A Crude Cemetery

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 278, 14 February 1928, Page 8

A Crude Cemetery

Is It The Poor Man’s Graveyard?

Strange Scenes At Waikumete

(CONTRIBUTED) ONE of the strangest scenes in New Zealand may be wit- ' nessed every Sunday at 'Waikumete Cemetery. This odd spectacle is a procession of mourners carrying kerosene tins, billy-cans, rubber water-bottles, and all sorts of pitchers and rusty vessels, each on the trek for water in which to place their floral tributes to the memory of the dead.

rpHE difficulty of mourners at Wai--1 kumete In -securing fresh water for graveside flowers is not due to drought. It is attributable beyond all argument to the parsimony of the Auckland municipal authorities —who are responsible for the maintenance of the crude cemetery on a sunny slope at Glen Eden. The reserve comprises some 250 acres of clay-land, which Nature designed for the purpose of a brickfield, and for anaemic, ugly bricks at that. But the Auckland City CounrK ris rr: rM 3K % SK tk S& tk % &

rf ri? lit IK Tr? -y. tI- -'r rk -h Til t!t cil decided to make it a God’s Acre. As a rule, a cemetery is set apart and maintained in conditions to make death seem an inevitable rest. The exception is at Glen Eden. The place is a raw wilderness, pathetically unkempt and crude. With a commendable view to future profit, an area of about 150 acres has been devoted to afforestation. It is estimated that this plantation of pines will, in less than half a century, yield a handsome return, to say nothing about the splendid profit in the land, when sold in interment plots. The remainder of the reserve, approximately 100 acres, is now utilised as a burial-ground. To those who buy a plot, the land Is sold at £1 a foot. The revenue should be considerable, and representative of a great profit in comparison with the original purchase price of the whole area. . The equipment of the place is simply contemptible. It has no parallel in the Dominion. To begin with, there is one watertap. It is situate near the Glen Eden entrance to the vast cemetery. With the exception of a ditch through a central gully, this tap has to serve visitors to the thousands of graves all over the 100-acre cemetery reserve. The city’s water main from the Waitakere reservoirs passes the western boundary of Waikumete.

Hence me pathetic parade of watercarriers every Sunday and holiday; hence the littering of the cemetery with old tins and a multitude of glass vessels. The ground is so poor that most of me graves are covered with concrete, decorated grotesquely with pebbles or shells. Thus, the greatest part of me floral beauty is contributed. Naturally, contributed flowers must be kept in water, lest they perish an hour after sunrise in an Auckland summer.

And what a procession it is, on a quiet Sunday afternoon! First, there is a queue about the ludicrous tap at a mortuary chapel. Here, men and women fill many different kinds of vessels with living water. Those with experience of the wretched place have been prudent enough to bring a receptacle from town. Most of the young women favour hot-water hags; some of the men carry “billies” from the train, as though on the search for Illicit liquor. Strangers with no previous knowledge of the arid inadequacy of facilities at Waikumete must depend on borrowing a tin from a graveside. Even to do mis is sometimes difficult. Since many people have forgotten to replace borrowed tinware, the thoughtful private caretakers of graves have learnt to guard against the loss of a bucket or a jam jar. So, with prudence, they tie their tin to a stake or anchor it at the base of a memorial. Thus, all over me cemetery, mere is an amazing collection of rusty and dilapidated tins, rattling in a high wind—barbarous music for me unheeding dead. The sorry conditions are associated too much with delicate sentiment to be discussed in a spirit of levity. It is only in Auckland that so contemptible a spectacle would be tolerated for one Sabbath Day.

As a stranger to Auckland, who has been unlucky enough to bury a comrade in a neglected cemetery, I have been assured mat a protest would have no effect upon the callous authorities. Indeed, it has been observed, perhaps in angry cynicism, that Waikumete Cemetery is merely the graveyard for me poor, that all the best people have secured cosy corners on the aristocratic slopes of Purewa, and that, anyway, the dead are soon forgotten. In other centres, however, the aim of municipal administrators is to make and keep a cemetery as a place for meditation and prayer, so mat the living who remember the dead may know that death means tranquillity in a pleasant haven of green sward, beautiful flowers, and noble trees.

It might help toward essential improvement of conditions if the oldest member of me City Council were always made me chairman of the Reserves Committee; also, if all the councillors were compelled to declare a codicil to their wills mat they, too, must be buried ultimately at Waikumete. This would keep civic administrative thought on the necessity for maintaining me cemetery in consoling attractiveness. Meanwhile, the authorities at Waikumete are at last tarring and shelling me unkempt paths. It is something to be grateful for. But what a place in which to sleep after life’s fitful fever!