bring it back up again – it rolls, then starts slipping again. Darn that rifle, wish it had a sling, could use two hands for the seakit then. Try it on your shoulder, soldier. That’s where you had it before! Makes your arm ache, does it? Now let’s see, carry the rifle in both hands in front of you, now rest the seakit on the rifle. Ah! That better?  Tramp, tramp, tramp… Whew! It’s hot. Wish you could have a spell? You’re dying for a smoke? Just keep tramping soldier, there’s an end to every road.

More dust, more sweat, more curses. “Hey! Where’s that blasted station? We’ve passed one a mile back. Why couldn’t they have had that train there?”  Tramp, tramp, tramp… A seakit bobbed as it was heaved from one shoulder to the other, something fell on the road.  “Look out, Joe! Your seakits come adrift. Why in ‘ell did you have to carry it upside down?” “Aw! It’s only a cake, Joe. Leave it for the sparrers. They like it with a bit of dirt.”  The sparrows never had a chance. Joe had retrieved it and it was back in his bag. A girl had given that cake to Joe the afternoon before. Joe liked the girl, the girl liked Joe.

On and on….  Hullo! What’s this? Cement road, the main highway, the township! Ah, the station can’t be far away now!  Past some garages, men in greasy overalls stood to watch and wave. “Poor devils!” maybe were their thoughts. Past the shops. Rifles lifted in acknowledgement of the waves and cheers of the girls. A smile and a cheery answer to the more serious “Goodbyes” from the older folk. “Goodbye, mother,” “Goodbye, Dad.” “So long, girlie.” “Look! That girl in blue, she’s crying.”  “Hey, girlie, lift that chin up. Come on, smile.”  She looked up, handkerchief to her mouth and smiled, a very wan smile. She’s the girl that brought the cake to Joe yesterday. Joe’s very quiet.

On they go. There’s the station. Look at the mob there! The band’s playing, the crowd’s shouting, cheering, waving. Joe’s girl is keeping pace with him, smiling with him, but the tears still run down her cheeks. They march into the station. A hasty kiss before Joe passes through the gates and the girl in blue… she stands there … her eyes ….  God, there were thousands like her that day.

Khaki figures halted by the train. Seakits thumped to the ground with sighs of relief. Packs heaved as they were moved to ease tired shoulders. Handkerchiefs wiped moist faces. Eyes searched the crowd for friends or relatives, brightened as they found them. Eyes searched the overhead bridge which had its full share of humans. Khaki hats came together, something was said, there was a wink. The word spread, and khaki hats tilted as more eyes searched the bridge. Arms waved. Some of the boys shouted “Whoopee!” others “Yippee!” Some just looked. There’s something so very fascinating about a girl’s slender leg, especially if she is blissfully unconscious of just how much leg she is showing. At that moment there were several pairs of full length, sheer silk, hosiery getting scrutinized and criticized by the boys below.

A whistle shrilled the air. Khaki figures stiffened. “Troops will embark in the following order …”  The colonel again. The band kept playing. Orders were barked, the ranks broke and melted into the carriages. Windows slammed, heads bobbed out, arms waved. Another whistle, deeper, louder, then the train moved. Cheers drowned the band.  “Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye!”

                           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steaming towards the setting sun & the battlefields of North Africa

Today, as I sit writing this, the boat rolls very, very gently as she plows her way through the calm waters of the Indian Ocean, her bows towards the setting sun.

The boys, some stripped to the waist and barefoot, are strolling, sitting and lying on the decks. The tropical warmth has made the ship’s swimming pools popular, so has the tropical warmth increased the popularity of the wet canteen. In the lounge a Housey Housey man raises his voice above the chatter and laughter so that he can be heard by his players. The piano is just audible, tinkling a modern tune. With their backs to all this, there are some, leaning on the rails, watching the waves and following the flights of the flying fish as they skim above the waves.

Thoughts of that march and the farewell from Papakura are far distant, but always appearing in their minds are visions of familiar faces. Visions, some young, some old, some with silver streaks in their hair. Now and then a voice will be heard – “I wonder what they’ll be doing in good old New Zealand now?”

“I wonder?” Maybe that is just what a grey headed lady is saying at this very moment. “I wonder?” Just two words, but what memories they will bring to one’s mind….  There is one lady, there were tears in her eyes when she said “Goodbye.” I’d never seen tears in her eyes before.

