A trip in New Zealand's giant ball
October 17th 2007 11:53
Down on the Champs de Mars just beyond the Eiffel Tower sits New Zealand's giant rugby ball. Apart from its size, It doesn't look as odd as it sounds, there on the edge of the bright green grass. It looks, in fact, if you ignore the principles of proportion, just like the ball left lying on the back lawn (to drive Dad into a frenzy of frustration and launch one of those lectures about looking after things) when the kids have gone in to tea.
There are long queues outside it on the weekends and respectable weekday lines, which is encouraging, considering the All Blacks untimely disappearance from the Rugby World Cup tournament. Smiling young men and women in black hand out brochures, maps and CDs about New Zealand to the waiting crowd. Classy! The sounds of the Haka echo down from below the Eiffel Tower, where a Culture group tempts tourists to come on down and have a look. Crafty! Signs at the revolving doors of the big ball warn epileptics, motion-sickness sufferers, those with weak hearts and children under five not to enter. Scary!
Inside the ball is a giant, all-encompassing projection of a cosy fire-lit, book-lined study, like a Paris Match picture of the Monsieur Szarkozy's room at the Presidential Palace. The door closes, the lights dim and I already have a crick in my neck from craning upward and swivelling my head in all directions to catch the multitiude of images on every sloping surface. I throw decorum to the winds and stretch out on the floor. Tana Umanga appears in a far corner, strides over the curve of the ball towards us. He stoops, peers into our eyes, plants something in the grass and kicks. A rugby ball soars upwards and suddenly the whole world's turning. We fly through the sky, past stars and slowly spinning satellites, into the deep blue. A pukeko pecks at the edge of the blue. It cracks. We're on a rocky shore, peering into the prominent eyes of a eyes of a red crab. A wave washes over us and we're sinking, deep into the earth. A sonorous male voice chants our legendary beginnings in Maori as we fall. Suddenly we're thrust up in a fiery volcano and fished from the sea with snow-capped mountains by Maui. Now we're with Kupe on his accidental voyage of discovery, underneath a waka of the great fleet, then on a sailing ship with the Pakeha migration. All at once the belly of the great ball is covered with faces - ours - all of them - Maori, Polynesian, Anglo, Celtic, Slavic, Mediterranean, Asian, African and the many unique blends that we've become. Our faces contract into one. It dissolves into a flower which explodes into buds and then into more flowers - hibiscus, frangipani, kowhai, pohutukawa, swirling in a psychedelic circle of colour - greens reds, yellows, oranges, pinks. Next, it's back to earth and a drive up the country, looking through the frame of the car's front window. We cruise alongside paddocks packed with sheep, through the mountains, past waterfalls, stands of cabbage trees, across rivers with swing bridges, where our narrator, and indeed many others among us, once swam. Meandering cows cross our paths. We dip into the bush, pass tiny one-store towns and Marae with the red ochre arms of their meeting houses outstretched. We arrive at last at a bach, on the beach. There's a laden table under a tree, kai moana, smoke from a barbeque, a woman - familiar as an aunty - brings a pavlova to the table, a man - anyone's uncle - shows off a fish. There's a game of Rugby on the sand, Rangitoto against the horizon. But the screen clears again - too soon. Dan Carter peels away from the edge of the ball, strides across the curve towards us and kicks us back across the world to Paris.
The Rugby Ball trip takes just ten minutes and it's worth every second. It's Aotearoa- New Zealand in microcosm - the land, the flora and fauna, the people, the customs, the experiences we've all had and love to share. It's a wonderful trip! Nga mihi tino nunui to the team behind it.
The big screen and the giant rugby ball on the Champs de Mars
There are long queues outside it on the weekends and respectable weekday lines, which is encouraging, considering the All Blacks untimely disappearance from the Rugby World Cup tournament. Smiling young men and women in black hand out brochures, maps and CDs about New Zealand to the waiting crowd. Classy! The sounds of the Haka echo down from below the Eiffel Tower, where a Culture group tempts tourists to come on down and have a look. Crafty! Signs at the revolving doors of the big ball warn epileptics, motion-sickness sufferers, those with weak hearts and children under five not to enter. Scary!
Inside the ball is a giant, all-encompassing projection of a cosy fire-lit, book-lined study, like a Paris Match picture of the Monsieur Szarkozy's room at the Presidential Palace. The door closes, the lights dim and I already have a crick in my neck from craning upward and swivelling my head in all directions to catch the multitiude of images on every sloping surface. I throw decorum to the winds and stretch out on the floor. Tana Umanga appears in a far corner, strides over the curve of the ball towards us. He stoops, peers into our eyes, plants something in the grass and kicks. A rugby ball soars upwards and suddenly the whole world's turning. We fly through the sky, past stars and slowly spinning satellites, into the deep blue. A pukeko pecks at the edge of the blue. It cracks. We're on a rocky shore, peering into the prominent eyes of a eyes of a red crab. A wave washes over us and we're sinking, deep into the earth. A sonorous male voice chants our legendary beginnings in Maori as we fall. Suddenly we're thrust up in a fiery volcano and fished from the sea with snow-capped mountains by Maui. Now we're with Kupe on his accidental voyage of discovery, underneath a waka of the great fleet, then on a sailing ship with the Pakeha migration. All at once the belly of the great ball is covered with faces - ours - all of them - Maori, Polynesian, Anglo, Celtic, Slavic, Mediterranean, Asian, African and the many unique blends that we've become. Our faces contract into one. It dissolves into a flower which explodes into buds and then into more flowers - hibiscus, frangipani, kowhai, pohutukawa, swirling in a psychedelic circle of colour - greens reds, yellows, oranges, pinks. Next, it's back to earth and a drive up the country, looking through the frame of the car's front window. We cruise alongside paddocks packed with sheep, through the mountains, past waterfalls, stands of cabbage trees, across rivers with swing bridges, where our narrator, and indeed many others among us, once swam. Meandering cows cross our paths. We dip into the bush, pass tiny one-store towns and Marae with the red ochre arms of their meeting houses outstretched. We arrive at last at a bach, on the beach. There's a laden table under a tree, kai moana, smoke from a barbeque, a woman - familiar as an aunty - brings a pavlova to the table, a man - anyone's uncle - shows off a fish. There's a game of Rugby on the sand, Rangitoto against the horizon. But the screen clears again - too soon. Dan Carter peels away from the edge of the ball, strides across the curve towards us and kicks us back across the world to Paris.
The Rugby Ball trip takes just ten minutes and it's worth every second. It's Aotearoa- New Zealand in microcosm - the land, the flora and fauna, the people, the customs, the experiences we've all had and love to share. It's a wonderful trip! Nga mihi tino nunui to the team behind it.
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