Inbox
Harbouring doubts
by Jon Bridges
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
08:00 Sunday, May 24. The alarm goes off. Today we are going to a protest. But 8.00am is an unholy hour, an unknown time. I cajole Gemma out of bed with sweet lies about bacon breakfasts. Having neither children nor religion, we are unfamiliar with 8.00am on a Sunday – we are entering unexplored territory as surely as Amundsen did entering the Antarctic Plateau. Will our rations last? Can the ice support us? Time will tell, but I fear I will soon have to shoot one of the dogs.
09:03 We round the corner to see thousands of people gathering in the morning sun. The papers later say 2000, but it’s more like twice that, and absurdly I feel like crying. I’ve always been choked up by weddings, TV commercials, sports fixtures (Hurricanes only). I cry when I chop onions – in fact, just the thought of harming them has me in tears. We join the crowd. I’m moved by the camaraderie, our commonality of purpose with these people, but I keep the tears inside. Gemma still believes I’m 100% man, and I can’t risk a reassessment this close to our wedding.
09:40 No matter what the situation, you can count on a Kiwi for a classic line. When we hear we aren’t to be allowed on the Auckland Harbour Bridge, some people get agitated, some get ready to leave, and some get loud. One guy yells, “If you want to get on the bridge and are ready now, say, ‘Ready now.’” Brilliant. We drift toward the barriers and the police. There is an ominous feeling of purpose.
09:49 Is it right to admire the enemy? Despite the shameful prevarication of the NZ Transport Agency and its preposterous excuses over the past 18 months, boss Wayne McDonald is here to greet our agitated thousands. He’s a good enough sport to take the megaphone from the rally organiser and tell us to our faces that we won’t be allowed to take our protest across the bridge today, “No!” It goes down like the proverbial mug of refrigerated spew. “Shame on Wayne” is just the most printable of the inventive rhymes that are instantly written and loudly rehearsed. I happen to be watching his face when the first cyclists burst onto the bridge and the crowd roars its massive approval. Wayne cranes to watch them disappear up the bridge; he doesn’t look happy. He looks ill. It looks like that cup of sick could reappear.
09:55 The wind changes, the tide turns, the sun beams from behind the clouds, the people walk onto the bridge. The Transport Agency’s hi-vis vests herd us across the clip-on, onto the centre lanes. This disobedience isn’t just civil, it’s downright friendly – everyone grins at each other like fools at a barbecue.
10:05 We claim the bridge; we bags it. It is one of the biggest bagsings in New Zealand history.
10:13 There are animal protesters dressed as pigs (well, dressed in pink onesies with ears on the hoods). They’re confusing the public. Now everyone’ll think we want pigs to be allowed to walk or cycle over the bridge! And that’s just not practical – their trotters would scuff up the asphalt. You don’t see us trying to get Mike King involved in our protest, so go home pig people and get your own rally. It’s a long walk up this bridge and looking at you is making people hungry.
10:23 Unicyclists pass, people sing, we reach the top. While their kids play on the motorway, fathers study the huge steel structure, “Hey, Brian, see what they’ve done there with that cross brace?” “Spline-welded to the Wengel-ties?” “Bit Mickey Mouse if you ask me.” “Yeah, looks a bit Mickey Mouse, Alan. It does.”
11:11 On the way back to the car I hear a boy say, “Mummy, we have to go on the bridge again!” And we will, little fella, we will. According to the Transport Agency, by the time you’re 40 and I’m 75, we will. You can bring your jetpack, and at the top we can eat one of our complete-meals-in-a-single-pill.
