To Mr. Key,
Do you remember the days when education was free? No, neither do I.
Your public website (http://www.national.org.nz/) states that the Minister of Education, Mrs. Anne Tolley, "remains passionate about securing a healthy and secure environment for children." I imagine that is also how you sell yourself. Why then, the budget cuts to education institutions? This is not simply about the cuts to early childhood education, for that is only the most recent form. Whilst rummaging through the website, I came across a YouTube clip called "John Key TV - Your Education is Your Future: Believe in It!" That seems like somewhat of a joke considering all the money that the National government has taken from the education system so far. $25 million has been planned for "savings" by 2012/13 (http://www.nzherald.co.nz/ministry-of-education/news/article.cfm?o_id=119&objectid=10631206), plus $10 million in the next year. The funding for early childhood education has been cut, along with that of primary schools, high schools and tertiary institutions. Parents and students alike are forced to pay more money for less services. Education is one of the most important parts of our system. Your John Key TV clip advertises education as giving us "better choices about the life we are going to have, it gives us the rocket start for the different careers that will be part of our lifetimes, [it provides] more choices available to us." If you, and your ministers, honestly thought that this is the case, as I hope you do, then could you please tell me why you find it necessary to cut the budgets of the institutions that will give us these opportunities?
If you are preparing to argue that the education system already has a great deal of money available to it, then how about you work on making that money better used within the system? Why does my university degree cost more in course fees, even though I have less classes, less tutorials, less books in my library and no money to buy new ones?
Were you aware, Mr. Key, that your Minister of Education Anne Tolley is somewhat of a joke in several tertiary institutions? There is a running gag at Victoria University of Wellington that Anne Tolley will not be available for comment no matter how dire the situation. She has three adult children now. Did they ever come home with hastily scratched drawing of themselves, hands and faces still decorated with paint splashes from art class, only to ask their mother what she thought of their pictures? I imagine that she smiled a thin smile, nodded a little and said "No comment." How can someone make such important decisions about the education system when they obviously have such little interest in it themselves? And if Mrs. Tolley's actions are so useful, then why does she never justify them? Why is she always out of reach or unwilling to comment on something that directly affects so many people?
Why does my friend have to pay through the nose in order to send her child to preschool - a place that provides him with information, skills and important social interactions that he could not get elsewhere? Many neuroscience-based studies e.g. Bruce Perry 1997, (several of which are associated with UNESCO) have proven that the first five years of life are crucial in positively developing the brain. If this is so, then why would we offer our children anything less than the best? Why would we take away their opportunities to learn and to develop by taking away the money for the places that provide these opportunities? From John Key TV, Ms. Hekia Parata would have us believe that she wants "the same opportunities available for every child." Every child. Not just the children of wealthy New Zealanders. She wants every child to have the same opportunities. Do you, Mr. Key?
And for that matter, do you think that maybe, just maybe, you could give teachers a little more money? I mean, CEOs of several government ministries have had pay increases and now earn close to half a million dollars per year. Let's not mince words here. Five hundred thousand dollars per year. That is a lot of money, especially considering most teachers earnings start around thirty-nine thousand dollars a year, according to StatisticsNZ. That's $9615 per week versus $750 per week for teachers. It seems interesting that the CEO of the Education Ministry, Karen Sewell, has had a pay increase and now earns approximately $509, 999 per year. One person receives that much money in her bank account, yet still feels justified in deciding that jobs can be cut because there isn't enough money available. Hummm. She couldn't cut her own salary perhaps? In the National Business Review, State Services Commissioner Iain Rennie said that CEOs get pay increases for exceeding expectations. How come this does not apply to teachers? What expectations were exceeded? The ability to look the other way? The ability to stuff one's own pockets whilst robbing the education institutions of jobs and money? Sewell's income could pay at least 12 teachers' yearly incomes. Why is she more deserving than they? In addition, she is a member of a government-owned industry, meaning that her salary is paid by the government. So are the salaries of teachers. Fair? I think not.
How about you give teachers a salary that reflects what you think they are worth? Or, Mr. Key, is that exactly what you are doing? These are the people that are going to educate the children of New Zealand. They are going to inform these kids about how to succeed in and make sense of the world. They have a tough job to do and one that carries great expectations from the public. They are not only supposed to teach information, but also social lessons. They serve as substitute parents for 6 hours of every weekday. They spend time outside school constructing lesson plans and marking tests, which they do not get paid for. We entrust these people with giving children the skills and knowledge that will enable them to become successful adults. Yet you are only willing to pay them scraps, despite asking so much of them. Shouldn't their salaries also be motivation for others to want to step into the role of educators? Do you, as Prime Minister, honestly believe that teachers are being paid what they are worth?
If you want to argue about keeping up with international competition, then let me just say that this should never be about how well your neighbour is doing. Firstly, Australia has millions more people than New Zealand, and therefore it has millions more taxpayer dollars and resources to work with. Secondly, we are two different countries. We have different priorities and different means of achieving our goals. Your focus here should be on encouraging others to want to train as teachers by promising good working conditions and generous salaries. Otherwise you will only see more and more people leaving New Zealand in hopes of finding better prospects elsewhere.