Portrait of Pvte Westbrook in uniform before
departure overseas

I have read this clipping many times, a clipping from an English paper several months old. It is just a humble piece of prose by a woman author, but what a wealth of meaning it holds…

“Mothers know the meaning of the evil thing called War. They know what heartaches lie behind the tumult and the roar. If German mothers had been asked – before the blood was shed, “Poland or your son?” … Is there a doubt they would have said – “My Son”. For what do women care for hate, revenge and gain… The women who must give their men. The women who remain – beside the hearth to pray for those to whom they’ve given birth. What is it to them if their great Fuehrer own the earth?

“What is that to them if far away ‘neath Polish skies – the lad they love lies staring at the stars with sightless eyes? The boys may march to battle in a patriotic glow – But Mothers know the price of glory. Yes, the mothers know.”

                        J.E.J. Westbrook  2928      

L/Cpl J.E.J Westbrook's name inscribed in the Hall of Remembrance, Auckland War Memorial Museum

Text & Photographs  Pvte J.E.J. Westbrook & ©Neil Rawlins


My paperback books on my Overland travels in Asia, Europe & Africa in the early 1970s and the experiences of a tour guide on the Asian Overland routes & leading Camel Safaris in Rajasthan in the 1980s are available from Amazon.

Chatham Islands - Forgotten Islands at the End of the World

Sheep in a Chatham Island landscape

             It was a warm breezy afternoon. The field of brown grass smelled of late summer. Ahead lay the dusty, gravelled road stretching to a cluster of houses in the distance.  I was walking home from school, alone, shuffling along as a child does, poking with my sandaled feet at the dust-covered stones. A car approached and I scurried across the road away from the enveloping dust plume. Ahead I could see the girl with the blond curly hair, a classmate. I walked faster, closing the distance and called out… but then I awoke. It was a dream. I was about twelve or thirteen at the time and had recently read about the Auckland Islands, a group of uninhabited wind-swept islands to the south of New Zealand on approximately the same latitudes south of the equator as southern England is north, in a feature in the New Zealand Herald . There had been an abortive attempt in the 19^th century to colonise the Islands which has always fascinated me. In my dream, my family, along with those of some of my friends and current classmates, had moved to these Islands, presumably to farm, not that my family had ever had a tradition of farming, certainly not on my father’s side. However, it was the dream that remained deep in my subconscious, in that hazy region of memories that linger between childhood and adolescence.

A dreamscape come true - Chatham Island landscape

So it was quite a surprise when, on a warm spring day, I was picked up at the small Tuuta airfield and, as I was driven along the dusty island roads, something triggered my subconscious memory: “I have been here before!”  There were plumes of dust, grassy fields with a few sparse wind-swept trees. It was uncanny, this feeling of familiarity, even though I had never been here before. I had just arrived on the Chatham Islands, a windswept archipelago in the South Pacific some 700 plus kilometres to the east of New Zealand’s South Island, and further north than the Auckland Islands of my dream but, nevertheless, still remote, wind-swept, with just a small resident population. I had come over here to work the summer as the driver tour-guide for the Hotel Chathams in the main settlement of Waitangi. This uncanny realisation that I had been here before, albeit in a dream, helped me adapt to life in this small island community.

The sometimes-bleak landscape, with wind-swept trees, of the Chatham Islands

The Chatham Islands, an integral part of New Zealand, is 45 minutes ahead of that country’s standard time and are a reasonably large group of islands with a total land area of 966 square kilometres. The Islands are situated at latitude 44° South and longitude 176° West which should, in fact, place it on the opposite side of the International Dateline to mainland New Zealand. Practicalities when the dateline was decided, led to the adjustment bulge around the Chathams Islands. 

The original inhabitants of the Chatham Islands are the Moriori people who, like the New Zealand Maori, are Polynesian in origin. There is still argument as to how long they have been on the Islands. Some historians say they arrived from New Zealand as recently as the 16^th century, citing a lack of earlier archaeological evidence, but Moriori tradition speaks of earlier occupation going back at least a thousand years, very similar to the time that the first Polynesian navigators began arriving in New Zealand. These traditions speak of canoes coming direct from Polynesia and being wrecked on arrival, although there is at least one tradition of a return voyage to New Zealand, which would explain the presence of obsidian, or volcanic glass, found in a Moriori site on the Island. Whatever the truth, it did not happen the way we were taught at school; that the Moriori were the original tangata whenua, or ‘people of the land’ of mainland New Zealand and were driven to the Chatham Islands by the arrival of the more aggressive Maori in the mid-14^th century. This fanciful misinterpretation was concocted from mis-translations of Maori oral traditions by Victorian historians, adopted by the education authorities and taught to generations of young New Zealanders, like myself, for most of the 20^th century.  Maybe even now there are some who perpetuate this erroneous myth!  

