BY THE time you read this, the secret will be out but -- as usual -- the Chronicle is where you'll have read it first ...
Yes, Schapelle Corby has chosen Whanganui as her bolthole of choice.
I myself know only because of a chance encounter at Taupo Quay justyesterday ...
Ambling along on an early evening constitutional, I noticed a somewhat shabby addition to the usual couple of catamaran cruisers tied up there.
It looked like the original tramp river steamer out of The African Queen and I half expected Humphrey Bogart to poke his head out of the rickety wheelhouse, tip back his grubby captain's hat, adjust his sweaty neckerchief, and bawl out Katharine Hepburn for not having secured the mooring rope in shipshape fashion.
But no, the figure that emerged from the saloon below was cut from a different jib: The captain's cap was there, but he was of a stocky build -- albeit in good trim -- with a high-bridged nose and a resolute expression. He looked familiar.
An image coalesced of him and a former prime minister enjoying a quiet cup of tea in a Remuera cafe, seemingly oblivious to frenzied, camera-toting media pawing at the cafe windows.
Yes, it was John Banks -- like his tea-drinking companion, now exiled from the media spotlight by the fickle hand of fate.
And then the penny dropped -- if this was indeed the man who was Kim Dotcom's biggest non-fan, then the boat he was master of had to be a cabbage boat. And yes, contrary to his prior claim, he had indeed come up the river on it.
But what was he doing in Whanganui ... and where were the cabbages?
ABSENT FRIENDS: Katharine Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart and The African Queen didn’t make it to Whanganui.
At that point another familiar face emerged from below deck. Again I struggled to place it; again, an image hove into view of many, many cameras ... but not a cafe in sight. Just bars -- the iron, vertical kind.
Another penny resoundingly dropped. It was Schapelle of the one-and-only Corby ilk.
But it was a different Schapelle I was seeing now. The haunted look was still there, but softened by a patina of resignation -- and, yes, even a hint of muted optimism.
I couldn't help myself. Ignoring the former Minister of Police, now cabbage boat captain, I exclaimed: "Schapelle, why did you do it? A few joints maybe, but four-and-a-half kilos?"
"It was a plant, dummy," she replied, as she nonchalantly adjusted her bodice.
"I know it was a plant," I riposted. "But an illegal one, and a lot of it."
"Listen, dipstick," she replied with a patience no doubt honed by nine years' detention in a Balinese hell-hole. "I've moved on -- all I want is peace, quiet, anonymity, and the chance to flick off my grub-stake for a new start."
Unexpected visitor: Schapelle Corby, out from behind bars and making a new life.
Once more she adjusted her ample bodice, casually tucking in what incongruously appeared to be an edge of lettuce leaf.
"Schapelle," I said, "You know how much trouble concealed plants got you into last time. Don't do it -- we could be happy together, but more so if you weren't in the slammer again."
"Relax, Frankie," she responded (how she knew my name, I don't know -- perhaps cellmates had taught her Eastern occult skills).
"It's only a couple of iceberg lettuces. What with the inordinately wet weather here of late, I've heard salad greens are worth a fortune.
"As long as you don't grass to Customs, these two icebergs should fetch me enough to pick up a house in Castlecliff within cooee of a decent left break, or even a right break. But Frankie, I'm sorry, I vant to be alone."
How Greta Garbo had got into the conversation, I don't know. But, heartbroken though I was, I could see it was all for the best.
Schapelle was within sight of getting the break she and her bodyboard had always craved. And Banksie was now more, much more, than someone who'd come up the river on the last cabbage boat ...
