For the sniff of a pound

Now I love a bargain just as much as any post-war immigrant, and if you throw-in a bit of flattery to boot, I'm anyone's.  So with the sniff of a discount on the frigid morning wind, I found myself shivering on the shady side of the street last Saturday at 10.02, surrounded by a bunch of Greek yiayias and Italian nonnas waiting for the cheap shirt factory outlet to open its doors for the weekly octogenarian stoush between the Aegeans and the Mediterraneans, as they fight over the limited selection of excess garments for their husbands, sons, grandsons and more than likely, their great grandsons.  My plan was to get in and out as quickly as I could before the garlic-laced snarls began and the elbows and walking-sticks started flying.

The bloke who runs the place is of similar ethnic stock to his elderly customers, with both the look and manner of a cruise-ship crooner.  As his trade would dictate, he is always impeccably [over]dressed in a fine, tailored suit and massive cufflinks, and his thick, dark hair is bolstered above his head in one gigantic wave which, if not for the Gulf of Mexico-sized oil slick holding it in place, threatens to crash down on anyone within 6 feet like a devastating, deep-fried tsunami.  His olive skin and hands look impeccably manicured, and this rather dated, visual ensemble is capped-off with a kind of forced affability which is no doubt a winner with the early-morning ladies, but not quite what a fashionably awkward, moderately hung over Donkey is after at this un-Godly hour on a Saturday morning.

Or so I thought, until this Casanova de Couture decided to redirect his charm offensive from the aggressive hoards going mole-covered-head to mole-covered-head on the other side of the store, to quiet, unassuming Donkey who was pretty certain he knew his business when it came to buying a plain, single-pastel business shirt and matching tie. 

"Just these thanks", I mumbled as I unconfidently placed my items on the counter, the correct change in my hand ready to handover as I prepared my bolt for the door.

"A 43, Sir?", he queried with a friendly smile, "Sure, you've got a muscular, manly neck, but you cut a much finer figure than a 43".

Oh shit ... confrontation!  What do I do now?  "Ah, um ... I always wear a 43 when I have to wear a tie", I whisper lamely.

"Sure, you can if you like", he oozes, casting an appraising eye up and down, "but I think it far better to show off, not hide your fine torso.  I would suggest you go with the 42, and if you have trouble with the top button, just pull it off and sew it a bit closer to the edge".

Paralysed with fear at this unexpected buoying of my chronic low self esteem, and with all of my brain's reason-centres completely flaccid, all I can hear are the words, "fine torso" being sung to me in celestial operatic crescendo.  With my vocal chords strung-out like the neck of a rubber chicken, I dumbly accept the 42, hand over my cash and stumble out the door past two gnarled, elderly dwarves having a tug-of-war over a long-sleeved, paisley retro number.

Once across the threshold, as the cold air rushes my cheeks and begins to clear the cotton wool from my flattery-addled brain, I exhale my puffed-up, manly chest that had been swelling with each utterance from the salesman, and with that expulsion of gravity-defying hot air, I assume my usual, stooped slouch as the dread at what I had just done washes over me.  Against all my now-returning reasoning, I was too embarrassed to go back inside to change the size as I knew I ought; I'd been conned, plain and simple.  So, feeling as low and disgruntled as I always do after having bought clothes, I headed home to bury my shame under the doona.

The reason I had broken with my instincts that morning to venture out into the world to buy clothes, was that I had been invited to a very special luncheon this week with the Prime Minister of Samoa; obviously not something which happens every day, and something for which, I believe, requires just a little bit more effort in the wardrobe department than my usual shorts and thongs.  Unfortunately, I allowed my usual lackadaisical, "she'll be right" approach to my work infiltrate my preparation for this luncheon, and so here I was, in the last hours before the city retail outlets shut down for a long weekend, buying an outfit for the event.

The importance of the event, and my ill-preparedness for same, makes my decision not to return to the store for the 43 all the more unforgivable.  "Not to worry, Donkey.  You've got plenty of time over the weekend to sort the shirt and buttons out".  Of course, you're right ... but did I mention my lackadaisical, "she'll be right" attitude to everything?

At 11pm on Monday evening, literally 12 hours before I was due to shake the Samoan PM's hand, and share with him a pre-lunch sherry in the palatial reception hall of Government House, I sat with shaking hands trying to sew a button on my new shirt such that I would be able to do it up and adorn it with my new tie.  No worries – all done by 11.45pm; thread broken, shirt put aside, and off to bed.  Absolutely no need to check if I'd done it right.

The next morning was the usual, pre-work flurry of breakfasts, showers and cleaning Hambones' projectile porridge off the dining room wall.  As I got ready to leave the house, I decided not to wear my tie on the tram, but rather preferred to leave my top button undone until I was due to head to my luncheon.

Upon reaching the office, it was all wolf-whistles and lewd remarks from my workmates who were astonished at my lack of open footwear, and I was urged to don the tie for a squiz.  "Too busy!", I scoffed, and went about my work.

At about 9.30pm, I got a call from the big boss requesting a word about something else, and only then did I decide to put on my tie, and present the full ensemble.

No worries – the button did up easily, the tie slid on and I went on my way ... NOT!  Now THAT would have been a shit story!  What really happened, as my huge, bratwurst fingers wrestled with my collar, was that my knees started shaking, my "oh-so-buff" shirt became drenched with sweat and my already ruddy face became aflame with embarrassment and shame.  What the fark was I going to do now?  I was due to meet the Prime Minister of Samoa in just over an hour!

Immediately I set about trying to find a needle and thread ... but this was a modern, Australian office, not the set of Mad Men; there were no hot secretaries to be ever at the ready for any kind of crisis, with a secret stash of aftershave, freshly-ironed trousers or a sewing kit.  No one had anything like that – I was totally screwed.

Forty minutes later, after having jumped on a tram to fashionable Chapel St, been swindled by possibly the only designer-label sewing shop in the Southern hemisphere, and having legged-it 1.5 kilometres back to the office, I was sitting, shirtless on a toilet seat, squinting in the dim light as I tried to thread the expensive cotton through the needle.

With the precious seconds ticking like a great, booming base drum in my ear, I fumbled again and again with the pointy implement, but finally emerged from the cubicle, ready, like a champion female weight lifter from Eastern Europe, to attempt a final clean and jerk to affix my top button.