So tell me. Somebody please. Explain the logic of this to me. How are we ever going to foster future leaders if we do not give them the resources needed to learn? Can New Zealand be judged on its own merits or will we forever be (negatively) comparing ourselves against our foreign counterparts?
24 October 2010
Liberty, Fraternity and Equality: New Zealand Wonders Where you have Gone
This Tangata Whenua thing will be the death of New Zealand. I understand it fair enough - the idea that Maori are the people of the land, owners of the land, indigenous people of New Zealand, with all the legal rights and intracacies that this now entails. I have a question though: why can't I be tangata whenua? I've lived here practically all my life. I've been away from New Zealand for less than one full year and I am now 22 years old. I consider this country my home more than anywhere else. But it's not really my home because someone else has more claim to it than I? Why can't I be tangata whenua?
Because I wasn't born here? Neither were the first generation of Maori people. They ventured here in water-bound vessels just like all British after them. And according to scientific discovery and Maori tales, they weren't even the first people to do so. There were people in New Zealand before the maori arrived from Polynesia. And just in case there is any confusion, yes, that is indeed where you are originally from. You didn't just grow out of the land. Maori immigrated here, just like everybody else.
The fact that there were people here before the Maori also discounts the idea that they have more connection to the land because they have been here longer. The Vikings were in North America well before any other peoples - does that mean that North America belongs to them? At least the American Indians and the Aborigines can recount their history back for thousands of years - and New Zealand's Maori are much better off than either of those peoples.
Also, if the idea of tangata whenua is for Maori people only and does not apply to Europeans, does that mean that nobody can consider themselves tangata whenua? Because there are no full blooded Maori in New Zealand (or anywhere else for that matter). None whatsoever. Surely there are some Maori people with a majority of Maori blood, but I highly doubt that anyone can trace their ancestry all the way back to the 1200s or whenever Maori arrived, and see not a scrap of "foreign" blood. It's like white people don't count. Like we are not as good as Maori or like some Maori want special rights that white people can't have.
As a side note, I might just add that Mr. Hone Harawira, who is so against his children dating Pakeha *cough cough racism cough cough*, has Pakeha blood running through his veins. I wonder if he feels tainted at all.
I am not anti-Maori, I'm not racist, I'm not being rude for the sake of it. I think Maori culture is cool. Your language is neat. It's cool that you can have something that can be said to be uniquely yours. It's this bloody foreshore-seabed issue again that has me worked up. However, something that everybody must share (and should share) like the beaches of New Zealand should never be specifically owned by anyone. The fact that anything is "owned by the Crown" doesn't actually mean anything. It doesn't mean that Maori or Indian or Chinese or whoever cannot use it because they are not British. "The Crown" basically represents the government, which thus represents New Zealand and its people. But what does Maoridom represent? Does Maoridom represent all of New Zealand and its people or does it just represent the interests of the Maori? Or some Maori, beause those I've talked to think that this issue is a big fuss about nothing. So a legislation that acknowledges the true owners of New Zealand's beaches as the Maori serves Maoridom and not New Zealand as a whole. That seems a little separatist doesn't it?
And then in comes Mr. Racist Hone Harawira. Dear Mr. Harawira, did you know that racism goes more ways than just white to black? Were you aware that minorities can be racist too? That's right, when somebody calls me Honky or Palangi or white trash or whatever, and that same somebody considers white people as trash or less than them, they are being racist whether they are a minority or not. So as much as I believe Rodney Hide is an overweight conservative with politics that are outdated, insulting him and then refusing to talk to white reporters can be seen as racism. As though our white politicians and white reporters are less than coloured politicians and reporters?
All Rodney did was put in the word free, which I think is a very good addition. I'm not saying that we would have had to pay to go to the beach, but I wouldn't put it past anyone, least of all Mr. Harawira to charge for something that should be everyone's right. And the minute the word free came into play, suddenly the whole idea was off. Suddenly, Harawira no longer wanted to play with anyone. How dare they put the word free in there, as though anybody could come wandering onto a Maori's land without paying the proper respect? And if that respect should come in New Zealand dollars, then all the better.
Perhaps ol' Harawira should learn from Paul Henry's mistake. It's not what you look like or where your parents come from that decides whether or not you can call yourself a New Zealander. It shouldn't be your race that decides whether or not you can call New Zealand home.
And as beautiful citizens of the human race, we should be able to stand up and denounce racism wherever we find it. I'm denouncing you, Hone Harawira.
I plan on going to the beach tomorrow. Takapuna beach in fact. Hopefully I can walk on it as a New Zealander, rather than as a white person.
Because I wasn't born here? Neither were the first generation of Maori people. They ventured here in water-bound vessels just like all British after them. And according to scientific discovery and Maori tales, they weren't even the first people to do so. There were people in New Zealand before the maori arrived from Polynesia. And just in case there is any confusion, yes, that is indeed where you are originally from. You didn't just grow out of the land. Maori immigrated here, just like everybody else.
