Loaves and Fishes, in Christchurch

Well, OK, it was not fishes.  But it was 315 loaves of bread, freshly baked by Breads of Europe (thanks, Larry ) of the Christchurch Farmers Market.  We’d ordered 300. He threw in an extra 15.

And it was Westwood’s free-range chickens (thanks, Pete).  We’d ordered about 20 and he’d thrown in extras.  Then there were several cartons of sausages (99% meat), bacon and other meat, supplied by Cressy Farm (thanks, Spencer and Jacqui).  And peppers – green and red capsicum.  And potatoes and pumpkins grown by Steve.

And, with a touch of class, 30 fresh croissants baked by Jeremy, and 42 quiches baked by Essex Specialty Baker (thanks, Ingrid), discounted massively in each case.  Made your mouth water, even after breakfast.

We ordered all this for the Farmers’ Market.  The Market is a joy unto itself.  It convenes every Saturday morning, next to Dean’s Bush, beside Riccarton House, alongside the Avon – so redolent of a tranquil and beautiful Christchurch, as it was, and still is, in that tiny quarter of the city.  Except for the ugly scar that runs between the footpath in front of the House and the river – carved into Mother Earth by the god of wrath three weeks ago.  And the house itself that has taken the inevitable hit.

Jamie Bennet has almost single-handedly developed the Market over 5 years from nothing into a pulsating, beautiful Saturday morning village with music and coffee, fun and friendship, and healthy food to purchase. He deserves a medal.  In lieu, his business received an earthquake that could wipe him out.

So we had raised over $2,000 the previous Saturday at the Market from personal donations.  Further non-market contributions brought it to $4,000.  Last Saturday we spent three-quarters of it on healthy food – ordered for Wednesday.  It duly turned up on our driveway that morning.

Meanwhile, I have acquired, courtesy of Parliamentary Services, a mobile office, since mine faces a mysterious future on Durham Street, next to the rubble that was the Methodist Mission Church, diagonally from the twisted ruin of the Provincial Chambers, and adjacent to the corner gymnasium that has a distinct, terminal, lean.

My mobile office is, in its other incarnation, a camper van, but it has acquired a political purpose later in life, rather like me.  It is a huge beast of the road. We have quickly come to understand, if not exactly love, one another.

So, into the office went the food.  And off into the post-quake traffic and over, into and occasionally above, the post-quake roads of Christchurch, the Green team cheerfully swung.

The idea was Marilyn’s.  But Bruce has acted as planner, accounts manager and quarter-master, playing each role with consummate skill.  I am his assistant.  Claire is, temporarily, mine.  Anne and Angela are the guardian angels – of the food, not us.  First things first.

We dropped the food off at the Women’s Refuge Centre, the City Mission, the Waipuna Trust, the Salvation Army, the Agape Trust and the Parklands Baptist Welfare Centre.

There is something deeply bonding about supplying food to people in need.  Words are few; yet communication is intimate.  The experience penetrates the human psyche.

I certainly learnt much from the recipients of the food – givers of love and charity to the people.

If this is what politics is about, I welcome it.  If this is what the earthquake has wrought, let us show we are not daunted.