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/

Putting the “fun” back into the fundus

There’re laws for everything these days; where to walk, where not to walk; where to stand, where not to stand; what to eat/what you’re not allowed to eat (eg: people, dogs, cats); what trees to plant and where/what you’re not allowed to cut down; laws for housing; laws for building; laws for waste management and even laws which tell you where you can take a dump/where you can’t (eg: train carriages, street corners, department store fragrance counters); laws about having to go to school and where; there are even laws about who can marry/who can’t/what to marry (eg: boys vs girls vs Chihuahuas).

So many laws … covering so many things … and each one (supposedly) developed and enforced both in the best interests of society today, and for its future development. So tell me why, with all of these stringent boundaries directing us towards a better community and nation, they are still letting idiots breed?

Given that Mrs Donkey has been “in foal” of late, and ready to burst any day now, we have been touring the parental rapid training circuit for the past few months and have discovered that we are surrounded by a world of humourless, insular, self-obsessed dim-wits with nary an awareness of the world three blocks away from their hovels between them, and all of whom are soon to release/inflict similarly soft-baked offspring onto a society with, in my view, inadequate mental health and rehabilitation services to cope with the onslaught. Surely something needs to be done immediately to address this scourge which looks liable to set the development of this nation back a couple of decades?

I can tell by your sceptical frown that you think the recent nights I’ve spent sleeping on the floor in order to accommodate Mrs Donkey’s expanding (and aggressively demanding) bed-space requirements are sending me a little fruity, but before you click back to YouPorn, allow me to describe some of the cretins (oops, I mean) characters from our prenatal classes.

The fun kicked-off immediately in Session #1, when in response to a question from the midwife, “What will each of you bring to the birth?”, this one guy, either an imbecile or a comic genius, replied in a cocky manner and without so much as a hint of a smile, “My Mum!”. Both the midwife and Donkey displayed super-human powers of self control to stay upright on our chairs and to smother our chuckles and guffaws as it became clear from his confusion and bemusement moments later that he was actually deadly serious … as was his partner; and she was staring down the barrel of 24+ hours of pain, puffing and panting, all in the company of her mother-in-law! I mean, this was the stuff of crappy ‘70s TV sitcoms, and yet there was not a self-deprecating smile in sight!

The midwife’s response to all this, after 20-odd years of circumventing the unenlightened chauvinism of over-bearing fathers-to-be, was to repeatedly remind the clearly misguided partner of this Mummy’s Boy at every possible opportunity over the following 5 weeks that she didn’t have to have her partner’s mother helping her son ‘down at the business end’ during the birth if she didn’t want to, but on reflection, I think she may have been a-few-ova-short-of-a-conception herself, and never quite grasped the implications of her feller’s maternal dependence.

As I mentioned, this revelation from Little Lord Fauntleroy emerged only minutes into Session #1, at which time I suddenly grew fearful that I may have stumbled into a real-life zombie scenario, so in order to preserve my life, I resolved to pay a little more attention to my fellow prenatal class mates, only to discover that I had unwittingly stumbled into a real-life zombie scenario!

At the time of our first prenatal class, Mrs D and I were the least-baked of all the attendees – most of whom were expecting within the following three months. The maternity outfits of the ladies were tightening into a myriad of multi-coloured beach balls, and one might have expected their lads to have had some ideas and plans for what to do come beach-ball deflation time. On the contrary, a quick look at the male faces around the room revealed a mixture of either blank surprise and wonderment, or the tight-knit brows of a gathering of super-sleuths executing elementary deduction in an effort to ascertain a) how they came to be in this room, b) how long it had been that their partners had been walking around looking like beach-balls (and why), or c) how they could convince their partners to allow them to invite their mothers to attend the birth.

Honestly, these guys, (allegedly) the fathers of six-month-old, unborn children, looked genuinely, acutely shocked at their situation - sagging eyes, slack-jaws, white knuckles gripping the arms of chairs. It was as though they’d only just found out, on the way to the class, that their missus was knocked-up.