The fact that there were people here before the Maori also discounts the idea that they have more connection to the land because they have been here longer. The Vikings were in North America well before any other peoples - does that mean that North America belongs to them? At least the American Indians and the Aborigines can recount their history back for thousands of years - and New Zealand's Maori are much better off than either of those peoples.
Also, if the idea of tangata whenua is for Maori people only and does not apply to Europeans, does that mean that nobody can consider themselves tangata whenua? Because there are no full blooded Maori in New Zealand (or anywhere else for that matter). None whatsoever. Surely there are some Maori people with a majority of Maori blood, but I highly doubt that anyone can trace their ancestry all the way back to the 1200s or whenever Maori arrived, and see not a scrap of "foreign" blood. It's like white people don't count. Like we are not as good as Maori or like some Maori want special rights that white people can't have.
As a side note, I might just add that Mr. Hone Harawira, who is so against his children dating Pakeha *cough cough racism cough cough*, has Pakeha blood running through his veins. I wonder if he feels tainted at all.
I am not anti-Maori, I'm not racist, I'm not being rude for the sake of it. I think Maori culture is cool. Your language is neat. It's cool that you can have something that can be said to be uniquely yours. It's this bloody foreshore-seabed issue again that has me worked up. However, something that everybody must share (and should share) like the beaches of New Zealand should never be specifically owned by anyone. The fact that anything is "owned by the Crown" doesn't actually mean anything. It doesn't mean that Maori or Indian or Chinese or whoever cannot use it because they are not British. "The Crown" basically represents the government, which thus represents New Zealand and its people. But what does Maoridom represent? Does Maoridom represent all of New Zealand and its people or does it just represent the interests of the Maori? Or some Maori, beause those I've talked to think that this issue is a big fuss about nothing. So a legislation that acknowledges the true owners of New Zealand's beaches as the Maori serves Maoridom and not New Zealand as a whole. That seems a little separatist doesn't it?
And then in comes Mr. Racist Hone Harawira. Dear Mr. Harawira, did you know that racism goes more ways than just white to black? Were you aware that minorities can be racist too? That's right, when somebody calls me Honky or Palangi or white trash or whatever, and that same somebody considers white people as trash or less than them, they are being racist whether they are a minority or not. So as much as I believe Rodney Hide is an overweight conservative with politics that are outdated, insulting him and then refusing to talk to white reporters can be seen as racism. As though our white politicians and white reporters are less than coloured politicians and reporters?
All Rodney did was put in the word free, which I think is a very good addition. I'm not saying that we would have had to pay to go to the beach, but I wouldn't put it past anyone, least of all Mr. Harawira to charge for something that should be everyone's right. And the minute the word free came into play, suddenly the whole idea was off. Suddenly, Harawira no longer wanted to play with anyone. How dare they put the word free in there, as though anybody could come wandering onto a Maori's land without paying the proper respect? And if that respect should come in New Zealand dollars, then all the better.
Perhaps ol' Harawira should learn from Paul Henry's mistake. It's not what you look like or where your parents come from that decides whether or not you can call yourself a New Zealander. It shouldn't be your race that decides whether or not you can call New Zealand home.
And as beautiful citizens of the human race, we should be able to stand up and denounce racism wherever we find it. I'm denouncing you, Hone Harawira.
I plan on going to the beach tomorrow. Takapuna beach in fact. Hopefully I can walk on it as a New Zealander, rather than as a white person.
The One in Which I Return.
Singapore Airport. Again. 3 months, 18 days later.
From Dublin to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to Singapore, Singapore to Auckland. All in one go.
Singapore Airlines now has a Nintendo package in their entertainment system. Which includes Zelda and Pokemon. Ooh yeah!
Beautiful sunset over Pakistan - wish I had a camera, although I doubt it could do it justice. There were no clouds that high up, so the sunset seemed to stretch on forever. Deep blues faded into soft pastels - blue, pink, yellow - before they finally culminated into the most fantastic orange I have ever seen. It was glorious. Brilliant. Captivating. Like someone had blended tangerines and oranges and splashed them across the sky.
During our descent towards Singapore, there was a stunning display of nature's strength and beauty. A lightning storm broke out above the Indian Ocean. Light arced across the sky and filled a pitch dark world with colour. Clouds were purple and black, grey and blue, wild and alive. We flew through the edges of it, unwilling to challenge a power we could neither tame nor control.
There is such beauty in the world.
I arrived at Auckland International Airport at 10pm. As I was coming through the duty free shops, I noticed that all the women working there (bar one who was Asian) were Polynesian. Funny that. It's like they designed it like that. I handed over my passport to the woman at passport control, she flicked through it and handed it back to me.
"Welcome home," she said.
From Dublin to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to Singapore, Singapore to Auckland. All in one go.
Singapore Airlines now has a Nintendo package in their entertainment system. Which includes Zelda and Pokemon. Ooh yeah!
Beautiful sunset over Pakistan - wish I had a camera, although I doubt it could do it justice. There were no clouds that high up, so the sunset seemed to stretch on forever. Deep blues faded into soft pastels - blue, pink, yellow - before they finally culminated into the most fantastic orange I have ever seen. It was glorious. Brilliant. Captivating. Like someone had blended tangerines and oranges and splashed them across the sky.