Again and again I extended my neck, screwed-up my face, sucked-in my breath, wiped my sweaty hands ... all to no avail.  It was about five millimetres too tight ... I was totally screwed; the first ever cretin to be invited to lunch with a national leader, only to be refused entry through inappropriate attire.  In a final burst of desperation, my eyes burning with humiliating tears, I reached for the scissors and cut along the button-eye, extending the hole by the required five millimetres.  My shame burned hotter than ever as I saw the frayed mess I had created, and with little enthusiasm, I twisted my body into one final attempt ... urgh, argh, uuurgh ... yes!  It went in!  It went in!  Aaaargh!  Noooo, it slipped out again; my sharp-scissored handy work had made the hole too big for the button.  That was it.  I was done for.

And just at that point, as my self esteem plummeted into the depths of dark despair, some kind of physiological, auto-pilot thing took over, and against all reasoning, I decided to give it one more go.  With my body convulsing in audible sobs, I pushed, and twisted, and sucked-in air, and wrestled and again the button went in.  This time, I was too scared to let go, but with the wall clock now indicating 'Time', I had no choice.  Very slowly, I exhaled, and one at a time, I took my trembling hands from my neck.  It stuck.  Just as gently, my face turning from shameful red to oxygen-starved blue, I slowly secured my new tie, and only when all was in place and seemingly staying together did I dare breathe.

I'd done it!  Off I went to Government House, and after presenting my credentials at the gate, I glided into the ornate reception hall and to the warm handshake of the Honourable Prime Minister and his entourage of Samoan Parliamentary Ministers.  As the PM and I exchanged platitudes, I was again struck, as one often is after having not been around Samoans for a while, just how massive they are; big armed, big legged, big bodied and big necked.  Hang-on!

And suddenly I was reminded of the difficulty that many senior government officials in Samoa, as the few amongst their countrymen who ever have occasion to wear ties, wrestle with every day.  Due to the sheer impossibility of finding a shirt that could ever reach around those massive necks, every one of them gathered there that morning wore his tie at half mast, having tried in vain to secure them as high as possible, without having been able to affix their top buttons.

I'll never, ever try to save money on clothes again.*

You try getting a shirt around that neck.  Pic: http://www.news.com.au

* - I have absolutely no intention of honouring this pledge.

JB. You've done it again

Despite the changin' times, there are some things in life which have, at one time or another, been so much an enjoyable part of who I am, that even if I don't do them as often nowadays as I might like, they still make me feel fantastic, as soon as I embark upon them.

Case in point; I really love a visit to JB HI-FI.  Sure, I might only drop-by once a year these days (instead of at least once a week, as of yore), and sure, the majority of the titles in the CD racks (not to mention some of the CD rack categories) are completely foreign to me, but still, the sense of excitement and anticipation I get when I step across the electronic sensors into that world of yellow, plastic sticky tape just gets my consumer juices going.

While I was only really ever into the CDs side of things at JB, I know there's always been something for everyone there; music DVDs, TV and movie DVDs, hi-fi systems, TVs ... and now a pretty comprehensive range of computers and i-pads – these latter items not really being my bag, but the fact that they are the bag for so many others merely adds to my enjoyment of the place.

But there's something I need to make very clear from the outset, given my observations from today's visit to JB Hi-FI.  While I love/d spending hours and shit-loads of cash on the acquisition of eclectic music from their copious range of fine reggae, dub and alternative rock, and while I even occasionally wandered through their DVDs and hi-fi equipment for a bit of a poke and a giggle, I never once lost sight of the fact that everything in that store was comprised of items that I may WANT, but never constituted anything that I, nor any other member of humanity could ever honestly believe they might actually NEED.

So today, as I was wandering through and having to chase Hambones along isles that I never really knew existed (who knew JB sold turntables, or "decks" as I believe the young folk call them?), I eventually found him after a few, heart-stopping moments of lost contact, in front of a massive array of flat-screen TVs (or should that read, "...an array of massive flat screen TVs"?).  As Hambones proceeded to place is grubby mitts over every one of those impossibly large, shiny screens, one couldn't help but be blown away by their amazing colours and picture clarity.  To enhance this, as these places often do, they had a DVD playing on every one of the thousands of screens, flying you over Antarctica in a balance-altering helicopter one minute, or riding across the African savannah on an abdomen-jolting elephant the next.

As I struggled to pry Hambones' vegemite-smeared paws off an IMAX-sized screen before I got caught by one of the black-clad Easter Island statues which moonlight as JB security staff, I noticed that each of these amazing images were punctuated with writing over a blank screen, which on further investigation, constituted facts and messages about environmental degradation and conservation, climate change, population explosion and other determinants of the health of our dying planet, and I gotta say, it really stuck in my craw.

Here I was, surrounded by walls of massive, shiny, black, plastic, electronic devices, any one of which would probably feed a whole family for a year amongst two-thirds of the world's population; basically the epitome of consumer-driven greed and superfluous acquisition, and they were using messages of peace, conservation and global socialism to sell them.  Surely someone was taking the piss?  I might have thought so, if the footage between each message wasn't so brilliantly drawing my two-year old son under its spell, not to mention a number of others who may have had more years under their belts, but seemingly equivalent intellect.

I get it ... we've gone too far.  While on the one hand, the screaming, talk-back radio listening mobs of Western Sydney Aussie Battlers surviving on the poverty line are leading a national outrage directed at a government which, simply because there seems to be just no other way to tackle the urgent global crisis of climate change, is threatening to "tax us within an inch of our incomes", on the other, everyone still seems to have enough disposable income to purchase a television which is so large that one needs to knock out a wall to get it into their living room.  We're so sick, twisted and confused with our own wealth and greed, that even messages of reduce, recycle and reuse, punctuating breathtaking imagery of what we'll lose if we don't, actually spurs us on to consume more.  Get me outta here!

You can just imagine how big the telley is!  Pic: http://www.realbollywood.com

Steve McQueening

I've banged-on enough about my veggie garden over the last year or so for you to get the picture that I really love getting amongst the compost and the loam; recycling my coffee grounds to prevent snails from getting into my luscious basil leaves and doing everything I can to coax my seedlings out of the earth, and to give those young 'uns the fighting chance they need to rise up from the filth to produce fine flowers and fruit. 

