A Sunday morning train ride out of Wellington city heading to the northern suburbs is usually a sedate affair.
An eclectic cast of characters – ranging from drunks nursing hangovers, labourers resting after a night’s toil and just random, everyday people – sit fidgeting with their phones, staring out the windows or listening to their iPods.
A few moments before departure, an elderly Maori man pulled up alongside me. He had tattoos on both arms, missing teeth, a mob of blonde hair, and was lugging amplifiers with a guitar. He gave me a cheerful smile, quietly saying “hello”.
It’s been a rough night for the busker – his gear failed and little money was made, a stark contrast to most Saturdays.
This guy just wants to talk, and he has a disarming and engaging personality, so I listen.
He introduces his playlist. He sings everything from Jimi Hendrix to Ed Sheeran. He tells me he about the local buskers, why they do it, the ones he likes, and the charlatans.
“Hell, there is this old bloke who just plays air guitar and makes a fortunate. He wouldn’t know the difference between Jimmy Page and Taylor Swift,” the man complains.
“What’s your name, sir?” I asked.
“Eru”, he replied.
He lived in sleepy Tokomaru Bay, about two hours North of Gisborne, most of his life. This far east in New Zealand it is said time stands still, in fact it hasn’t never moved. Eru lived off the land, mending fences, milking cows, getting by.
He migrated south to take up his dream of playing music to the people. When he moved to Wellington it was initially with some trepidation. His last visit, more than three decades ago, ended badly.
An avid wrestling fan, Eru told me of how in 1975 his hero King Curtis visited to stage an exhibition at the Wellington Town Hall. Eru and his girlfriend hitchhiked ten hours to the capital and acquired ringside seats.
The fight started and the atmosphere was fever pitch. Eru was excited, but things soon took a sour turn. Curtis was getting a hiding, outnumbered 2-1 by nasty Germans.
Eru decided drastic action was required. He climbed into the ring and attempted to remove the Germans on top of Curtis.
“They were giving him a hiding bro, punching and kicking him on the ground,” Eru recalled.
“These German buggers grabbed a hold of me, one on each arm and tossed me across the ring. I skidded underneath the ropes onto my girlfriend’s lap. She said, ‘it’s over’, got up and left me there flat on my face.”
Never did I think I could hear such a whimsical tale on a Wellington train.
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