During our descent towards Singapore, there was a stunning display of nature's strength and beauty. A lightning storm broke out above the Indian Ocean. Light arced across the sky and filled a pitch dark world with colour. Clouds were purple and black, grey and blue, wild and alive. We flew through the edges of it, unwilling to challenge a power we could neither tame nor control.
There is such beauty in the world.
I arrived at Auckland International Airport at 10pm. As I was coming through the duty free shops, I noticed that all the women working there (bar one who was Asian) were Polynesian. Funny that. It's like they designed it like that. I handed over my passport to the woman at passport control, she flicked through it and handed it back to me.
"Welcome home," she said.
In Which we Hit the Countryside.
We took a tour to the Giant's Causeway via a big green bus called The Paddywagon. Free laughs guys. The countryside was nice enough on the way up, but it's like anywhere else - farms and roads.
We stopped first at Carrick-a-Rede - a famous rope bridge that links two islands. Turns out it costs 5 Pounds to walk across a very secure, reinforced-with-wooden-planks, rope bridge for maybe five metres. Not worth it. Good thing I didn't pay! The walk out was very nice though, about 1km around the cliffs overlooking the sea. We got some great shots of the beach, which I may be able to get off my brother at some stage. No puffins unfortunately. There was a rainbow and a very hairy caterpillar though. And his very hairy squished caterpillar friend.
The Giant's Causeway itself is a lot smaller than I had originally thought - though it takes up a wide space, the actual rocks are much smaller than first anticipated. You can either walk or bus down to the main set of stones. I had only ever seen pictures of the main bit - the pentagonal pillars of volcanic rock - but it turns out that there are many different parts to the causeway. From the top of the road you look out directly across the sea. On your left is a set of fallen stones at the base of a cliff. They look a little bit like a camel. Atop another cliff is a set of stones that looks like a granny with a walking stick, hunched over, climbing the hill. The road winds around to your right, taking you above the main set of stones and down steep stairs cut into the cliffside. Not far from where you come down the path diverges into two - one leads down to the main area and the other up to the organ pipes and the chimneys. It was great fun to clamber over the stones and the furious rainclouds above the sea made for a beautiful and emotive backdrop for our photos. We walked right around, though admittedly we did not go out to the furtherest points, and it took us most of an hour and a half.
The tour resumed and we were taken for a photo stop at Dunluce castle with a cool story attached. One night the duke/king/nobleman who owned the castle was having a banquet. He was quite drunk, after having too many tankards of ale whilst waiting for is food to appear on the table. Nothing more had arrived than a few varieties of bread and fruit - nothing substantial or fit for a man of his standing! he had a good mind to go to the kitchen and give his servants what-for! He rose from his chair and strode into the kitchen - or what should have been the kitchen - only to find that it had fallen into the sea! He later moved his castle elsewhere, in the middle of the countryside where no sea could swallow his servants and his dinner.
Dublin - my final two days in Europe. Dear NZ, if you are going to blow up, do it now (12/9/10).
Last night we went to the Porterhouse Pub by Temple Bar. They have their own brewery, as well as an extensive list of beers from around the world. I tempted Paul into an Oyster Stout. We put away a thick, almost creamy red - Porterhouse Red - and a light pale ale - TempleBraeu - and some Irish stew too. The woman who served us was a slim Japanese woman whose name (according to the receipt) was Renata Pikachu! I know. One for the history books.
Then I forked out 6 Euros and 50 cents for an Aventinus Eisbock - a dark german beer with an alcohol content of 12%! Most beers only crack 5%! I nursed that for the rest of the evening. Paul had another oyster stout and some horrible American lager called Chiller. Eeeww. Paul wanted to get shit-faced, but I refused to waste money/drink just because other people think I should.
Moreover, a note to Dylan - the Porterhouse has a beer list in order of countries and New Zealand's only contribution was Steinlager. I was plenty horrified on your behalf.
Last Day In Europe!
Paul and I were in Dublin. What to people do when they're in Dublin? They go to the Guinness brewery. So we did. It was actually more informative and interesting than I had thought, now that I actually know stuff about beer. They take you through the ingredients, the brewing process and history of the brand. The guides on each floor are helpful, but it's mostly a self-guided tour. One of my favourite bits was the level where you can watch every single ad ever made for Guinness. Then onto my other favourite bit: pour your own pint!
I kinda cheated because I already knew how to pour a Guinness pint, having worked in an Irish pub in Wellington. But it was fun. And I got a certificate. And then I even drank some of my pint, before I realised how icky it was and gave it to Paul.
Tried to go to the Museum of History and Archaeology but it was closed (on a Monday)! Shame.
Went for a pint. had a Koppaberg Pear Cider - so good. Fiddle dee dee, potatoes.
Also, I haven't noticed this "the Irish are the friendliest people in the world" thing yet. They don't seem overly friendly, and who isn't with a few drinks in them? Maybe you have to go further into the country. Or perhaps they don't like tourists. Either way, I think Dublin was a little disappointing for me. Everyone talked it up so much, saying it would be such a fun place to visit, but really it seems much the same as anywhere else. I would even go so far as to say I had more fun in Cardiff and London.