I guess you could compare my dedication as a gardener to the kind of teacher who, in sappy movies of say 15 years ago, would see promise in the misbehaving youth and, against all advice and opinions of their colleagues, would take this student under their wing, spend all their spare time tutoring them, and then, to everyone's complete amazement, have them shine at the end-of-term maths quiz or whatever.  Interestingly, the same relationship portrayed in more modern films would probably see the teacher completely vilified and possibly slapped with an investigation into inappropriate relations with a minor.  But I digress; there is nothing inappropriate about the tenderness and loving caresses I give my sweet, burgeoning tomato bushes and the tender kisses and playful licks I bestow upon my zucchinis of a summer evening – absolutely nothing!

To say that I just love getting out into the garden and doing a bit of digging and sowing is true, but not entirely.  It's true of the digging and sowing one does for one's summer crop, in about September or October, but it's definitely not true of May.  I friggin' hate the cold.  I hate the damp.  And I hate going to shit-loads of effort for average winter veggies such as bloody spinach and cauliflower.  So today, my plan was to get the job over with as soon as possible, and to get back inside to the warmth and the paper, pronto!

So I had a dump of dirt scheduled to arrive mid morning, and before that, I was out there, up to my ankles in the frigid filth, mixing stinking compost and rancid manure into what was left of the sodden beds.  Eventually the dirt arrived and I got to the back-breaking work of carting it across the yard and into the garden, only to realise after I was halfway through the pile that I had come a cropper (once again) to my meagre skills in mathematics – I had completely fudged the primary school-level mathematics equations for measuring volume in a right-angled wooden enclosure, and had ordered twice as much soil as I needed.

This soil having been dumped by the truck on my postage-stamp lawn, I couldn't leave the remainder there, and our entire yard being only slightly bigger than the lawn (comparatively, I'd say one of those postage stamps from the former Soviet Bloc countries is a pretty apt description), I was really in trouble.

So for the rest of the day, instead of being in my toastie-warm living room with a fresh coffee and the newspaper, I was walking around in the freezing, winter shadows trying to dispose of a little dirt here and a little dirt there – I felt like all those prisoners of war in The Great Escape, trying to dispose of the contents of three tunnels in little dumps here and there, right under the noses of the Germans.

I guess everyone, like me, if imagining themselves as a prisoner of war in Nazi Germany, pictures themselves as the rugged, all-American hero on the back of an Enfield, flying his way over a barbed-wire fence to freedom, rather than the short, chubby, British "Tommy" having to carry stinking dirt in his daks and divvying it out across the compound.  Indeed, reality really does bite!

Let's face it, I'm probably more likely to get the role of the barbed-wire, than the rugged, all-American hero.  Pic: http://www.coventrytelegraph.net

Be alert, but not alarmed

My final, happily humorous observation of the Solomons during this visit relates to that Pacific-wide phenomenon which I have discussed before; the thriving, second-hand rag trade which sees Australia's fashion cast-offs becoming re-born over and over again in the cities, mountains and remote lagoons across the region.

On this visit, I had a nice little chuckle to myself when I saw a middle-aged woman wearing a t-shirt featuring a presumably un-licensed reproduction of a very sultry, short skirted and buxom-cleavaged Smurfette giving one of her male compatriots the come hither stare, beneath the caption, "Let's smurf each other's brains out".

And I also saw a tough looking teen at the market who, for all his mean, former militia-looking appearances, was sporting a Summernats 2008 t-shirt; an annual event attracting a massive gathering of NSW bogans just outside of Canberra that this Honiara bad boy was unlikely to have even heard of.

Of course there were also the usual smattering of (recently ironic) Osama Bin Laden and (never out of fashion) fluffy pink pussy cat t-shirts on this visit.  But for mine, the bravest, and most alarming fashion statement came from one of the airport 'security' staff as I was checking-in for my flight home.

Despite recent, somewhat spurious financial reports espousing the economic prosperity of the Sols, the reality is that this is still a dirt-poor country.  And when I was living there seven years ago, when the place was still emerging from five years of civil conflict, things were even worse.  Back then, the national airline was only just limping along; its schedules being met only when there was enough fuel available to get a plane across the pond and back.

So it's not surprising that while the rest of the world had completely overhauled airport security by 13^th September 2001, it took the Sols until 2004 before the entire national air service shut down for a week, and all field-office staff were brought into Honiara (by boat!) to undergo training on the new national civil aviation security and anti-terrorism protocols.

We in the outposts eagerly awaited the return to duty of our provincial Solomon Airlines team from their training to see what the new, highly publicised security regulations would look like.  Up until that point, Felix, Peter and Sam's modus operandi had been to don shorts, t-shirts and thongs, and to wander out across the muddy airstrip with a trolley once the engines were cut (although there seemed no need to wait for the propellers to have stopped), and to climb up into the cargo hatch to eject boxes and cases out the door onto the dirty ground.

Post security and anti-terrorism training, things were indeed different.  Under the new regulations, Felix, Peter and Sam donned shorts, t-shirts and thongs, and wandered out across the muddy airstrip with a trolley once the engines were cut, and from the cargo hatch, threw boxes and cases out onto the ground.  What was different from before?  They did all this in flouro safety vests!

Over the next couple of months, the stash of Solomon Airlines safety vests at the provincial airline office dwindled as various family members required new upper-body clothing, and in the end, there were only three vests remaining, so Manager Felix was forced to keep these locked in the office after each shift.

During my recent visit, I was very glad to see that the commitment to safety, security and anti-terrorism remains as strong today as it was all those years ago.  I noticed this while I was waiting to go through immigration on my way out last week.  At that time, the Solomon Airlines 'security officials' were changing shifts, and the end-of-shifters were handing over their flouro safety vests to the new workers coming on-shift.  I reflected as I watched this that the safety vests are indeed a necessary security item, as once removed, the individuals beneath, dressed in shorts, t-shirt and thongs, and with half-smoked fags hanging from their lips, looked much the same as any other young men in the country.

But the best thing about this little transaction of the only weapon in the Solomon Airlines' anti-terrorism armory, taking place as it did beneath a big sign warning passengers that Solomon Airlines treats terrorism very seriously, and that jokes about bombs and hijackings are a prosecutable offence, was what one of these 'security officials' was wearing underneath his bright yellow vest; a black t-shirt emblazoned front and back with the name of a band he'd probably never even heard, 'Megadeth'.

Be alert but not alarmed?  I guess I should have been thankful he hadn't been wearing one of the afore-mentioned Osama Bin Laden t-shirts!