This observation was confirmed immediately thereafter when, in response to the second question of Session #1, “What would you do to support your partner during labour?”, at least three of them answered that they’d probably stay out of the room so as not to get in the way of the experts, while two others said they didn’t know, “…and that’s why [they’d] been forced to come here tonight!”

Hang-on a minute, these are the people who are having children?!

As the weeks unfolded, these nit-wits learned that there are resources such as the internet and books that one can (SHOULD) access for information which can help them prepare for having a baby (“Wot, are we having a bay-bee?”), but overall, very few of the half of the participants that Donkey ended up having to talk to had any insight into their situation, and absolutely no interest in dwelling-on any of the opportunities for humorous exchange to which the presented material lent itself, such as one of the pregnant participants referring to her post-natal self as a milk-factory, or one of the male participants worriedly asking when his partner’s figure would return to normal, or when one couple asked in unison when they could get their hands on the government’s baby bonus. C’mon people, this is funny stuff; comedy gold! How ‘bout a chuckle at the ape who just wants the baby out so that he can climb back on board, or perhaps a disbelieving snort at the prissy social-climber who refuses to breastfeed in case she will no longer be able turn the heads of the ball-boys down at The Club.

You may have guessed from these observations that Mrs Donkey and I didn’t quite endear ourselves with our fellow classmates. Our constant giggling and chuckling as we joked with each other about strategically placed mirrors and women down on all fours grunting like a barnyard animal may not have been everyone’s cup of tea, but hey, Australians are culturally-renowned for using humour to help deal with fear. At least our approach (we think/hope), which requires one to have intellectually confronted one’s fears in order to turn them into something amusing, reflects a certain spark of intelligence; an admirable contrast, we think, to the stinking, viscous muck oozing about inside the skulls of our compatriots.

Which brings me back to my earlier comments regarding laws. We have laws for and against so many things in this society, so how come these morons are allowed to stick their appendages into each other and create offspring? Shouldn’t the long-term best interests of society prevail here? Couldn’t the money currently spent by the government on baby bonuses be better employed in the purchase of a bulk-order of Ginsu knives with which said appendages could be liberated from their intellectually-challenged owners?

Something needs to be done … and fast! I don’t want to inflict Baby Donkey on a social group whose favourite pastime is picking lice from each other’s back hair and cracking them in their teeth. I want more for my child; literature, art, music, dancing and above all, humour … not football, motor sport, World Wrestling and The Biggest Loser. But if our pre-natal classes are anything to go by, I think that’s all she/he’s going to get.

I’m calling for a major judicial overhaul. Remember former-Prime Minister, John Howard’s famous anti-immigration battle-cry some five years ago, “We decide who comes into this country and the circumstances under which they come”? Well there’s a whole generation of new arrivals who’ve come-in through the back-door (not literally … but you know what I mean), and it’s high time we turned the same, tough stance we’ve committed to border-control upon our home-grown stock. Selective breeding, people, the time is most definitely nigh.


The scene outside Donkey's prenatal classes just the other night. There goes the neighbourhood. Pic : http://www.revok.com/zombie.html

The Horror, The Horror

As much as I try to avoid them in an effort to preserve my sanity, I'm still a sucker for a scary movie. I should clarify here; I'm not talking about those over-done teen flicks with the wacky, stereo-typical, drug-smoking Jamaican guy, the big-boobed, dumb blond cheer leader who 'puts out' and the nerdy girl who takes off her glasses and her blouse in the last scene, nor am I talking about those crappy, B-grade shockers which actually feature creeping vampires wearing black capes and turning into bats, disfigured, drooling monks and ware wolves which howl in silhouette before a full moon. I'm talking about REALLY scary movies, like the ones with faceless little girls who walk slowly, unstoppably, towards you, or the ones with large, high ceilinged rooms, completely bare apart from a lace-lined basinet – man, it took me two years of therapy after seeing those films before I could go to the bathroom at night in our old house without turning on every single light – and THAT'S what I mean by a scary movie.