That said, Cardiff and London don't have a Leprachaun Museum! No, seriously, it exists.
We stopped first at Carrick-a-Rede - a famous rope bridge that links two islands. Turns out it costs 5 Pounds to walk across a very secure, reinforced-with-wooden-planks, rope bridge for maybe five metres. Not worth it. Good thing I didn't pay! The walk out was very nice though, about 1km around the cliffs overlooking the sea. We got some great shots of the beach, which I may be able to get off my brother at some stage. No puffins unfortunately. There was a rainbow and a very hairy caterpillar though. And his very hairy squished caterpillar friend.
The Giant's Causeway itself is a lot smaller than I had originally thought - though it takes up a wide space, the actual rocks are much smaller than first anticipated. You can either walk or bus down to the main set of stones. I had only ever seen pictures of the main bit - the pentagonal pillars of volcanic rock - but it turns out that there are many different parts to the causeway. From the top of the road you look out directly across the sea. On your left is a set of fallen stones at the base of a cliff. They look a little bit like a camel. Atop another cliff is a set of stones that looks like a granny with a walking stick, hunched over, climbing the hill. The road winds around to your right, taking you above the main set of stones and down steep stairs cut into the cliffside. Not far from where you come down the path diverges into two - one leads down to the main area and the other up to the organ pipes and the chimneys. It was great fun to clamber over the stones and the furious rainclouds above the sea made for a beautiful and emotive backdrop for our photos. We walked right around, though admittedly we did not go out to the furtherest points, and it took us most of an hour and a half.
The tour resumed and we were taken for a photo stop at Dunluce castle with a cool story attached. One night the duke/king/nobleman who owned the castle was having a banquet. He was quite drunk, after having too many tankards of ale whilst waiting for is food to appear on the table. Nothing more had arrived than a few varieties of bread and fruit - nothing substantial or fit for a man of his standing! he had a good mind to go to the kitchen and give his servants what-for! He rose from his chair and strode into the kitchen - or what should have been the kitchen - only to find that it had fallen into the sea! He later moved his castle elsewhere, in the middle of the countryside where no sea could swallow his servants and his dinner.
Dublin - my final two days in Europe. Dear NZ, if you are going to blow up, do it now (12/9/10).
Last night we went to the Porterhouse Pub by Temple Bar. They have their own brewery, as well as an extensive list of beers from around the world. I tempted Paul into an Oyster Stout. We put away a thick, almost creamy red - Porterhouse Red - and a light pale ale - TempleBraeu - and some Irish stew too. The woman who served us was a slim Japanese woman whose name (according to the receipt) was Renata Pikachu! I know. One for the history books.
Then I forked out 6 Euros and 50 cents for an Aventinus Eisbock - a dark german beer with an alcohol content of 12%! Most beers only crack 5%! I nursed that for the rest of the evening. Paul had another oyster stout and some horrible American lager called Chiller. Eeeww. Paul wanted to get shit-faced, but I refused to waste money/drink just because other people think I should.
Moreover, a note to Dylan - the Porterhouse has a beer list in order of countries and New Zealand's only contribution was Steinlager. I was plenty horrified on your behalf.
Last Day In Europe!
Paul and I were in Dublin. What to people do when they're in Dublin? They go to the Guinness brewery. So we did. It was actually more informative and interesting than I had thought, now that I actually know stuff about beer. They take you through the ingredients, the brewing process and history of the brand. The guides on each floor are helpful, but it's mostly a self-guided tour. One of my favourite bits was the level where you can watch every single ad ever made for Guinness. Then onto my other favourite bit: pour your own pint!
I kinda cheated because I already knew how to pour a Guinness pint, having worked in an Irish pub in Wellington. But it was fun. And I got a certificate. And then I even drank some of my pint, before I realised how icky it was and gave it to Paul.
Tried to go to the Museum of History and Archaeology but it was closed (on a Monday)! Shame.
Went for a pint. had a Koppaberg Pear Cider - so good. Fiddle dee dee, potatoes.
Also, I haven't noticed this "the Irish are the friendliest people in the world" thing yet. They don't seem overly friendly, and who isn't with a few drinks in them? Maybe you have to go further into the country. Or perhaps they don't like tourists. Either way, I think Dublin was a little disappointing for me. Everyone talked it up so much, saying it would be such a fun place to visit, but really it seems much the same as anywhere else. I would even go so far as to say I had more fun in Cardiff and London.
That said, Cardiff and London don't have a Leprachaun Museum! No, seriously, it exists.
In Which I was Greatly Overdue an Update
A post much overdue, but my brother has been less than forthcoming with the photos. So, another photo-less story.
Continuing on with the Edinburgh Ghost story, the group trouped up to Greyfriar's Cemetery - home to over 400, 000 plague victims. It is appropriately creepy, even in daylight, but that night there was only a sliver of moon and our guide's torchlight. We were off to visit Covenanter's Prison - home to the men and women who refused to accept the King as the head of the Church. They were arrested and kept in a portion of the cemetery - being considered dead in all but the literal sense - in something akin to a concentration camp. They were tortured by a Sir MacKenzie and few survived - those who did found themselves sold into slavery and all drowned in a shipwreck. Now it is closed to the public and supposedly houses the "MacKenzie poltergeist" who does all the poltergeist-y things like stealing energy, scratching and pulling hair, and occasionally, tossing people about. Ooooh.