It really is amazing [read disturbing] how much of this stuff there is on the internet.  Pic: http://orlandonewscenter.com/

Myths and Myth-conceptions

There’ve been a few changes in Honiara since I last dropped-in, and a particularly noticeable one has been the opening and maintaining of the two pedestrian subways under the [only] main road through town.  Today, these are well-maintained with clean coats of paint courtesy of the new, controversially-appointed mobile phone operator, and are gated and locked after hours to ensure they don’t become a meeting place for miscreants to gather in the dark night to drink kwaso (illegal, distilled home brew) and indulge in other ‘unsavoury’ acts.

Although I’ve not been game to enter one of these yet, I have seen others using them, which is a tremendous contrast from five years ago, when anyone reaching within ten metres of their entrance would be repelled by the smell of stagnant mud, rotting garbage and other forms of refuse, both human and organic.  In some cases, this festering mess reached half-way up the stair-cases, and provided a reasonable indicator of the functionality of the Honiara Town Council at the time to maintain the city generally.

Now anyone understanding anything about the aid and development sector will appreciate that in many settings, expat aid workers rarely have much to do with the indigenous population, and never was this more so than in Honiara, circa 2004, when the population of the city doubled overnight with a foreign military and civil police force intent on returning this ‘rogue state’ back to peace and economic stability, as well as an additional handful of development workers concentrating on the re-establishment of the health and education systems.

In this high security environment, where for a foreigner to even look a local man directly in the eye was seen as a potential trigger to provoke aggressive confrontation, allegedly resulting in the foreigner’s likely maiming or even murder, it became very convenient for expatriates to adopt a mandatory policy of civil movement restricted to the air-conditioned comfort of sparkling, white, Toyata Hiluxes, and ‘as a security precaution’, to frequent only those public sites designated as ‘safe’ by security forces, such as one of a handful of cafes, bars and restaurants serving only ‘Western’ coffee, food and drinks, and whose prices were too exorbitant for local incomes.

As a result, in those days, aside form the daily, patronising engagements with national staff [as few as possible, I should note] foreigners had very little interaction with local people.  Now, as you can imagine, drinking crap coffee in the only espresso outlet in town and eating spaghetti with tomato ketchup from the only ‘Italian restaurant’ will only occupy a foreigner’s complete attention for so long, and after a week or so, even the most alcohol-befuddled middle-aged male, or meticulously manicured and groomed female expatriate aid worker will eventually gaze out the window of the Toyota, and wonder aloud about some curious structure or local practice for which their own experience and upbringing (in New Zealand or Australia) can offer little explanation.

Without exception, such an utterance or question will be eagerly leapt upon by the expatriate’s colleagues or peers in order to establish the latter’s superior field credibility, and an answer to the query will be confidently provided.  The questioner will then lock that piece of information away and have it ever at the ready to drop surreptitiously into the next conversation over a steaming, muddy espresso (probably at morning tea that very day) in the hope of promoting their field credibility, and at least two of these caffeine-enhanced individuals will rush back to the office to casually drop their ‘long-established awareness of local customs and practices’ into the conversation.

And by Saturday night, at someone’s exclusive, invitation-only party [attended by every expatriate in town], there will not be a soul present who doesn’t know the reason behind the curious observation from the cab of the Hilux, just a few mornings ago.

In the ‘high security’ humanitarian setting, when interactions with local people should be kept to a minimum [or preferably avoided altogether], this is how expatriates learn about local customs and practices.  While one may consider that it’s as good a process as any other, the obvious flaw is the extent to which the original ‘authority’ had any factual basis for their confident explanations or, as has often been the case, they simply made them up.

It was in this setting, some seven or so years ago, that a younger, thinner and certainly more naïve Donkey uttered a query about why young men and women, clutching their babies and young children, were taking their chances to run across the busy main road and only narrowly escaping being run-down by the speeding, shining, white Toyota Hiluxes which seemed to have recently doubled the number of vehicles on the road, when there were much safer, pedestrian subways and overpasses they could be using.

My esteemed colleague riding beside me (who I later learned had only been in the Solomons for a month, and until that time had spent his entire, thirty year career working in a regional branch of an Australian bank), assured me that the reason for their lack of use was that in many indigenous Solomon Islands communities, it was inappropriate for anyone to be positioned higher than a ‘Big Man’ (an elder or chief).  This, he informed me, meant that women could not cross the overpasses in case a Big Man was below, as she would have to pay compensation, and likewise, a Big Man would not use the underpasses.  Further, if a Big Man wasn’t going to use them, then why would anyone else?  And so, they remained unused and poorly maintained.  My colleague added that these structures had been built by the World Bank ten years before, and were a prime example of the poor outcomes of foreign aid when the community is not consulted in the planning of activities (pretty rich words from this bloke, given his performance, or the lack their of, over the proceeding years, but that’s another story altogether).

Now while I have been guilty of furthering the propagation of these kinds of myths in the past, in this instance, I do not believe I shared this information more widely, however I did believe it.  So I was admittedly surprised to see that since my last visit, the subways have been cleaned, painted, maintained and are being used.  Is there any truth to the words of my former colleague?  Who knows?  But one thing’s for sure, if it is indeed true that the reason for the lack of use of the pedestrian overpasses is that a lesser-ranking individual should never be positioned higher than a Big Man, then you’d assume that it would also be taboo to take a dump above his, and considering the amount of human excrement strewn across the overpasses each morning, for mine, the ‘official’ explanations are rapidly losing credibility.

Not much [day time] traffic along here, and on investigation (rather than swallowing unsubstantiated here say), perhaps the reasons are clearly obvious – yes, that is poo in the bottom right corner.  Pic: Hagas

They ruin your life

 Man, I wish I had a buck for every time a heated political argument amongst long-time friends was silenced with phrases such as, "Well that's all very well and good for you, but I've got kids, and I need to think about their future".

Compared with the majority of my peers, I was a bit of a late bloomer in the Family Expansion Department, and it always pissed me off when the same people who I'd grown-up with in the outer suburbs, who I'd gone to school with, who I'd rebelled against familial and social stereotypes with, who I'd moved into inner-city doss houses with, who I'd drank in the same inner-city pubs with, and with whom I'd debated politics and popular culture, would suddenly (coinciding with marriage, offspring and an exodus back to the Outer East) execute a complete 180 and change their age-old lines of argument and values in favour of bog-standard, Channel 9-like conservatism.

