Hard times at Hanmer Springs
13th June 2009

From out of the mist a human head appears. Disembodied, it seems to float upon the surface of the water. It glides past me, a woman’s head, blonde.

Other heads emerge and vanish. Some are talking and I hear snatches of conversation:
“So Tom got the farm but the others…”
“I went to another specialist, the best in the South Island…”
I lean back against the tiles and the warm water soothes my body. Looking up I see stars through the mist. The air is very cold.

I prefer visiting Hanmer Springs in the winter. It has always seemed more appropriate to me to enjoy the hot pools when there is snow on the mountains and frost in the air. And I prefer to bathe at night, when light and shadow give the pools an air of mystery and darkness conjours clouds of mist from the hot sulphury water.

The hot pools at Hanmer are one of the few places where the parade of humanity can be viewed close up and unabashed. All the world comes to Hanmer, takes off its clothes and relaxes. The strict rule of keeping one’s head above water to avoid infection by whatever nasty bugs may have survived chlorination adds a dimension of style to this aquatic experience that is missing from beach or swimming pool. At Hanmer women can preserve their makeup and hair styles while bathing so it becomes the only place where they often outnumber men in the water.

The observer’s interest becomes focussed on heads, faces, necks and conversations.

A group of bikini-clad girls emerges suddenly from the rocks at the edge of the pool. One, two, three, four, they clamber over the lip of the pool and splash into the water, all legs and shoulders, laughing and chattering with the excitement of 15 year olds. Their interest is, of course, boys.
“Did you see him?”
“Where?”
“Over there, with the dark hair.”
“Is that Daniel?”
“Daniel! Daniel!”

They wave and giggle. Heads turn, frowning at this disturbance of the peace. A large, soft-bellied youth swoops down the steps and blunders into the group of girls. They shriek and scatter. The boy, Daniel, flings out his arms and dives under the water.

There is a sudden silence, a collective intake of breath. Daniel put his head under! He emerges snorting and dripping, his pale body streaming. Twenty heads turn and gaze at him like otters. The ripples of his dive reach out and claim chins and necks. He surges after the girls and vanishes. Silence settles upon the pool.

Hanmer Springs is silent this winter weekend; a little too silent we thought when we drove in this evening. The streets were eerily deserted, houses dark and frowning. It’s years since I’ve visited and the town has grown. Subdivisions have spread out across the paddocks. Groups of shops - gifts and trinkets and clothing - have sprung up. The pools are surrounded by a tinker’s flurry of tourism: ice cream stands, quad bikes, Krazy Golf, Thai food.

But on this Friday night very little moves outside the ring of light from the hot pools. Seeking dinner we walk past 3 or 4 deserted restaurants which, as a rule, we avoid. We end up at Jollie Jack’s where the landlord turns out to be an old Ashburtonian. We hit it off and over lamb shanks and Cabernet he describes how the combined menace of economic downturn and swine flu are blighting the local economy.

Hanmer, he says, relies upon discretionary spending. All these houses are their owners’ second or third homes. All these shops and concessions feed our desire for recreation.

In hard times this small tourist outpost finds itself marginalised. Gift shops huddle and droop, restaurants blink into an un-peopled darkness.

In the months ahead some will keep their heads above water. Others will go under and be lost in the mist, like Daniel at the hot pools.