Naturally, everyone came out unscathed, although the mood was brilliant because our guide new her stories well. Occasionally she would bang on walls and doors to give everyone a good jump, but that was to be expected. There was a "jumper-ooter" near the end of the tour, who nobody was expecting, so everyone got a good fright. Thing was, I was at the front of the group when he jumped out and boy, did he have bad breath! It seemed to cheapen the whole experience too.
The second tour we went on was basically What Life was Like in Mary King's Close in the 1600s. It was not intentionally scary, but most informative and really put your imagination to work. We went under the city again too. It must have been hard living, packed in these houses - often a family of ten to a single room - of over tens stories. They were flimsy wooden things, but if you were lucky enough to have plaster walls, then the plaster was made from water, horse hair and the ground bones of plaue victims. Families threw their excrement into the street and passersby were most likely ankle deep in the stuff. The plague hit hard. Edinburgh lost 1/3 of its population. the tour was a very different style and mood to the other, but still very good.
The next day, we moseyed around town, through the castle and into the museum. We met more Australians and caught the train to Stranraer (Stran-rarr!) in order to catch the ferry to Belfast. Yonder! Onwards and upwards!
By the way - spelling errors in awful places: York Museum= carve, spelt calve. Edinburgh war memorial in the castle= bear, spelt "bare". Angels bare up the men? Grrrr.
The ferry was flash. Are they all like that? The ticket was pretty cheap and it took about 2 1/2 hours - though there was no connecting train so we had to take a very bumpy bus ride into Belfast. Which is a hole. Lots of red brick buildings with nothing particularly interesting to see and no character to speak of. Dublin has a good vibe, as did London, Berlin, Prague and Vienna...Belfast is dead inside.
Naturally, our hostel was filled with Australians. And Germans.
We moseyed out to see the murals depicting the religious conflict at Shankhill road at dusk, which quickly became night...in this dodgy little area. i'm sure that you can tell a lot about the socio-economic status of an area by the proliferation of KFCs.
Continuing on with the Edinburgh Ghost story, the group trouped up to Greyfriar's Cemetery - home to over 400, 000 plague victims. It is appropriately creepy, even in daylight, but that night there was only a sliver of moon and our guide's torchlight. We were off to visit Covenanter's Prison - home to the men and women who refused to accept the King as the head of the Church. They were arrested and kept in a portion of the cemetery - being considered dead in all but the literal sense - in something akin to a concentration camp. They were tortured by a Sir MacKenzie and few survived - those who did found themselves sold into slavery and all drowned in a shipwreck. Now it is closed to the public and supposedly houses the "MacKenzie poltergeist" who does all the poltergeist-y things like stealing energy, scratching and pulling hair, and occasionally, tossing people about. Ooooh.
Naturally, everyone came out unscathed, although the mood was brilliant because our guide new her stories well. Occasionally she would bang on walls and doors to give everyone a good jump, but that was to be expected. There was a "jumper-ooter" near the end of the tour, who nobody was expecting, so everyone got a good fright. Thing was, I was at the front of the group when he jumped out and boy, did he have bad breath! It seemed to cheapen the whole experience too.
The second tour we went on was basically What Life was Like in Mary King's Close in the 1600s. It was not intentionally scary, but most informative and really put your imagination to work. We went under the city again too. It must have been hard living, packed in these houses - often a family of ten to a single room - of over tens stories. They were flimsy wooden things, but if you were lucky enough to have plaster walls, then the plaster was made from water, horse hair and the ground bones of plaue victims. Families threw their excrement into the street and passersby were most likely ankle deep in the stuff. The plague hit hard. Edinburgh lost 1/3 of its population. the tour was a very different style and mood to the other, but still very good.
The next day, we moseyed around town, through the castle and into the museum. We met more Australians and caught the train to Stranraer (Stran-rarr!) in order to catch the ferry to Belfast. Yonder! Onwards and upwards!
By the way - spelling errors in awful places: York Museum= carve, spelt calve. Edinburgh war memorial in the castle= bear, spelt "bare". Angels bare up the men? Grrrr.
The ferry was flash. Are they all like that? The ticket was pretty cheap and it took about 2 1/2 hours - though there was no connecting train so we had to take a very bumpy bus ride into Belfast. Which is a hole. Lots of red brick buildings with nothing particularly interesting to see and no character to speak of. Dublin has a good vibe, as did London, Berlin, Prague and Vienna...Belfast is dead inside.
Naturally, our hostel was filled with Australians. And Germans.
We moseyed out to see the murals depicting the religious conflict at Shankhill road at dusk, which quickly became night...in this dodgy little area. i'm sure that you can tell a lot about the socio-economic status of an area by the proliferation of KFCs.
04 October 2010
In Which We Did Not See Anything.