This particularly hit home to me about ten years ago when one of my friends who had pursued many social and environmental causes over the years (including a two-year stint being abused by errant teenagers while inside the Wilderness Society's koala costume) informed us all during one of his rare nights-off from familial duties, that he would be voting Liberal in the forth-coming federal election because only 'The Libs' were offering to extend the Eastern Freeway!

Of course, this ridiculous misunderstanding of state versus federal political responsibility was immediately and enthusiastically leapt upon by our gathering, and before long, this once politically-savvy and proud crusader for human and animal rights informed us that we all needed to grow-up and take some responsibility for ourselves if we ever expected to live in homes without cracked walls and warped floor boards.  He added that neither of us had any significant life experience upon which to make informed decisions about future generations, and until we did, we should keep our naive political opinions to ourselves.

Of course this aggressive challenge would never do, and the conversation became increasingly heated before it concluded with my old friend jumping to his feet, gathering his coat and letting fly with, "Until you guys have kids, and have to think about their future education and employment opportunities, you'll never have any idea about the political and economic realities of the Australian electorate".  Following which he stormed out of the pub.

So that's it, hey?  Kids change everything ... or is it just that the kids were the factor which 'forced' him back to his politically-affiliated, geographical roots?  Isn't it telling how your life circumstances can dramatically alter your values and beliefs?

It's true.  We all know the cliche of the mate who's out with you and your other mates six nights a week, getting drunk and trying to pick-up women, until on one rare occasion he happens to be successful with the latter and immediately his drinking pursuits are replaced by rom-coms and flower shows, and his mates never see him again.  Clearly that guy's circumstances changed his views on what was important; his priorities had altered from his mates and beer in favour of companionship, love or at the very least, getting his end away on a regular basis.

I can relate to this a little (well, not that last bit, obviously).  I used to be right into outdoor packsports, and nature and wildlife conservation; for a good while I much preferred heading off into the bush with everything I needed for a few days and sitting alone on a rock all afternoon contemplaying myself and my surroundings, rather than attending garden parties and making polite small talk with friends and their new girlfriends.

When I finally did meet the love of my life, my rugged, outdoor pursuits were promptly replaced with rather more sedate, beachside loitering, and before long, I was no longer pining for the deep solitude of the remote wilderness.  So it would indeed seem as though chicks change everything!

Interestingly, in those days of being a vocal advocate for wilderness protection, I harboured a visceral hatred for zoos.  I recall being physically ill once while visiting the zoo with my nephew, and watching in horror at the dilapidated, Victorian-era surroundings that the seals had to parade around in before crowds of jeering, screaming children.

I stayed away for many years after this, and only recently returned to the zoo with my son, Hambones, thanks to one of these annual subscriptions which allow you to visit as often as you like.  I have to admit, I love it!  I find the enclosures much more respectful of the animals than I remembered, and as long as I don't think too hard about the climactic differences between a Bengal Tiger's natural habitat and Melbourne in May, I usually come away feeling OK about the experience.

So I guess it's not quite that cut and dried.  Is it chicks?  Or as stated by my friend of old, perhaps it really is kids who change everything.

In my newfound enthusiasm for caged and tethered wildlife, which has seen me visit the zoo about three times a week since we got the membership pass (gotta get me money's worth – my notorious tight-arsedness is one entrenched value I suspect is never going to change), I decided to take Hambones along to the Adelaide zoo over Easter, and there found myself almost winded by what I saw.  Clearly my decade or so of avoiding the zoo was time enough for the Melbourne zoo management to get their stuff together towards a more humane approach to caring and providing for their animals such that I am no longer horrified by what I encounter.

Not so the Adelaide zoo, at which some of the exhibits appear not to have changed very much since families ventured-forth on Sunday afternoons in top-hats, tails, bonnets and holding sticks with which to poke the frightened animals through the bars of the minute cages.  This place was terrible!  A real throw-back to a bygone era in which there was absolutely no ambiguity over who was the real king of the jungle.

To look at Adelaide zoo on its own, I would again advocate for the abolishment of such institutions throughout the world.  However I also understand the work that better zoos, such as Melbourne's, are doing to protect endangered species, and to educate the community about the factors which threaten their survival, and importantly, what can be done to address these.  I think zoos have their place, but standards need to be developed and adhered to.  And Adelaide, you certainly do not cut the grade!

What all this has taught me is that using kids, or partners, or indeed any other life circumstance as an excuse for changing your long held values and beliefs is nothing other than a selfish, ignorant and lazy sell-out.

I am working on a new bumper sticker, which at the moment goes something like this; "I have a wife, and a child, and I live where I want, and I believe in protecting human and animal rights, promoting social justice, and protecting the environment for my children's children's future".  The only catch is that I'd have to completely sell-out and buy a Merc with a bumper bar big enough to stick it on.

South Australia: A Brilliant Blend (of Dickensian animal rights and modern-day admission prices).  Pic: http://www.old-print.com

Psss ... you chasin'?

Melbourne Air Traffic Control must have pricked up their radars recently with the number of unregistered, airborne objects appearing above the city's inner north.  It seems we can't turn a corner around here at the moment without seeing pairs of running shoes, laces tied together, hanging from the power-lines.

I've never quite understood what this is all about; in my day, the odd occurrence would likely have been the result of a weedy, unpopular kid with new sneakers having wandered across the path of the neighbourhood toughs; the latter having seen fit to take advantage of the former's lowly social status by forcibly removing the offending footwear before an audience of admiring sycophants, and launching it to the heavens.

But this could never be the explanation for the modern-day appearance of these 'pedal stalactites' all over our suburb.  For starters, the sheer volume of hanging shoes would mean that there were too many unpopular youths to make up a critical mass of social strata such that there wouldn't be anyone left over to rule.  Furthermore, the local toughs would have had to outsource their bullying responsibilities to independent contractors in order to meet the necessary quotas for juvenile public ridicule, and the current government requirements for meeting basic safety standards for commercial contractors would be beyond the means of most 12-15 year olds.  So there has to be another explanation for this urban phenomenon.

A friend of mine suggested that hanging shoes were a sign that drugs were sold in the adjacent house.  Indeed, a quick scan of the innernet suggests this to be a common belief in many parts of the world, but it's not clear to me whether the intention of the shoes would be for the dealers to advertise their location, or whether it was the doing of neighbourhood vigilante-types trying to expose these 'undesirables' to law enforcement authorities.