Of course, there's also the other type of scary movie, in which the ghouls are not so much mythical creatures from the underworld, but rather a nasty, more sinister kind of evil which, as we grow up and learn more about our surroundings, we know actually exists in our real, everyday world. And it's this type of scary movie that I wanna dwell upon here.

In these types of films, you don't necessarily know that what you're watching is supposed to be scary; the story usually starts slowly, and plods along as it introduces us to everyday characters like ourselves. Just like in real life, we are introduced to these people through a glimpse of their often hum-drum, normal daily routines; shopping, paying the electricity bill, picking the kids up from school, taking them to the park, catching the bus, watching celebrities on TV ... just the routine, normal stuff that we all do everyday.

Often in these films, through the course of these everyday events, we are introduced to various, seemingly external characters, usually men, who play a minor, although significant role in a single daily episode. It might be the kindly guy who works behind the photo-processing counter at the mall, or the old, friendly bloke who turns up in the outback to help fix your broken-down car, or perhaps the quiet man on the bus who moves over to give you a seat, and who mentions how beautiful your young daughter's hair is. Simple interactions which seem like everyday occurrences (which is exactly what they are), and definitely nothing to be scared of.

Invariably, as these movies progress, the passenger on the bus happens to turn up again, this time at the main character's local corner store, and next time outside their home. Or perhaps it's the photo guy who finds an extra print and brings it to their house, even though they'd never given him their address. Or maybe it's the insistence of their rescuer to spend the evening at his camp because the nearest town is too far away. These scary movies are excellent, 'cause each of these somewhat odd happenings still appear a bit normal, but for the viewer who, through the series of initial, everyday events, has developed some affinity for the central characters (and perhaps, who has started to become one of these characters) it starts to get a little eerie.

By the time we begin feeling uncomfortable about what's happening on the screen in front of us, it's too late. Just as if this was actually happening to us; just as if it was the guy from our own photo processing place, or the guy from our own bus trip, by the time we realise something is amiss, he has already infiltrated our privacy. Like the helpless characters, we too are helpless to stop watching. The plot has been constructed very slowly, and very methodically, and now we're implicated.

And the best part in these films, and by "best" I mean the "totally shit-scary" part, is when the penny finally drops and we discover just how whacked-out this guy is, and if you'll indulge me, that is usually when, as the central character, you have just sent little Lilly off to the park to walk the dog with kindly old Harry from next door. Just as you have every afternoon for the past three months, you kiss Lilly and wave with a smile as she walks away with her little hand in his, and with the old blood-hound, Rex, straining on the leash in front of them.

An hour or so later, and you notice you have been hovering around the front window, waiting for them to return. A few hours after that, you have been to the park twice to see if they are there, but no sign, and you are getting frantic. Again you go next door and bang on the door, calling for Lilly and Harry. No answer. Desperate, you climb over the fence and peer through the only window in the house. The rapidly-fading light makes it difficult to see inside, but soon your eyes adjust and you see a large room, completely devoid of furniture or floor coverings. The space is bare and cold looking, and then the walls catch your attention.

What you had absently assumed was dark, patterned wall paper, you now notice to be a floor-to-ceiling collage of photographs - every inch of the wall is covered, and on each one, someone's face has been blacked-out with a permanent marker. With a start, you fumble with your torch and peer more closely at the closest wall, and right there and then, the wind rushes out of you. Gripping the windowsill with horror, you notice that in each photograph, immediately beneath each scribbled, black marker mess, is the body of a little girl dressed in a summer dress or winter overalls, holding Rex's leash.

