Page 35 - Exile-ebook

34 AN EXILE OF THE MIND MELTING TONES OF THE PACIFIC 35

was I enjoying New Zealand? A friend
from the ship, doggedly loyal despite
respiratory problems most probably
caused by my player, headed for
New Plymouth. And having nothing
better to do, I tagged along.
I was fascinated by the Fuji
lookalike volcano of Mount Egmont,
thrusting through the earth’s crust
in a forested circle of rimu and
flowering rata. A mountain that
Perceval, the Earl of Egmont, had
never clapped eyes on. Perceval
was First Lord of the Admiralty
in Captain Cook’s time. A grateful
promotion from his last job as Lord
of the Bedchamber to the Prince
of Wales. The mountain is now
known by its original name, Mount
Taranaki.
The mountain seen from south Taranaki. I was confined to a darkened cabin The volcano, ‘dormant’ ac-
with sunstroke. To emerge deck- cording to tourism guides, loomed
not a single grass skirt to be seen. their lounges close by, ran about wards several days later with two menacingly close to town. I would lie
Gathering around my record the deck shouting ‘FIRE’. Tropical white orbs staring out of a crimson awake at night with uneasy thoughts
player on deck, my shipboard weather and the wrong voltage face where my sunglasses had been. of its looming proximity. Reassured
friends sat in delight to the quickly terminated my brief spell The shotgun caused quite a to learn that its pressure cooker of
soundtrack of South Pacific. The of shipboard popularity. I had consternation with customs in molten rock, threatening an earth-
dulcet tones of Nellie Forbush slid thoughts of being put ashore on the Wellington. Checking nervously shake from below, was not quite
languidly to a baritone and then to nearest island with my shotgun and the breech for buckshot, they let it as close as Mount Vesuvius was to
a bass as the vinyl record draped a smouldering player. through with the suggestion that Pompeii.
slowly over the machine’s contours During this distressing episode I use it to help reduce the surplus More surprising than a volcano
to become a frilly hat. My audience the sun blazing white had beaten population of rabbits. on the doorstep was a visit to the
coughed and spluttered in the acrid down on a head blessed only by the Stepping out onto the streets of local pub to celebrate our arrival.
smoke. Passengers, comatose in anaemic rays of an English sun and Wellington, a passerby asked how To find its doors closed at six o’clock