The journey to Edinburgh was short and picturesque - the train went up the coast and there were views of a wild sea and small medieval style towns on the right.
Edinburgh itself painted a very different picture. The city itself is beautiful and the old and new parts of town are separated by the gardens in the centre. The old town is situated atop the hill, just outside the castle, which overlooks the new town with the presence of a watchful elder. The old town whispers its history from cracks in the pavement and in the creaking of old doors.
We went on a ghost tour called City of the Dead, which involved a guided tour underneath and inside one of Edinburgh's ancient bridges that straddles the old and new towns. There are tiny vaults and extended caverns that used to be home to the poorest of the poor, the criminal and on one occasion, the rich (but only because they fled the fires of the burning city and even then they suffocated in these caverns). Policemen wouldn't enter these places, and rightly so, becausse they were packed with disease, danger and dodgy individuals. The vaults under the bridge did not adhere to the laws of the world above.
People lived, slept and died in spaces no bigger than your living room. Rats and faeces covered the dank, damp floors. Disease was rife and bodily fluids could easily end up in the small corner that you considered your bed. The days and nights were indistinguishable and screams echoed unceasingly down the halls. And then the plague hit. Boils popped and festered. Self control of bodily functions was lost and all manner of smells permeated the air. Your home became a rank pit filled with living, dead and dying alike. Families watched as their loved ones shuffled off the mortal coil, screaming bloody murder the entire way.
It wouldn't surprise me if there were still some poor souls clinging to scraps of life down here.
So we were taken to investigate. A group of about twenty of us walked into these dark caverns. The first room was used to house cows that would then be killed for their meat. It is highly likely that they never saw the light of day. Another room featured an ancient doorway, above which were carved the words, "God is my refuge and my helper." Each vault is dark except for some atmospheric candles placed at intervals. Our guide was an Australian woman with long, black hair and an oversized leather coat. She stopped at various intervals in order to explain the history of the place and the supposed inhabitants that remain.
The haunting spirit in question is called The South Bridge Entity and has its own ghost story (which I have rewritten and embellished).
There were two backpackers in town, around the end of the 1980s, and they were exploring the city. They came to an alcove that was covered by rotting boards and cobwebs. Peering through the gaps in the planks, the two men saw a tunnel that seemed to lead directly below the city. They left the spot but made a note of where it was and some time later that day, they returned with heavy duty flashlights. Prying off the boards, they let themselves into the tunnel behind. At the end of the tunnel, the first man shone his torch upon an old wooden door. He paused for a moment to show his friend, and then pulled at the door handle. It came away easily and the pair slipped inside.
They were faced with darkness, a clammy air and the dank stench of mould and rot. Unbeknownst to them, they were the first two people to venture here in centuries, aside from the Hellfire Club of old. They began to explore the vaults before them, the ancient city streets of Edinburgh. They had gone quite deep into the tunnels, exploring for a little under an hour, when they came to a room that was colder than any other. As they entered, the cold air seemed to gather around them, pressing close to the warmth of their bodies.
And then both torches went out.
Panic crept into the edges of their minds and their breathing became harsh and shallow. They felt as though they were choking and fear took them. They grabbed each other's wrist and stumbling, they fled back the way they had come. The darkness grew around them. It seemed as though their eyes could not adjust to the pitch dark and they groped the walls, hoping for the familiar feeling of the wooden door underneath their fingers. But they were lost. The tunnels seemed to move, to snake in different directions by a will of their own. The two men imagined sounds about them - cries of pain, gurgles, moans, even childish laughter. They felt like something was watching them, following them, as though the vaults held an audience they had not noticed before.
God is my refuge and my helper.
The words came unbidden to their minds and they shivered in the cold air. God was not here. He had long since forsaken this place and the people who lived under the ground had forsaken his light. The two men ran on.
Finally one of the men foun the familiar texture of damp wood. He pulled his friend close and the two of them pushed the door open. They pulled themselves through the door, slammed it closed behind them and darted down the tunnel, towards the alcove at the end and the fresh air outside. But no air was to be theirs, as the gap through which they had broken had since been boarded up! The men cried out in fear and frustration, banging their hands on the fresh boards and trying desperately to revive their torches. Something knocked against the wooden door at the other end of the tunnel. The two men screamed.
Luckily for them a passerby heard their cries and followed the sounds to the boarded alcove. He broke away the new boards and let the two men out into the cool night air. Both men took deep breaths and tried to slow their racing hearts. They were out. They were safe. As they turned to thank their rescuer, they saw that he was staring at them in horror. Turning to each other in confusion, the men saw that the other had been scratched. Not on their hands or arms, which they had used to feel their way along darkened stone halls. These scratches were not random cuts of stones or scrapes of walls.
Each man bore long, evenly spaced scratches down his face, deep and bleeding.
But neither had felt a thing.
The South Bridge Entity has awakened.
Or so the story goes. I did not end up on mysterious scratches on me - which is a good thing because that would have been the end of sleep for me. No ghosts were seen or felt, but the stories were cool and I learned a lot about the history of Edinburgh. We also got to see a place that would have been inaccessible otherwise.
Onwards to Greyfriar's Cemetery - home to the bodies of around 400,000 plague victims.