Now if you're anything like me, it's at this moment in the movie that your blood runs absolutely cold. Up until then, there had been some suggestion that all was not well, but at this point, the danger has reared its head, and the real horror of the helplessness of the situation has been revealed. To me, this real, easily identifiable, and genuinely imaginable horror is what is the scariest thing to watch. It's scary because it really happens – we see it on the news and read it in the papers ever week. Investigations later reveal a lonely individual with severe depression or mental illness, often manifesting with a degree of obsessive-compulsive behaviour.

As I said, at that point of the movie, when we see the photos on the wall, or the hoard of scrap-books full of newspaper clippings, or the collection of victims' cars, the thousands of candles, the names scrawled all over a wall, the collection of knives ... whatever it is, it makes my blood run cold. Much like what happened to me on the bus only a couple of days ago.

But first, just like in these very scary films, I need to introduce you to the hum-drum, drone-like daily existence that my life has become since, while en-route to Tibet, the Chinese authorities have put the stall on my visa application. Basically, rather than just spending a couple of days of fine dining and catching up with friends in Melbourne, I am now faced with five weeks of getting up in the cold, dark mornings, and struggling to the office on the crowded train, tram and bus, sitting in a dimly-lit, miserable office all day, and leaving in the cold, wet, depressing dusk to retrace my steps towards the cold, dark, miserable and, as you will soon discover, sinister outer suburbs.

It was while stewing in my own, depressive juices on the bus a couple of mornings ago, that I experienced real, blood-chilling horror. In my semi-comatose, commuter state, I boarded the bus, checked my ticket through the machine, and momentarily moved up one level of consciousness as I scanned for a place to park my substantial Donkey ass. I avoided sitting next to the loud-mouthed school kids 'cause I wanted to read, and I bypassed the business man reading his broadsheet newspaper as I didn't fancy a smack in the face with every turn of the page. I avoided the fat guy ('cause two fatties on one seat just isn't practical) and I selected a vacant spot next to a respectable-looking, middle-aged woman. She was well-dressed, with elegant, not-too-much face make-up, excellent posture and she was, I assumed, reading a novel. All in all, the most benign choice for a seat on the bus that morning.

I sat down and busied myself with getting my book open, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, and as I settled into page 542, I noticed in my peripheral vision that my well-dressed neighbour was not reading, but writing, very quickly. I didn't pay too much attention, however, as I was slowly drifting back into a coma, but I did notice that she would periodically stop writing and look up to the very upper corner of the window, before resuming her correspondence.

Melbourne traffic being the ridiculous joke that it is, I came-to about ten pages and only 200 metres later, and realised that the lady beside me had been writing frantically the entire journey, except during her periodical scrutiny of the upper window. I stole a glance at the writing in the open, lined exercise book in front of her; she had just turned the page, and was completing the first three lines, not with words, as I had expected, but with an identical, continuous, curling line from left to right. "A bit strange", I mused, and returned to my book, but rather than take up my (by comparison) less interesting novel, I noticed only moments later that this prolific woman had completed the page with a further, identical thirty-odd lines, at which time, true to form, she looked up and stared at the upper window, before returning her gaze to her book in order to turn the page.

And as she did, my blood drained cold. As she attempted to turn the page, she fumbled, and in doing so, revealed an entire exercise book, perhaps sixty-four pages, each one filled with thirty-odd lines, and each line featuring the identical, scrawling script. I started visibly out of my mediative state, and tried to look at her face beside me, as I did, she met my gaze with a cold stare, devoid of any warmth or companionship, but with a challenging menace that left me with only limited control over my bladder. Unintentionally, I had shuffled away along the seat, and with relief I noticed my stop approaching. I rushed off the bus, and stood leaning against a pole as I sucked in lung-fulls of cold, fresh air. After a time, when my shaking had slowed enough to walk, I shuffled off to the office feeling frightened and alone. What an unfamiliar, unforgiving and sinister world this is.

____________

"I can't remain here any longer. I am an outcast; a freak to these people. All I want is to get by without hurting myself. All I want is to be able to mind my own business, and to live, work and be myself. It is not my fault that I was born this way, and yet, to all of them, I am a monster."

