Early morning, and the Christchurch tram barn is pleasantly cool. The gleaming paintwork on the old tramcars’ wooden panels shows the liveries of once-proud companies—and these are still gracious conveyances.

But the start of the working day for a motorman is far from glamorous.

Armed with a slopping bucket of window-washing gear, a clipboard and broom, I weave between the sleeping tramcars. My first duty is on Tram No. 152, the Boon, named after the city’s former tramcar builders, Boon & Co. It’s a 44-seat double-saloon car with clerestory roof. Coupled to the tram is a four-wheel trailer, No. 115, the Duckhouse, named after the antics of yesteryear’s conductors, who used to duck in and out to collect fares.

These are beautifully crafted vehicles, built for the Christchurch Tramway Board (CTB) in the first years of the 20th century, an era when craftsmanship favoured the ornate and was a matter of pride.

I haul on long ropes attached to the 600 V DC overhead poles, and, to clean the windows, stretch across varnished seats of native wood that seem more in keeping with a luxury yacht than 21st century public transport.

Exteriors are Paris green and white with silver and red pin-striping—the colours of the CTB. Design features were probably modelled on stylish horse-drawn vehicles. Even the air compressor’s intermittent pumping is subdued, like tram chatter. “It’s nice to see you, Roy. Did you sleep well? I certainly did.”

The tinkling foot bell makes a friendly sound. The air gauge for the brakes sits at 80 pounds per square inch. Turning indicators blink, and the communications radio, a necessary concession to modernity, beeps.

As other trammies fuss around No. 178, the Brill, the atmosphere becomes even more companionable. One of two Melbourne cars, No. 244, and the diminutive No. 11, formerly of the Dunedin Corporation, will hit the tracks later in the morning. No. 411, the second Melbourne car, will rest until evening, when it will take to the streets as a stylish restaurant.

Time to smarten up uniforms. Trousers are black with red piping, the same as worn by old-time Christchurch motormen, and we don peaked caps. Black ties contrast with crisp, freshly laundered white shirts. We collect money bags, tickets and clippers. High roller doors rattle open, and, with a clanging of bells, the day begins on New Zealand’s only 21st century street tramway.

My trammie colleagues, a mix of men and women, have taken on the job having pursued a variety of other careers—as teachers, a university lecturer, a fire chief, a farmer, a backpackers’ proprietor, an environmental consultant, metropolitan bus drivers and a locomotive driver. Five years ago I tossed in my long-time job as a newspaper reporter to become a rookie motorman and willing partaker in front-line tourism.

The training, all in-house, was intensive, and the prospect of driving an intimidating rail vehicle amongst pedestrians as well as road traffic was challenging—alarming, even.