LOVE IN MIQ

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Love in MIQ

There’s a sunlit square reflected at us through the new Christchurch Convention Centre windows.  It’s usually the hotel car park, but now it’s the MIQ exercise yard. We’re on the third floor, unlike some other lucky punters who have scored views from floors higher up. The online brochure depicts snow-capped mountains, a painted blue sky and that strange flatness that is the Canterbury Plains. Instead, we see the reflected shadows of people marching in a monotonous kind of circle.

It’s kind of flat in here too.  We arrived at 10 last Saturday morning in Auckland, fresh from Seoul via Singapore. I’d been following a spreadsheet created on a thread on an MIQ Facebook page that I’d joined.  It gave me very high odds of the Grand Mercure in Auckland for our stayover.  So, it was a shock when a fresh-faced army chap jumped on board our plane minutes after we’d landed to say we were heading to Christchurch

So here we are – my husband, John, and me – at the Crowne Plaza, Christchurch, on the third floor, with a view of the new Convention Centre.  We have two King single beds bedecked in fresh white linen, each single bed almost as big as my mum and dad’s double bed in the 50s. We’d requested single beds, realising 14 days in isolation might require moments of separation.

Arriving home to be greeted by the NZ Army took us back to travelling in the 70s. That moment when you landed and were told to stay seated, while one of the crew walked up and down the aisle fumigating the plane.  And then there was the ordeal with officious men at customs, mostly in shorts and long socks, who quizzed you as if you were part of an international crime spree and, hey, you’ve been caught. 

We learned the trick of over-declaring … acting like ingenue’s, so they rolled their eyes and ticked us through, while the extra alcohol or undeclared electronics stayed secreted in our bags.

So, it was a blast from the past when we disembarked from our flight at Christchurch airport and some kind woman from the Army, spotting John’s duty-free whisky purchased in Singapore, suggested he stop right there, open his bag and shove it in … or else, she warned, the hotel will take it off you.  

We are allowed one bottle of wine each a day in MIQ.  This to me sounds like a lot of wine.  John is finding it a perfect ration … you must leave the empty wine bottles outside your bedroom door before they replenish.  Currently, there are two empty bottles outside our room looking lonely on a dark and deserted hotel floor. 

Well, Friday I started drinking at lunchtime.  There’s a very sound reason for this. It was John’s birthday, and we had completed our 35 laps of the car park at 10am. 

One of our exercise call-ups was at 5am. We set the alarm, then promptly rolled over and went back to sleep. We were punished for this. The scheduled walkathon that evening at 10pm was cancelled.  Most of us are treading the well-worn rectangle, eyes down, sometimes overtaking slow walkers. There’s a certain courteous pattern to it all.  If someone is an extra slow walker, you take a wide berth and kind of overtake them without looking pushy. 

A newbie turns up, to enliven the sunlit square. She appears in golden sandals, shorts and a glowing tan, her long curling hair softly falling. She ambles, she wanders, she stops and reads the poems and artwork that decorate the enclosure. I mumble good morning through my mask and then wish I’d said, ‘Ata Mārie,’ or something more magical than good morning sounds. She beams back at me the way you do when your mouth is hidden and your eyes need to do all the work.

The nurses call at the door to do our nasal swab and they are delightful. Not the swabs, the nurses.  One nurse asks John if he still loves his wife. We are both standing masks on, in the doorway. All four of us, both nurses, John and I laughed so loudly, I can’t recall if he said yes.

While I am here in MIQ, I am working on the edits for my very first poetry collection, Formica. It will open with a poem that featured in the Friday Poem collection published by Luncheon Sausage Books and edited by er … the man the woman from Narrative Muse (the ones who got half a million) had to Google. Ah yes, Steve

Later it occurs to me that the nurse’s question was a secret code for a husband to say … no, help, help, or of course, vice versa.   The same nurse sang ‘Happy birthday to you’ to John through her surgical and Perspex masks.  We sang along.  She must have alerted the kitchen staff, because a birthday dessert treat arrived for John, iced with birthday wishes, plus a card signed by some of the staff.

There’s a rhythmic sound from the room next door each day at exactly the same time.  At first we cheer them on, but we come to realise, disappointingly, that it’s probably not the people next door at all but just a quirk of the building, a kind of tap-tap-tapping, but that’s how desperate things get in MIQ.  You look for signs of life everywhere.