The statue of Tommy Solomon, the 'last' Moriori at Owenga

Europeans first discovered the Islands in 1791, with the arrival of HMS Chatham under the command of William Broughton, who claimed the island for Britain. He named the island after his ship. The Moriori name for the island is Rekohu, or 'island of mists', and the Maori name is Wharekauri, or 'house of kauri', an interesting name as the kauri tree only grows in the northern North Island of New Zealand. Evidently an early Maori sealer settled on the Island and built a house out of the kauri timbers of a wrecked ship – the name was given to the entire Island after the Maori arrived in 1835, with European assistance. The arrival of the Maori was disastrous for the Moriori people, as not only were hundreds slaughtered and enslaved but European diseases killed many others. The Moriori population declined rapidly throughout the 19^th century. I was always taught at school that the last Moriori, Tommy Solomon, had died in 1933 and the race had become extinct. Tommy was the last full-blood, but today there are many of Moriori descent on the Islands and in New Zealand.

My first tour on the Island was with a horticultural group from New Zealand, who had flown in from Christchurch. We set off in the Hotel Chatham's old Toyota bus on a series of day trips, radiating out from Waitangi, the main town on the Island. The Chatham Islands have unique endemic flora and the best known garden plant is the Chatham Island forget-me-not, or Myosotidium hortensia, to use its botanical name. These now grow in gardens in New Zealand and around the world, but the only natural habitat is on these Islands. A big-leaved megaherb, the Chatham Island forget-me-not has a mass of showy blue and white forget-me-not-like flowers in the early Spring. We found several sites where these beautiful flowers grew, resplendent in their natural environment. 

Naturally-growing Chatham Island forget-me-nots on the coast near Kaingaroa

At the north of the Island there is a magnificent wetland and beach area known as the Ocean Mail Reserve. The name comes from the ship Ocean Mail which, on a voyage from Wellington to London, was wrecked just off the coast. 

Ocean Mail Beach, named after the ship that was wrecked off here in 1877

We braved the cold blustery winds and odd showers to walk through the Chatham Island flax of the wetland area, looking for the small flowering plants endemic to the islands. We found the delicate and beautiful Chatham Island gentian, and a couple of small thelymitra sun orchids, the Chatham Island speargrass which was just coming into flower and the very beautiful blue to purple flowers of the swamp aster, a small shrub daisy endemic to the Chatham Islands.

Flowers of the Chatham Island gentian - Gentiana chathamica - in the Ocean Mail Reserve

Very little remains of pre-European Moriori habitation, but what does is extremely interesting. First and foremost are the dendroglyphs, known as momori rakau or tree-carvings which are unique. These stylised figures were cut into the bark of kopi trees – Corynocarpus laevigatus – the karaka of mainland New Zealand, some 220 to 250 years ago. Unfortunately these old trees are fast disappearing as they reach the end of their natural life. Perhaps representing ancestors, these dendroglyphs are a link to the past inhabitants of the island and the grove at Hapupu has a distinct spiritual feeling to it, as if the ghosts of the lost race still move among the trees. While some dendroglyphs are difficult to interpret, others are quite distinct in form and there is a definite eeriness to the grove. 

A ghostly spectre from a past age - a Moriori dendroglyph on a kopi tree at Hapupu Historical Reserve

The other, more permanent, relic of this early civilisation is the cave of the petroglyphs, known as Nunuku’s Cave. These rock carvings are stylised representations of seals which once abounded around the coasts of the Chatham Islands, and were the major food source of the Islanders. Seals were virtually exterminated by the early 19^th century European sealers but the population has since rebounded. Nunuku, for whom  the cave is named, was an early Moriori chief who, sickened by the incessant warfare and cannibalism among his people, introduced a code of pacifism whereby:

“...because men get angry and during such anger feel the will to strike, that so they may, but only with a rod the thickness of a thumb, and one stretch of the arm’s length, and thrash away, but that on an abrasion of the hide, or first sign of blood, all should consider honour satisfied.”

He then followed it up with the curse: “May your bowels rot the day you disobey.” This was obviously effective as the Moriori lived in peace for around 500 years, until the Maori invasion of 1835.

Moriori petroglyphs in Nunuku's Cave, Chatham Islands

German Moravian missionaries arrived on the Chatham Islands in the early 1840s and although they made very little spiritual progress among the locals, they did leave behind a legacy of stone houses, the remains of which are the earliest European constructions on the island. In Mission Bay near Kaingaroa, are the remains of the earliest of the German mission houses, but at Maunganui, beneath the great bulk of the hill, is the intact cottage of Johann Baucke, now with a category one listing from Heritage New Zealand.