"If they only knew the agony I must go through; the years of therapy, just to get me out the door. What I have gone through, just to spend a few hours each day amongst them. They told me I am allowed to go outside. They told me that I am a person too, with all the rights of other people. They told me that I was equal ... but it's not true."

"Sure, I might dress like them; put on make-up and look like them. But I will never be one of them. Not while the danger remains ... the danger of me flipping-out. I couldn't handle that again – the horror in those people's faces. The women shielding their children's eyes from the sight of me, as they would some hideous monster. The screams of panic – I couldn't bare that again, being the object of everyone's fear and hatred."

"I thought I'd come so far. How bloody stupid I was to believe that I could hide my repugnance from the world. I should never have tried. Oh, how I have enjoyed my wanderings these past months. How I have loved being amongst them, feeling the cold wind and rain on my face. I genuinely believed that I was going to be OK. Just doing those little, secret things – those simple, silly routines ... it was never ever going to make it all alright."

"But I was a gullible fool. Because those stupid games - those coping mechanisms – they weren't invisible at all. They were there for all to see, and today, on the bus, I saw a man looking at me with that familiar terror, that same fear and distaste as I had seen in those faces before, all those years ago. I hate them ... and I hate myself. I'm staying in here now. Staying until I ... until it all goes away. That's what should happen. Monsters must be locked away where they can't do anyone any harm."



OK, so I said they didn' t scare me, but this portrayal of Dracula, in the early, German silent movie, Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens, still freaks me out whenever I see it. Pic: Wikipedia

Tagged Schmagged!

Okay, Sabrina has tagged me … I’m not really sure how these things are supposed to work, so maybe that’s weird thing number one – I have been blogging for 10 months and I don’t even know what a tag or a meme is! But there’s plenty more weird, so let’s get serious about it … six things about myself that are weird.

1. Scaredy Cat!

Ever since I was a little kid, I have been scared of the dark – now that I’m older, I can tolerate the darkness, but you can bet your life that all cupboards are jammed closed, checked and re-checked before I turn out the light. And Gawd forbid that the shifting house should cause a floorboard or cupboard door to creak open a little during the night. This results in my lying awake in cold dread for hours, lying stock-still so that the attacker can’t see me, and keeping my back to the offending cupboard (because obviously the attacker can’t get me if I can’t see them – got it?). And before you go laughing at me and calling me a sook, I’m here to tell you that Monsters Inc. wasn’t real, people! It was an animated feature for children and families. Closet-dwelling monsters are not fluffy, humorous little tykes – they are vicious, ruthless killers from the demon-depths, who’ll slay you with their blood-stained teeth and dagger-like claws as soon as you look at ‘em!

2. Reds Under the Bed.

I’m a social commie. What that means is that I tend to regularly put myself out, or disadvantage myself, in order to facilitate what I see as the greater good in a social situation. So, for example, I believe in everyone shouting during multiple rounds of drinks - I buy a round for everyone, and in return I expect someone else to buy a round etc etc. I have a firm belief that this is the honourable way to go, and facilitates a pleasant evening or outing. There are two problems with this; a) it’s a very Australian custom, and rarely adhered to by our international brothers and sisters, and b) I only drink beer, while everyone else drinks wine, spirits and/or liqueurs. The result is that I often spend a bomb on any given night out, because I’ve had to shout extra, un-reciprocated rounds and I’ve had to buy all the top-shelf grog. Ofcourse, I could refuse to buy the drinks, or mention to people that it’s their shout, but I live in vain hope that people will perform the greater good by their fellow, thirst man (or Donkey).

Another example of this is my being dragged along, without protest, to the most boring, hard-core dance clubs by my friends, where I know drinking would cost me a fortune (I don’t do ecstasy) and where the style of music doesn’t quite do it for me … but I go … and spend a fortune … for the greater social good. Commie!