I recall tut-tutting, early on in the first lockdowns, possibly in Australia, when lonely travellers forged relationships with the security guards. We were a wee bit outraged.  How dare they!  But look, I’m officially elderly, and after seven days in a four-star hotel with fresh white linen, if I didn’t have a companion I can see now how a nice man in uniform might go well with dessert. 

John and I live for the phone calls (they are automated) that advise us that food is at the door.  We sit with our headphones on watching separate Netflix series but always with one ear open for that telephone call.

The food is good. We were given a barcode that took us to an online form so we could complete our menu requests. Impressive. The meals have become tedious though. I’m not much of a salad girl, so the little pottles of salad are piling up on a shelf by the TV.

Today, our exercise slot is 6.30am. We’re up for it.  At first there are only three bubbles walking and this is doable. When it gets crowded with families, it becomes more challenging.  There are a number of people here with young children and toddlers have no understanding of two metres distance.

Watching a young couple early this morning trying to corral their two lively toddlers made me think with great sadness about the recent tragedy in Tīmaru, and the tragic loss of three young lives.. It’s not difficult to imagine the stress that family must have endured relocating to a new country through lockdowns and isolation in MIQ.  It’s both incomprehensible and yet not difficult to imagine the at times intolerable stresses.

It’s okay, we’re not seeking sympathy. We chose this. 

We had a brand-new grandson born in Seoul in May. He was rushed from the maternity hospital he was born in to ICU on the same day, due to a few breathing issues. This meant he was separated from both his mum and dad for the first ten days of his life.  We watched videos of him being caressed by nurses wearing plastic gloves.  So, you can imagine it was not something we dithered over when the South Korean government offered double-jabbed Kiwi parents or grandparents with family in Seoul a special three-month, quarantine-free ‘family sojourn’ visa. 

We did not wait to see if we could get a spot in MIQ.  It was an adventure.  We knew we could sit at home in our own wee bubble safely or grab the moment, so we grabbed it.

On arrival in Seoul, we had to download an app that would track us. Then we were whisked in a pre-booked taxi to our Airbnb via a Covid testing station. We had to remain in our Airbnb until we got our test results the next morning by text … negative. We had to report our daily temperature for a week via the app and have one more Covid test, and then we were able to delete the app and go free.

The highlight of that arrival, was standing on the sixth floor, looking out over a small balcony to the road below where our Seoul family stood waving to us. John swears that Oli, just four months at the time, raised his arm in a wave.  Such is the joy of seeing loved ones in the time of Covid.

We left New Zealand early August without a spot in MIQ, telling ourselves that surely by November double-jabbed people like ourselves would be allowed to self-isolate on return.  And then Delta broke out in Auckland, and we saw our chances fading, day by day.  Still, we consoled ourselves, here we are in Seoul with family.  We are safe.  We’ll get home eventually.  Our visa was a one-off, three-month visa, perhaps South Korea would kick us out – making us stateless and therefore NZ would have to let us in.  Turns out South Korea were happy to extend …  

None of this came to pass, just the first MIQ Lottery.  And we were successful.  I should leave a space here for the howls of outrage from those who missed out. I started reading them on Twitter and on FB and had to abandon that, as some of the cases are just so blatantly unfair

Here in MIQ, we’ve nearly made it. We’ve had our third negative nasal swab result and will have one more (day 12) before we are released.  Right now with the hotel at full capacity with 194 residents, it feels like leaving our room permanently could be the riskiest moment for us in terms of being exposed to Covid.

But, we know we are in safe hands. Today we got fresh linen and we danced to Jerusalema as we remade our own beds. We are grateful Kiwis…   and we’ll be home soon.

Maggie Rainey-Smith’s poetry collection Formica (The Cuba Press) will be released in March 2022.

Skinship

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Skinship

Run the sound over your tongue
let it roll for a while in your mouth
then swallow it whole

Skinship, like kinship, meaning
connection but through the skin
as simple as holding hands

Konglish, meaning Korean
English, a new word, but
not a new feeling

Skin on skin, a hand in
yours, a touch, skinship
kinship, friendship

It’s not difficult to
guess why Korea
created this new word

Fathers holding adult
son’s hands, mothers
holding daughters

Touching, skin on
Skin, with kin 
this word

Skinship
It crosses culture
it caresses
skin on skin

The ship of affection
Skinship
Sail on you beauty

Daebak!