Edinburgh itself painted a very different picture. The city itself is beautiful and the old and new parts of town are separated by the gardens in the centre. The old town is situated atop the hill, just outside the castle, which overlooks the new town with the presence of a watchful elder. The old town whispers its history from cracks in the pavement and in the creaking of old doors.
We went on a ghost tour called City of the Dead, which involved a guided tour underneath and inside one of Edinburgh's ancient bridges that straddles the old and new towns. There are tiny vaults and extended caverns that used to be home to the poorest of the poor, the criminal and on one occasion, the rich (but only because they fled the fires of the burning city and even then they suffocated in these caverns). Policemen wouldn't enter these places, and rightly so, becausse they were packed with disease, danger and dodgy individuals. The vaults under the bridge did not adhere to the laws of the world above.
People lived, slept and died in spaces no bigger than your living room. Rats and faeces covered the dank, damp floors. Disease was rife and bodily fluids could easily end up in the small corner that you considered your bed. The days and nights were indistinguishable and screams echoed unceasingly down the halls. And then the plague hit. Boils popped and festered. Self control of bodily functions was lost and all manner of smells permeated the air. Your home became a rank pit filled with living, dead and dying alike. Families watched as their loved ones shuffled off the mortal coil, screaming bloody murder the entire way.
It wouldn't surprise me if there were still some poor souls clinging to scraps of life down here.
So we were taken to investigate. A group of about twenty of us walked into these dark caverns. The first room was used to house cows that would then be killed for their meat. It is highly likely that they never saw the light of day. Another room featured an ancient doorway, above which were carved the words, "God is my refuge and my helper." Each vault is dark except for some atmospheric candles placed at intervals. Our guide was an Australian woman with long, black hair and an oversized leather coat. She stopped at various intervals in order to explain the history of the place and the supposed inhabitants that remain.
The haunting spirit in question is called The South Bridge Entity and has its own ghost story (which I have rewritten and embellished).
There were two backpackers in town, around the end of the 1980s, and they were exploring the city. They came to an alcove that was covered by rotting boards and cobwebs. Peering through the gaps in the planks, the two men saw a tunnel that seemed to lead directly below the city. They left the spot but made a note of where it was and some time later that day, they returned with heavy duty flashlights. Prying off the boards, they let themselves into the tunnel behind. At the end of the tunnel, the first man shone his torch upon an old wooden door. He paused for a moment to show his friend, and then pulled at the door handle. It came away easily and the pair slipped inside.
They were faced with darkness, a clammy air and the dank stench of mould and rot. Unbeknownst to them, they were the first two people to venture here in centuries, aside from the Hellfire Club of old. They began to explore the vaults before them, the ancient city streets of Edinburgh. They had gone quite deep into the tunnels, exploring for a little under an hour, when they came to a room that was colder than any other. As they entered, the cold air seemed to gather around them, pressing close to the warmth of their bodies.
And then both torches went out.
Panic crept into the edges of their minds and their breathing became harsh and shallow. They felt as though they were choking and fear took them. They grabbed each other's wrist and stumbling, they fled back the way they had come. The darkness grew around them. It seemed as though their eyes could not adjust to the pitch dark and they groped the walls, hoping for the familiar feeling of the wooden door underneath their fingers. But they were lost. The tunnels seemed to move, to snake in different directions by a will of their own. The two men imagined sounds about them - cries of pain, gurgles, moans, even childish laughter. They felt like something was watching them, following them, as though the vaults held an audience they had not noticed before.
God is my refuge and my helper.
The words came unbidden to their minds and they shivered in the cold air. God was not here. He had long since forsaken this place and the people who lived under the ground had forsaken his light. The two men ran on.
Finally one of the men foun the familiar texture of damp wood. He pulled his friend close and the two of them pushed the door open. They pulled themselves through the door, slammed it closed behind them and darted down the tunnel, towards the alcove at the end and the fresh air outside. But no air was to be theirs, as the gap through which they had broken had since been boarded up! The men cried out in fear and frustration, banging their hands on the fresh boards and trying desperately to revive their torches. Something knocked against the wooden door at the other end of the tunnel. The two men screamed.
Luckily for them a passerby heard their cries and followed the sounds to the boarded alcove. He broke away the new boards and let the two men out into the cool night air. Both men took deep breaths and tried to slow their racing hearts. They were out. They were safe. As they turned to thank their rescuer, they saw that he was staring at them in horror. Turning to each other in confusion, the men saw that the other had been scratched. Not on their hands or arms, which they had used to feel their way along darkened stone halls. These scratches were not random cuts of stones or scrapes of walls.
Each man bore long, evenly spaced scratches down his face, deep and bleeding.
But neither had felt a thing.
The South Bridge Entity has awakened.
Or so the story goes. I did not end up on mysterious scratches on me - which is a good thing because that would have been the end of sleep for me. No ghosts were seen or felt, but the stories were cool and I learned a lot about the history of Edinburgh. We also got to see a place that would have been inaccessible otherwise.
Onwards to Greyfriar's Cemetery - home to the bodies of around 400,000 plague victims.
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