3. Repressed, Catholic and Manga.

I love Manga! My parents were pretty strict and didn’t place much stock in spending money on comic books and stuff like that, so I came to learn about Manga quite late in life. I love it so much; the intricate stories, the action, the art, the imaginative ideas. But I am too scared to buy it for fear that Mrs Donkey will see the pictures and think I’m into some quirky form of deviant pornography.

4. Metrosexual Donkey?
I can’t make friends with boys anymore. I have lots of male friends from when I went to school (which is kinda lucky ‘cause I went to an all-boys school – now THAT’S what I call weird!), but as I get older, I seem to only be able to make friends with women. This is fine with me, as I don’t really have much substance to add to a four-hour conversation about football, but it gets a bit touch-and-go when I return home from conferences or field missions, and I relay to Mrs Donkey what I have been up to during the off hours, it’s always, “Mayumi and I went out drinking”, or “Molly and I went out for dinner”, or “Cecilia was great fun” or “Jennifer went off in the sack” … orrr hang on, not that last one. But you can see the difficulty one has when one is unable to create and maintain strong, non-homoerotic, sport- and porn-dominated relationships with blokes.

5. My Own Private Idaho

I’m a friggin’ clean freak! I’m obsessed with it. All week I look forward to the weekend, when I can kick back on the couch to read a book, or sit in the sun to think up stoopid bits of crud to throw onto my Blog, but do you reckon I can when there’s work to be done? If there are breakfast dishes still sitting in the sink, or a rubbish bag to be taken outside, or a dripping tap to be fixed, or a floor to be swept, or plants to be watered … whatever. If there’s anything to be done, I’m all ”scrub my little Dutch boy, scrub!” until it’s all done, and then, at about 6.30pm on Sunday afternoon, I get to relax for ten minutes … just before it’s time to get ready to go out.

6. International Man of Mystery

Hardly international … and let’s face it, barely a man! But I have, for most of my adult life, led very separate identities, depending on what particular activity or with which particular group I was involved. From growing up in a rather privileged home and school, to studying at uni, to working both as a labourer and in a pub, to working with homeless people, indigenous communities and children with disabilities, to saving the world … and now to Blogging. People I know and love rarely know that while I’m doing one, I have another thing going on where I am interacting and relating with completely different people – and doing it more or less with ease (admittedly after a shaky start). Usually someone in this situation would be quite withdrawn, and would try to keep a low profile, but in each of the examples above, I revel in being quite the opposite – I’m loud, fun*, funny*, inclusive, socially coercive, and … loving, I guess.


So there it is. I’m a timid, cowering fool, ludicrously socially unassertive, sexually and literarily repressed, unable to relate to peers of my own sex, and I suffer from both obsessive-compulsive and multiple personality disorders. Bet you never guessed, hey?

I’m supposed to now tag six others to tell us six weird things about themselves, and as Sabrina is one of my only five readers, this could be a bit tough … let’s see.

The Man at the Pub, I know we’re only recently dating, but fancy a go? How ‘bout you, Pomgirl … you Lucy, please? J, you’ll be up for it, No? And The Editor, I’m sure you’ve got a whole plethora of weird stuff to tell us about. Gawd, I don’t know any others, and I reckon at least two of you will refuse … I don’t suppose you’d help me out, Cakey?


* Self assessment only - rarely acknowledged by others.

Protected by the ‘Mark’ of Carabas

My all time favourite bedtime story is Puss in Boots. I love the way that clever, cunning little creature has the whole world chasing after their tails, from his rather foolish master, to the even more gullible king and his pretty (vacant) daughter, to the peasants who plough the fields, to the evil ogre whose wickedness would only ever be equalled by a cuddly little kitty in a pair of Cuban heels.