New Zealand National Poetry Day

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Kia ora from Seoul.

Here I am reading a poem from my upcoming collection ‘Formica’ which is due out now next year (delay due to Covid and my being here in Seoul).

John looked at me just now and said ‘You’re wearing lipstick!’. Erhem, yes, I put on some lipstick for this poetry reading 🙂

Waiting for a bus to come

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Photo: Charles Collins, 2015
At Stewart Dawson’s corner
was where I saw you, seated
all orange high-viz suiting, looking
tired and holding a sandwich

Like me, you look too old to still
be working. I can see the weariness
yet, I still have a spring in my step
at least that’s what I tell myself

Did I once kiss you at the cabaret?
down the lane by the old post office
Manners Street.  Was it the Sheridan?
Maybe you remember, maybe not.

You are a stranger in a high-viz suit
sitting on the pavement outside
what was once a flash jewellery shop
And who knows maybe we did once

Dance together at the cabaret back
in the day, when we Catholic girls
were cock teasers full of false promise
testing our allure against your erections

Then moving on to the next dance
partner with whom we might exchange
chaste kisses several if you please
flighty bright young things, even demure

At times not knowing what we would do
If the music stopped and there was just
you or some other bloke or someone new
who was prepared to… well, chance his arm

So it’s unlikely, but not impossible
we kissed one night at the cabaret
You look tired there on the pavement
as if waiting for a new song
I’m waiting for my bus to come

Double hung windows

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Figure 2: Another common double-hung window design.
I talked to a man today who was here to
fix my house

He said he lived in an old maternity hospital
with double hung windows

We were talking about double glazing and
the cost of heating

He said, as he glued architraves to the inside
of my new bathroom door

His mother-in-law had been a nurse there, back
in the day when you could just don a uniform

His wife had been born in the same hospital
and I think his father-in-law

I can't be sure, as the fumes from the epoxy
might have muffled my memory

But I got the feeling this house that houses
him and his in-laws

where one or possibly two of them were born, 
might not need double glazing

It sounded like they were all keeping warm
on something modern building materials
in short supply, couldn't manufacture anyway

The Ever Given

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The Ever Given

Even Farmers wouldn’t give us credit
to buy a cutlery set because we owed
no one anything back then and friends
gave us shelter housing us and our Aiwa

That had come from London with us
through the newly opened Suez
all the way from Shepherds Bush
with Bohemian Rhapsody on vinyl

We saw King Tut in situ and a small boy
in Somalia, living in a Sony TV carton
A man with a gun patrolled The Sphinx
In Cairo, but there were very few tourists

In Auckland, my sister met our ship
which if you knew her was a bold and
beautiful moment for us all, but more in
retrospect as many things in life are

We were home with 50 cents between us
relying on friends with kids and a spare
bedroom, determined never to succumb
to suburbia, certain we knew better

When the ‘Ever Given’ blocked the Suez
recently, we marvelled at just how narrow
the canal really is and how tall the ship was
laden with who knows what, people

speculated, perhaps needles for our
vaccine roll-out, or fabric for front-line
workers… people worried because a
shipment of sex toys was stranded

not all happy endings can be bought
and paid for and we knew that
Like Freddy we’d tried to break free
Only to find a quiet beauty in domesticity

And now that we are officially elderly
we are grateful to the ‘Ever Given
reminding us we once sailed the Suez
homeward, filled with towering ambition
only to turn sideways and if not exactly
stuck, definitely frequently adrift

 

When the machine arrived

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It was the 1960’s. Mother’s cream and green electric washing machine replete with pump, agitator, and safety wringer took pride of place in the wash-house beside the old copper.  The mastermind behind this locally produced electric washing machine was an Estonian migrant Karl Pallo.  The washing machine bore his name.  Mother marvelled at the agitator that would replace her hands to rub and rinse and rid the clothes of grime.  Before the Pallo arrived in our lives, she boiled the bed sheets in the copper. A small fire would be lit beneath to warm the water.  A stick from the woodshed, bleached and boiled over the years, would stir, the way this new modern machine would now do automatically.  If there was no time for a fire, or to boil, Mother would hand wash.  She would hold a bar of bright yellow Sunlight soap and press the fabric of Father’s work shirts or trousers, firmly against the glass washboard, rubbing, scrubbing.  Sometimes this was done before clothes were placed to boil in the copper. Her biceps were legendary. Not just from scrubbing clothes, but hand beating butter and sugar for the light sponges she made and cooked in the Coal Range.  Hauling the coal bucket from the shed, chopping the kindling. She had no need of a gym membership and no time for Yoga.