But I am afraid this all sounds pretty implausible.  While I don't hold the Victorian Police in particularly high esteem, if the hanging shoes were a signal to prospective buyers, I do think the cops are at least capable of using Google to discover this, and subsequently initiating the biggest round-up of illicit drugs since Nancy Regan sat down to play Risk with Ron, and landed Afghanistan, Burma, Thailand and Colombia in the opening round.

The local, anti-drug vigilante option also doesn't sound too plausible given they have proven in the past that a limited grasp of the English language and a can of red spray paint works effectively enough.

And let's face it, if hanging shoes were a signal, either to the lazy, fat, donut-grease-stained coppers, or to people out chasing a score, then the vast number of these signals would indicate that every second person in my locale would be off their head on coke, smack, weed and meth, at any time of the day or night; my hood would be like Southeast Los Angeles during the annual LAPD Picnic – everyday!

There has to be another explanation, and I'm all ears.  What I did find interesting today, though, was a particular pair of hanging shoes.  I have mentioned before how people around here are just that little bit too cool, and that they like to stand-out by making an alternative, unique statement.  Well, just around the corner from my home, hanging from the power lines is a pair of shoes much like all the rest, except this is a pair of lace-less, slip-on shoes, and someone has gone to great effort to sew some string to each one, before launching them over the wire.  Perhaps it is a sign from a drug dealer trying to market their product as being something different from that sold at five or six other houses on the street.  No doubt by December, it'll be flashing Christmas tree lights contributing the next breakthrough in the urban drug advertising war.

"Hey, anyone know where I can get some drugs around here?" Pic: http://www.jenius.com.au

The Horror, The Horror

It's so hard to remain young and funky when you've got kids; the cool, hip pubs and bars which you once habitually frequented, although just as geographically close to you as they'd been but a year or so ago, seem completely inaccessible these days. 

It's not enough that caring for and raising a child keeps you tied to the home in terms of being there to watch over them through waking and sleeping, but even when you do have the opportunity for a free night away, you're completely knackered from the day's responsibilities such that you know it's gonna take chemicals a damn sight stronger than mere alcohol to even get you into the front bar, let alone on the dance floor ... and that's when the allure of half a DVD movie and an early night is just too good to pass-up.

The only consolation to the passing of your misspent youth is that your fellow offenders of yore, ensconced as they are in their own breeding programs, are experiencing the exact same social  isolation and troubling passage of time as you.  And like you, they are just as happy to let one Saturday night after another pass on by without so much as setting foot out their front door.

But there's something about our culture which demands that at Christmas time, one makes an effort ... kids or no.  The problem, though, is where can a bunch of people, once famous for their selectivity towards cutting-edge venues and significant staying power possibly get together and maintain their hip and groovy status?

The answer is ... no where!

And so, a couple of weeks before last Christmas, in a determined effort to get together somewhere that was both kid friendly and licensed, we all bit the bullet and descended upon the 'dining room' of an inner-city hotel, complete with pokies and bar maids wearing the mandatory, low-cut bodices and push-up bras that any self-respecting, red-blooded, TAB-going Aussie male would expect from someone pouring his $2-Happy Hour pots.

We were the first of our group to arrive, and had to wait in the front bar for 10 minutes until the dining room was opened.  It was here the realisation dawned that this wasn't the kind of place one was wont to frequent in one's wilder days; there were four men at the bar, each wearing Christmas break-up Santa hats and were very, very drunk.  They were all speaking at the same time; their different conversations creating a loud moan that seemed to buzz around the bar and, as if by telepathy, would come together in unison to utter the phrase "f@*king c@nts", before heading off again on murmured, indecipherable tangents.  It was kind of like this,

Drunk Man #1:  "Murmer murmer murmer murmer    - f@*king c@nts -     murmer murmer murmer".

Drunk Man #2   "Whah blah whah blah whah blah    - f@*king c@nts -     whah blah whah blah".

Drunk Man #3:  "Wang wang wang wang wang       - f@*king c@nts -     wang wang wang wang".

Drunk Man #4:  "Yarda yarda yarda yarda yarda      - f@*king c@nts -     yarda yarda yarda yarda".

So, not quite the kind of place we cool, funkmeisters would once have sought-out for a drink, and not quite what one might have had in mind for one's child.  Still, the dining room looked like it might be a little more civilised, so we surreptitiously slipped in, and hid in a dark corner until the booking Nazi was ready to throw open the doors.

Within five minutes, the place was packed with large groups of pre-Christmas revellers ... and their kids.  At every table, there were as many high chairs as there were seats.  We could tell by everyone else's assured movements that we were clearly the only newbies in the place; as we tentatively sought-out our table and tried to work out whether we were yet allowed to sit, we saw other couples stride-in with great purpose and resolve, and once inside, without even making eye contact, the acid-wash jeaned man would head to the bar while the peroxide blond, pink-spangled boob-tubed woman would dump their kids at the indoor playground and proceed to the table where she would fidget anxiously in anticipation of the impending delivery of her bourbon and coke (by the industrious Mr Acidwash) – all this executed with brilliant timing and precision.

Hang-on a minute, Donkey!  Did you just try to slip something by us, and think we wouldn't notice?  An indoor playground ... in a pub?!

Heh heh ... yes, I was getting to that.  One of the things that makes this place kid friendly is that it has an indoor playground [ie: a place you can dump the kids while you get schickered].  This is quite an elaborate set-up, completely sealed-off from the dining room with glass that, while not great for ventilation, does allow one to keep an eye on one's offspring while downing one's pre-Christmas beers and Bundy chasers.

Our friends all arrived, and with similarly haunted looks, we sat down with our kids to order dinner.  This was our next shock, and the second string in this venue's kid friendly bow.  Y'see, it wasn't just the indoor playground that had this place buzzing at 5.10 on a Tuesday evening, there was also the sentence in big, bold, red letters staring back at me when I picked-up the menu, "Kids eat for free!".  Uh oh!

Yes that's right.  Kids are able to select - for free - from a menu of deep-fried goodies, PLUS get a free 'red-lemonade', PLUS a free 'frog-in-a-[red]-pond' desert.  "Sure, it's not the most nutritious feed in the world for a growing body and mind, but hey, it is great value and...", I was suddenly warming to the whole experience, "with the money we save on Hambones' meal, we could try our luck on the pokies".

Hang-on, did I just say that?  Or did I just think that ... blimey, what's happening to me?