I love the way that, right from the beginning of the tale, Puss is all fluffy innocence and vulnerability as he cries out in mock fright, “Oh Master, please don’t eat me! I’m but a harmless, defenceless animal”, but in the next breath, seemingly with nary a moments thought, he lists off everything he needs - “Just give me a sack and a spanking pair of fine boots, and I shall make sure you never go hungry again” - in order to play-out a curiously elaborate plan to commit medieval impersonation, fraud, extorsion and murder.

Hmm, Puss, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d been hatching that one for quite a while, and such a plan doesn’t quite seem fitting from the recently afore-labelled “harmless, defenceless animal”, but nevertheless, Puss is granted his wish; he is newly shod and sent out into the world to create mayhem.

Mostly what I love about the story is Puss’ smug, self assuredness. The little feline has got all the sass, all the moves, all the smarts and all the cunning of a criminal genius, and you just know that the whole, grisly business would have been conducted with Puss spouting off witty one-liners and casting a mutually roving eye at all the girly cats down by the wharf! Ah, that Puss, definitely the Fonzie of medieval Europe!

But the thing that always jars with me when reading this story, is that nobody; neither Puss’ master, the king, the peasants or the ogre ever once questioned the existence of a talking cat. As well as the talking thing, no one seems all that surprised that Puss manages, in the space of three days, to design and execute a flawless, elaborate plan which sends his clueless master from grim to bling, and Puss doesn’t do too badly for himself, either, becoming a great and wealthy Lord.

It strikes me as a bit odd, and gets me to wondering about how these animals have been viewed throughout history. And it does seem that humans have been somewhat aware, and wary, of the crafty, cunning and possibly magical potential of those outwardly torpid tabbies. In Egypt, ancient tombs have been discovered in which pharaohs were laid to rest with cats, who were said to have possessed the power to transcend the mortal veil and guide the spirit of the great kings into the afterlife.

Or if you like, take, for example, north-eastern USA in the late 17th century, where sex-starved Presbyterian madmen would burn any voluptuous young woman just for having a big, black pussy (sorry, y’knew it had to happen eventually, I thought I might as well get it over with and out of the way). Or perhaps look at the story of Dick Whittington, who, as far as I can gather, was nothing but an aspiring, treacherous politician, whose record, three-times tenure as Lord Mayor of London is to this day mysteriously attributed to the fact that he owned and travelled with a cat, and not “cos of all dem murders ‘e done!”.

Our forefathers certainly had some inkling that the there was more to these fastidious, furry felines than met the eye; something mysterious, and maybe something powerful to be feared. And this, you’ll be happy to hear, brings me to the point of this little reflection.

While I was in Kathmandu last weekend (that has nothing to do with the story, by the way, I just wanted to let you know that I went to Kathmandu last weekend, ‘cause it’s an awesome place), I was staying at a friend’s house, and overnight had a prolonged bout of my regular, recurring nightmare – the one where I am being haunted by ghosts and I eventually try to swallow my terror, and stand up to the fearful phantoms by shouting obscenities at them, only to find that in the dream, and indeed in real life, I am unable to articulate the words. Instead, I scream out incoherent nonsense, which Mrs Donkey confirms makes me sound like the one who is possessed by an evil demon.

Unlike on most occasions, when this dream comes to its babbling climax, I wake up, Mrs D comforts me and then I go back to an untroubled sleep, there seemed to be something about the house last weekend, which kept the ghastly ghouls coming back for me all night. By early morning, I was a wreck, and Mrs Donkey was getting worried. Again I fell into a troubled slumber, and again I was drawn along that dark corridor to the sinister room at the end where the wicked wraiths awaited me, but as I passed through the entrance to the hallway, there, just beside my left foot, sat my sixteen-year-old pet cat, Sammy, whom I had thought to be safe at home in Melbourne with my folks.

Sam stretched, and smiled, inviting me to pick her up, which I did, and at her urging, together we approached the violently shaking, and seemingly angry door. With Sammy in my arms, I kicked it open and went on through … and I slept soundly until late into the morning.