The copper was legendary for more than just the washing.  It was used to cook the Christmas ham in the early years of my childhood.  Family lore has it, that one year, Father’s stepfather came to stay, and he tipped the boot polish (which was kept on top of the copper), into the copper when the ham was cooking.  It seems the polish formed a film on top of the water, and the ham that year was the best ham ever.  I cannot confirm or deny this as I do not remember the ham, but it obviously did us all no harm, as there were no aftereffects.

Now the machine had arrived, the cream and green Pallo.  Mother was wondering what she would do on a Monday.  But there was still the chore of lifting the clothes from the agitated waters, and hauling the bed sheets, heavy with soap and water, into one of the twin stone tubs to rinse.   Then there was the wringer.  This was attached to the washing machine and meant two rollers would press the water from the washing.  You had to be careful.  Stories abounded of young girls with long hair who had become entangled in the wringer rollers.  No one I knew, knew anyone to whom this had happened, but we heard about it. Whole arms could be dragged through the rollers, bones crushed, perhaps even necks wrung.  And there was still the mammoth task of carrying the heavy bed sheets, still reasonably dense with water, despite the wringer, and throwing them across the rotary clothesline under the plum tree.

Mother would stop for a ciggie, draw in deeply, inhale, and then blow the smoke back out energised by the nicotine, ready for the next stage.  The sheets would hang double over the line and the line would rotate if there was a decent breeze. Usually, the scorching summer sun was enough.  But in winter, a breeze was needed to spin the Rotary clothesline and dry the washing.

Years later, when Mother had died, and Father was living alone and doing his own washing, every Monday, we would visit with our children.  He was a man of singular routine. His day consisted of a walk to the rubbity-dub which opened at eleven o’clock on the dot.  Our two sons would walk with him through the school path, under the bluegum tree, past the Holy Trinity Church, down the road, past what was the old cinema, and he would buy them chewing gum and let them play at the playground, just close to the pub.  We would pick up the children as soon as the pub opened.  He would eat a half roast every day at the pub and return home for a nap and then back to the pub at 3.00 pm for another round.  This was primarily for the company by now.  A table of old war veterans who sat and talked.  Father was the listener.  He would sip his flat tap beer from the jug and nod and occasionally comment, and then head home.  If we were staying on holiday, he would arrive home to a cooked meal and if he were alone, he would open a tin of creamed corn, unheated to eat.

Mondays, Father would continue with Mother’s washing routine.  He would grab a handful of soap powder. A generous handful, never measured, and toss it into the agitating water.  Then he would call out to see if we had any washing we wanted done.  Hubby in those days, when our boys were young, had expensive linen shirts and learned to hide his good laundry and toss his boxer shirts for his father-in-law to wash.  We would discreetly hand wash anything that might not withstand Father’s washing routine.  The soapy water would swish and swash as Father’s sheets swirled.  Our lads would stand, mesmerised by the movement of the agitator which by now (after over 30 years), was held in place by a lump of 4 x 2.  Father had been a builder and he knew what to do with a piece of 4 x 2.   Then the sheets would go through the wringer, and this was even more fascinating to our young lads who would stand on the other side of the wringer, ready to receive the yards of sheeting being fed through.  By this stage, the wringers had bowed, and the sheets were almost as wet after going through the wringer as they had been before. There would be just the once rinse and not two like Mother always did.  Thus, the sheets would hang, stiff as boards, soap encrusted, whiter than white, mostly soap powder, drying in the scorching summer sun.  

It was with a sense of sadness that we sold the house with the washing machine still in the wash-house and the copper still in situ, when Father passed away.  I marvel now at my own built-in laundry (under the staircase), with front loading washing machine and dryer, automatic settings, and barely a bicep required. I go to body tone classes to earn my biceps and stretch my fascia.  Mother had no need of such classes.  Her body was always moving. She beat eggs by hand, chopped firewood, hauled coal, washed, waxed, and polished the linoleum, and rewarded herself on a Saturday with a 2/6d cake of fruit and nut chocolate, one leg under her bum, perched on a chair, eating chocolate, and doing the cryptic crossword.  Better than Yoga really.