The 19th century cottage of Johann Baucke, Lutheran Missionary, beneath Maunganui

A more recent European relic is an old Sunderland flying boat, once operated by the RNZAF which struck a rock while taxiing to take off on Te Whanga Lagoon in 1959.  As it began taking water, the flight was abandoned and a subsequent survey deemed the aircraft, NZ4111, un-flyable. The Air Force recovered the engines, radio and radar equipment and fuel, and the fuselage and wings were cannibalised by the locals, serving as implement sheds and stock shelters. In recent years, an Air Chathams pilot has undertaken the mammoth task of finding and piecing together what is left of this flying boat, restoring for posterity a small piece of the Chatham Islands' aviation heritage.

The fuselage & a section of wing of the Short Sunderland flight boat under restoration near Kaingaroa

While many people will have heard about the geological phenomenon in Northern Ireland known as the Giant's Causeway, here on the main Chatham Island is a very similar formation. Just known as the Basalt Columns, they are located on a small wind and wave swept section of coast at Ohira Bay. These polygon-shaped columns are some 80 million years old and are of the same basic structure as those of Northern Ireland but, unlike the Irish version, paua in numbers inhabit the wave-splashed kelp fringes of this interesting geological feature.

The basalt columns at Ohira Bay on Chatham Island

Nearby is Port Hutt, a small settlement with a fish factory, whose dominating feature is the wreck of the HMNZS Thomas Currell. This ship had originally been a trawler, but during World War 2 had been converted into a minesweeper. In later years she evidently had been used as a freezer-hulk, before being abandoned and blown ashore in a storm. There was also an old fishing boat named the Betty T anchored, literally, to the Port Hutt wharf.

The wreck of the HMNZS Thomas Currell, a former World War 2 minesweeper, at Port Hutt

Bird-life in the Chatham Islands is, in many instances, unique to these Islands. Probably best-known is the Chatham Islands black robin whose population, in 1979, was just five specimen with just one being a female - Old Blue. Due to a concentrated conservation effort, these little birds now number around 250, all restricted to Little Mangere Island, an uninhabited smaller island in the group. I unfortunately did not get to see this wee bird, but one another bird that was also on the brink of extinction is the parea, or Chatham Islands pigeon. This bird, which in 1990 numbered only 40, is very similar to the kereru, or New Zealand pigeon, but is up to 20% heavier and has a yellow tip to its beak. Again conservation efforts and predator control has been successful in restoring numbers to an estimate of over 650. The Chathams also have their own sub-species of oystercatcher and pipit, and also a number of rare pelagic birds, including the taiko, or magenta petrel, until recently thought to be extinct.

The parea, or Chatham Islands pigeon - Hemiphaga chathamensis

Centrepiece of the buffet at the Kaingaroa Club.

 One of the highlights of a visit to Chatham Islands was the seafood buffet at the small but friendly Kaingaroa Club, some 50 road kilometres from Waitangi. Kaingaroa is the second largest settlement on the island and is primarily a fishing port. It was also near Kaingaroa that the Moriori people first made contact with William Broughton's HMS Chatham, with unhappy results, especially for a native called Torotoro who was killed 'defending his fishing gear'. The Kaingaroa Club sits right on the harbour and the gourmet spread put on by the local ladies always includes a large 'packhorse' crayfish. Other delights include a crayfish curry, paua (New Zealand abalone) lightly fried, also a paua and egg pie, smoked eel, muttonbirds (these are from Stewart Island) and ‘doughnuts’ cooked in weka oil. And there is a dessert selection to die for!

The Kaingaroa Club, Chatham Islands

Direction sign to Alzon, France in Waitangi

One day as I was bringing a tour back to the hotel, I noticed a strange yacht anchored at Waitangi. You did tend to notice these things after a while! In the hotel dining room were a group of Lithuanian sailors. They had called in for a feed of fish and chips, before the long, hazardous haul through the Southern Ocean to Cape Horn on their voyage around the world. Just to emphasise the islands remoteness, virtually at the end of the world, is the sign, next to the courthouse in the centre of Waitangi, that points to the little French town of Alzon in Provence, the antipodes of the Chathams, 12,800 kilometres away, straight down through the centre of the earth!

The reciprocal direction sign to Chatham Islands in Alzon, France

Text & photographs (except the French Alzon sign)  ©Neil Rawlins 

My paperback books on my Overland travels in Asia, Europe & Africa in the early 1970s and the experiences of a tour guide on the Asian Overland routes & leading Camel Safaris in Rajasthan in the 1980s are available from Amazon.