So last weekend, Sammy, sans footwear but displaying a similar commitment to protecting her troubled master as that of Puss, transcended the spirit world, and travelled halfway around the globe to save me from my own mental ogres. Is it just me, or is there a lot more going on around here than we are usually aware of? Thanks for saving me, Sammy.


And there she is, my sixteen-year-old, feline protector, who travelled halfway around the world to save me. Pic: Mama Donkey.

This Depraved Life

Mrs Donkey’s away and I’m back here holding the chilly fort … which means I get to do whatever I want, whenever I want. No restrictions, no protocols. So, if I wanna drink strong, black, thick-as-treacle coffee at 11.30pm, I can (Mrs Donkey hates coffee, she HATES me banging-on about it all the time and she definitely doesn’t like me talking about it at dinner parties – it’s a long story; some people dig on wine, others porn, but me, it’s coffee …. and it might be fair to say that I’m a bit obsessive).

But Mrs Donkey’s off in France, so if I want, I can write coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee.

Hee haw – yeah, that felt pretty good … let’s go again. Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee.

Ha ha, the freedom! Donkey needs no baby-sitter! Donkey’s his own Donkey – so while Mrs D’s away, it’s been a lot of coffee, and a lot of Blogging, and lately, there’s been a bit of TV thrown-in (hang-on, is it just me or is this starting to sound just a little bit sad?).

So each night I’ve been working late, getting home, shaking up some high-class grub, banging out a wicked-strength espresso, and lately I have been sitting down at 9pm to flick through the channels on the Teev to catch-up on what that Crazy Commodore is doing to poor old Fiji, and also to check-out what schlock the two movie channels are bashing-out … and here’s where things start to become unstuck for this timid, barnyard beast of burden.

A little while ago, some schmuck programmed the Star World channel so that it sits directly between Star Movies and HBO. This means that when I’m flicking between the two movie channels at 9pm, I tend to cop bits and pieces of that Gawd-awful Jennifer Love Hewitt show, the Ghost Whisperer. Now I haven’t ever watched a whole episode ‘cause it basically looks really bad, but I generally, unwittingly watch the opening sequence, which is the bit where some ghost-child or ghost-bride with fangs, eyeballs hanging out, screaming maw or whatever flashes up on the screen - all flying hair, sunken eye sockets and claws - and this is the last thing I see (and remember) before I flick it onto AusTV to catch the Pacific correspondent, live from the action (‘cause by then I know that the choice of movies is deplorable).

From there, I basically settle comfortably into enjoying the nightly thrills, spills and intrigues of Australia’s farcical foreign policy in the Pacific, and there I remain, quite content for a few hours, what with my steaming mug of freshly brewed coffee.

At about 11.30pm, the box goes off and I have a read. I then happily take a shower, and get ready to turn-in. Off goes the light, and I lay back to think about my day and my love, over there in France, living it up with all those hot French boys … and then it happens. Two cups of coffee in three hours, mixed with paper-thin walls and strange, creaking doors and cupboards coming from the house next door, followed by the arrival of an unshakable mental picture of screaming, eye-less, faceless, bleeding, angry ghosts from the 45 seconds that I saw of the Ghost Whisperer, and that’s it – I’m officially done with the dark for the night!

For two weeks now, I have slept with the fluorescent light on so that the ghosts can’t come out of the cupboard, and with my MP3 player banging out happy, all-night reggae on full volume so that I can’t hear the creaks from next door, and the bedroom door firmly locked and bolted as only the most secure fire-traps should be.

Each day at work I’m so tired as to resemble a Tim Burton-esque walking corpse (another week of this and I might even get a part in the season finale of the Ghost Whisperer!). I’m exhausted, and am having trouble staying awake at work – what am I going to do? I need to wake up … a strong coffee should do the trick…



Shit, it's that bloody Casper again ... better break out the Bob Marley tunes... Pic: Google images