So, brushing aside a strange, unexplained, nagging feeling of alarm in the pit of my stomach, the kids ate for free, and we ate our own, larger but equally deep-fried slabs of meat with sides of deep fried potatoes and bright-green, oily garnish.  I was feeling thoroughly ill myself by the time Hambones'd downed his red lemonade and jelly, but it was only fair to let him have another run around the indoor playground with the other kids before we headed home.

As I followed him in to take-up our group's supervisory post (our revolving, continuous presence in the 'fish bowl' constituting the only adults to visit the room all evening), I was nearly struck down by the visceral wave which hit me in the senses as soon as we opened the hermetically-sealed door.  It was at this time when I came to understand the instinctive unease which had been gnawing at me since I first laid eyes on the words, "Kids eat for free!"

Because the thing about kids is that if you feed them high-fat food prepared in bulk, in conditions of questionable hygiene, and you combine this with immediate, post-ingested physical activity in a humid, poorly-ventilated room, one of three things are likely to occur; i) they will vomit, ii) they will shit themselves, or iii) they will vomit and shit themselves.

And another thing about kids is that if you feed them red food colouring (in lemonade and jelly) and you send them into a humid, poorly-ventilated room with brightly-coloured plastic play equipment and rubber floors, they will go nuts; run around and scream at the top of their high soprano little voice boxes.

And another thing about kids is that if they have been fed red food colouring, and been sent into a humid, poorly-ventilated room with brightly-coloured plastic play equipment and rubber floors, and they are going nuts, it won't be long before these kids start pushing, hitting, punching and biting each other like little savages.

And another thing about wild little savages who have been force-fed artificial stimulants and placed inside a glass prison to fend for themselves while the prison guards go off duty to immerse themselves in cheap liquor, is that like any group of beings fighting for their survival, they will factionalise; with the biggest, strongest inmates asserting their dominance, and surrounding themselves with flunkies through which to inflict real, physical pain on the weakest individuals sharing their cell.

So with my sauce-enveloped, fat-saturated meat products sitting rather precariously just above my liver, I entered into this maelstrom of writhing, screeching, vomit- and shit-reeking madness, and physically shuddered as I witnessed two bigger boys beating the absolute living daylights out of a much smaller child, and an older girl clothes-lining other kids in the neck as they were pushed down the slide by one of her accomplices.  In one corner, a little boy was curled-up in the foetal position, screaming as another boy unwrapped foil from a dozen, soft cubes of butter he'd misappropriated from the dining room, and was smearing them in his victim's hair, while in another, a little girl {demonstrating how her sense of taste was inversely proportional to that of her parents for bringing her here] was throwing faecal matter leaked from her bulging nappy at the flat-screen TV belching-out vintage Britney Speares music videos at megasonic volume.

Needless to say Hambones and I didn't last too long in there; by the time we'd dragged him out of that horrendous glasshouse and bundled him into the car, Colour 123 had expended its influence and he'd fallen into one of those post-party hypoglycaemic comas which make it almost impossible to pry a child from a car seat at the other end.  Never-mind coming down from ecstasy a couple of days later, this night of chemical inducement took our wee one a week to recover from.  OK, it was Christmas – a special occasion, and we got to meet up with our old friends ... but everyone else in that hell-hole were regulars.  Given the time it took for Hambones to 'come down' from his trip, these other kids must spend their whole week like brain-dead zombies, before doing it all again, and again, and again.

The experience has definitely placed mortal fear deep into my heart.  My next trip to the pub will therefore be with Hambones and his mates, aged 18 ... and we'll be going somewhere cool.  I just hope I'll still be able to squeeze into my drainpipes.

Under the influence of artificial stimulants, it's only a short jump from indoor playground to juvenile offender. Pic http://cakeplow.com

Road trip IV: Encounters with the dead, the un-dead and the soon-to-be-dead in Napier

Something we Euro-descendant antipodeans suffer from is a lack of our own, tangible history.  Sure, we have indigenous history, but no one's really happy about our claiming that as our own, and these days, harking back to tales of the ol' country's not considered all that PC either.  So we meander through life not really sure of ourselves; who we are, where we've come from, and when it comes to vacations, rather than head 'out back' to see the natural wonders which are the envy (and desired destination) of our kindred in the northern hemisphere, we take off to Europe every few years to get all aroused and drooly over 14^th century gothic churches.

Apart from history and natural beauty (the latter often combined with outdoor adventure sports), the other main thing that travellers are looking for when they hit the road these days is excellent, modern cuisine.  Unusually for any single place in the world, New Zealand's Hawke's Bay has managed to land the Trifecta, boasting fantastic, rolling green foothills, sweeping, misty sea views, fine wines and dining and, thanks to a fatal natural disaster eighty years ago, an intriguing history which has resulted in a fascinating anomaly of town-planning such to induce rare, south-of-the-equator stirrings in the gussets of architecture aficionados.

Coming down off the putting-green foothills to the plains was pretty lovely; the bright blue, sweeping bay views were spectacular and the abundance of vineyards gave that whiff of promised fun over the coming days.  But as we got closer to the town, we ended up on a highway bypass, looking at the high back fences of new housing developments such that you'd see from any such arterial, anywhere in the world ... except that these fences were really, really high.  "What are they hiding from?", I enquired of my colleague and former Napier resident, Madge Q, shortly after my return to work.

"Everyone visits Napier and spends their day walking around marvelling at the lovely art deco streets, taking happy snaps and joy rides in 1930s motorbikes with side-carts; buying Old English Toffee and pretty bags of lavender-infused potpourri from the souvenir and gift shops," responds Madge Q, "and they head-away in the late afternoon thinking that Napier consists of only two square blocks sitting on the shore.  But," she adds, now very animated, "Napier's a big centre, eh?  And beyond those few, sculpted streets, there're a lot of people living in pretty poor conditions; unemployment's at 462% and rival gangs go each other with clubs and chains in supermarket carparks every night.  That's what the glossy tourist brochures don't tell you about, but there's a lot to be read in the heading, 'Visit Napier; one of New Zealand's great day trips' – get out before dark, everyone!".

Useful words of warning, Madge Q, but delivered two weeks too late!  T'was true enough, though.  With the exception of the tourist-industry bolstered, main thoroughfare, every second store-front in Napier was empty, and those that were occupied comprised charity op-shops, Chinese import stores selling an array of brightly-coloured plastic household 'essentials', and a surprising number of employment brokers (each handily located just a few short steps from the unemployment benefit office).  Napier was truly a down-and-out town!