Vaccination

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Her smile, more infectious than Covid

I am vaccinated against life’s travails

via an iphone app that includes emojis

But a granddaughter almost three

who is bi-lingual, is a tonic beyond

either Pfizer or AstraZeneca, or any

other laboratory cultivation

We need no language although she

now speaks three, English, Korean

and smatterings of Te Reo

Her second name Aroha means love

but is transformed when spoken

at her local childcare, to Arawa, which

in Te Reo translation means canoe

and alludes to migration and I

wish her a canoe to visit me

but will settle for Kakao, the

Korean version of Viber or whatever

App you are using to transmit

your love around the world

Swiss ball and pelvic floors

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 Swiss Ball – Suna Pilates + Wellbeing
 

 I am 50, with tight hamstrings
 on the mat at the soccer club
 squeezing my pelvic floor 
 practising, breathing in and out
  
 The outward breath is a rush
 like the end of sex or perhaps
 the beginning, who knows, but
 it is a collective womb-like sigh
  
 I’m older than most of the other
 women, their tight bright bums
 and their talk of babies, or
 troubles with the teachers
  
 My troublesome two are adults
 and I’m fascinated, eavesdropping
 to know just how obsessed these
 tight bright bums are with mothering
  
 I hear of sex as a tradeable commodity
 a reward, a bribe, a something to
 feed in dribs and drabs like a treat to
 eat, if you promise to be a good boy
 
  
 I realise I had it all wrong perhaps
 the fact I thought sex was recreational
 essential, mutual and uncomplicated
 something two people enjoyed 
  
 I’m relieved I’m not a tight bright
 bum in fluro who trades sex for
 income or sex for a South Pacific bure
 that I can earn my own holidays thanks
  
 I hunker down on the mat, continue
 breathing, glad my pelvic floor is
 responding, pleased it’s not been
 wasted as a bargaining chip.
  
  
  
  
   

Colonel Bogey (a poem)

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My first novel ‘About turns’ started life as a draft called Colonel Bogey. When it came time for publishing this book, Random House (2005) asked around their office if any of their staff knew what Colonel Bogey was… it seemed this old marching tune was unknown. I’m very grateful, as the new title which I decided on, is the best and a lovely play on words. But anyway, I’ve written a poem instead, called ‘Colonel Bogey’… a marching poem. I kind of like that my writing goes not highbrow but with the less literary to review our Kiwi lives.

About Turns by Maggie Rainey-Smith - Penguin Books New Zealand

Through the creaking turnstile

Like sheep for the dipping, guts

aflutter, hats askew, excitedly

busbies, chinstraps, multi-coloured

feathers, barely eaten breakfasts

onto the long-forgotten mudflat

home to the rugby, the cricket

and sometimes  marching girls

claimed the paddock, named

after the battle of Trafalgar, for

after all, this was Nelson in the

sixties and all things Colonial

Legs dressed in Coppertone, DHA

on dead skin cells, the smell of

every tournament, the orange of it

Kilted men with bags and chanters

juggling drones, cradling tartan

bags for music lovingly underarm

the skirl, the dying whine, the

underlying groan of it, a singular

drum, the thrum and thrill of it

Oh, how we loved the pipers

Their hairy be-skirted masculine legs

The seduction of their sporrans

But the kneel-down salute or pivot

wheels needed a brass band drumkit

precision in each beat to match our feet

The Pipers stirred our hearts, lifted

our spirits, but a Piper out of breath

could spell death to the display march

it began with the fall-in, serious stuff

with callipers measuring every inch

along the matching backs of boot heels

Marker, the Leader would call, and

as if summoned by God, she would

march precisely, the perfect steps

Landing squarely on that white disc

for to miss the disc was to upend

our chances of making the medals

By the end of the day, leg tan stained

the seats of the grandstand, hats sat

askew, spectators started to dwindle

All we wanted was the music to fill the

park, our hearts returned to the pipers

to the kilted drum major, his mace of silver

The maze march, our triumph, banners

aloft, tubas and drones, multiple drums

and who knows, perhaps Colonel Bogey

The girls who went to private schools

and learned to do a pirouette at bar

would secretly look and envy us from afar

….

But only now they dare to admit this.