But this message hadn't really hit home to us until our second day in Napier, when at about sunset (as always, Madge Q was spot-on), we went searching for some fish and chips - what's that? ... Oh, alright ... some fush 'n' chups - for dinner and ended up driving down streets now deserted of traffic, but along which entire households had emptied-out onto the pavement where they lounged on tattered sofas, drinking from brown paper bags while their dirty kids played in the gutters.

Our dinner was bought from a grubby, back-street store sporting a peeling, once-white art deco facade, and we adjourned to the grassy playground by the beach to sit and eat.  Here, even dirtier children hovered at the edge of our vision like (and with) a pack of marauding sea gulls intent on our steaming dinner, while their parents sprawled beneath windy branches shouting and swearing at each other.

Now, one likes to think one's all very equitable, inclusive and understanding of the various ways of the world, with all its different walks of life and so-on, but I can now attest to this generosity of nature; to this enlightenment going completely out the window once you've got a wee-one in tow.  "Not in my bloody backyard!".

So, scared shitless for our safety, we began scoffing our deep-fried goodies with huge, burning mouthfuls, and shoving steaming-hot morsels into our screaming child's maw in an effort to get out with our lives as quickly as possible.  Only half-finished, and with the slavering kids circling closer, Mrs D and I agreed it was time to get clear.

As we stood to clean-up and get moving, the vacant, starving kiddies looked over and started limping towards us like a pack of mindless zombies out on a feeding frenzy.  As Mrs D quickened towards the car and I picked-up Hambones in an effort to move with a bit more pace, the said pack of marauding urchins responded with a similarly accelerated, instinctive lurch in our direction.  Openly running now, all I could hear were my pounding blood booming in my head, Hambones' frightened whimpers and the hungry moans of our slavering pursuers, hot on my heels ... I was losing my grip on Hambones as I got close to the car, and I realised it was either him or the dinner; I threw down the greasy package and dived for the car as Mrs D dropped the gas and screeched off past the pink and beige, art deco arches of Marine Parade.  Through ragged breaths I glanced back and shuddered to see the young kids throwing punches and scratching at each other's faces as they ripped open the greasy white paper and gorged themselves on the fleshy remains of our ill-omened dinner.

But it wasn't all Dickensian soup kitchens and sinister run-ins with The Undead - just as long as you were in and out before dark.  As I mentioned earlier, Napier's fame as an internationally recognised art deco capital is a positive outcome of a devastating earthquake in 1931, which completely wiped-out the town, leaving the land clear and ready for a stylish re-building to reflect Napier's prosperous, industrial reputation, and to communicate the 'only way is up', great expectations New Zealand had for the beach-side holiday destination.

Within a year or two of the quake, award-winning town planning had been issued and heavily regulated, structured building was well underway on a fashionable, 'golden mile' stretching down Tennyson Street from the beach to picturesque, Clive Square.  It was all about style; it was all about image; and it was all about wealth. 

And into this building boom wandered a young Frank; our landlord for a couple of nights while in town.  I had caught Frank in a difficult circumstance the day before; turns out he wasn't quite the potty-mouth I had experienced on the phone, but rather a clean-living Baptist Minister with an eye for a real estate bargain.  So in the 1940s, once building authorities gave the 'all-clear' for the new coastal land that the 'quake had thrown-up just to Napier's north, Frank took out a subsidised building loan and built a fantastic, art deco mansion directly opposite the beach.  Nowadays, with his family grown and moved away, Frank rents out the bottom floor to savvy tourists such as ourselves, and it was here we spent our first, fantastic evening in a stylish house, with modern bathrooms and awesome kitchen facilities, kicking-back with some great micro-brews, a glass or two of Hawke's Bay Syrah and chomping on a succulent NZ lamb roast while gazing out over blustery, foaming waves.  What a find!

So after a great night's sleep in luxury surroundings, we took-in a lazy breakky and played on the windy beach before heading into town to see what all this art deco guff was really about.  While I will admit that I was pretty impressed with the stylish, two-toned architecture upon our first whip-around, after having done the two-block circuit in two minutes, my interest was starting to flag. There were a couple of key buildings which we went and posed for snaps in front of, but as buildings, well, that's all they are without a good story behind them to make 'em interesting.

Did someone ask for a good story?  As I said before, Napier's mass embrace of all things art deco in the '30s was all about style; all about image; and all about wealth.  Amongst the booming economy of post-depression New Zealand, Napier was at the forefront of showy displays of industrial might, and as big business clamoured over itself to secure newly appeared port access (thanks to the 'quake throwing-up about three metres of terra firma), the largest, best-positioned plot was secured for the stunning Rothmans (National Tobacco Company) Building; a sprawling, flawless, gargantuan demonstration of classic art deco fit for communicating the awesome industrial might of The Empire's tobacco subsidiaries.

The Donkeys stopped for a pose outside this celebrated monument to the furtherance of New Zealand's oncology industry.  The fine structure retained pride of place amongst the nation's collective consciousness for decades, long after millions of Kiwi smokers began expiring with sinister, black fluid dripping from their autopsied lungs.

In the name of celebrating New Zealand Industry, Napier's Rothmans factory became the preferred destination of field trips for primary school students across the length and breadth of the North Island.  The venue offered a great, three-in-one learning opportunity for an increasingly under-resourced, post-baby-boomer education system, combining lessons of Napier's tragic seismological history with the art deco movement of the '30s and, most importantly, an impressive display of national industry.  What better way to convince the young of New Zealand's impenetrable, economic robustness than to expose them to the production of tobacco products?

And so, through they went ... for decades.  I am assured by my informed correspondent, Salmon (Madge Q's long-suffering companion and former favourite son of Napier) that there is a not a single North Island citizen over the age of twenty-three who, as a child, has not visited Napier's Rothmans factory, and been given as many cigarettes as s/he can carry in their little hands to 'take home to their parents'.  Not surprisingly, New Zealand's tobacco industry was one of the last of its global peers to experience declining output ... in 2009!

It was shortly after this stop on the art deco trail that we went searching for fish 'n' chips.  Needless to say we refused Frank's offer the next morning for a free, additional night's accommodation.  We hightailed-it out of crazy old Napier that morning, heading for stinky Rotorua, and, as it turned out, another potential opportunity for a serial-killer thriller.

Napier's stunning Rothmans (National Tobacco Company) Building; servicing the nicotine addiction of New Zealand's primary school children for over half a century.  Pic: http://www.lonelyplanet.com/new-zealand/