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/

Funky Town

Setting the scene.

We live in a pretty funky part of town.  I hasten to add that it certainly wasn't funky when we moved here; we're not the kind of shallow, weak-willed, easily influenced fashionista types who will blow which ever way the fickle winds of street cred will take us.  No way! We moved here long before it was funky [admittedly because we couldn't afford to live in the funky area]. 

And now, with financial markets across the globe still clawing their way out of a deep, dark, self-inflicted hole, like us years before, the Funkies have found themselves with less spare change creating an awkward bulge in their ridiculous, low-wasted, black, drain-pipes, and they too have made the journey north to 'enrich' our living experience with their very own, incredibly-individualistic-and-yet-so-like-everyone-else-in-the-room brand of cool.

And because being Funky is all about being around other Funkies, they haven't just arrived in a trickle, but rather have lobbed, en masse, into the share houses of this historic, migrant, working-class suburb, and hot on their heels, a plethora of laid/peeled-back bars, second-hand clothing stores and, most noticeably, coffee roasters have exploded onto the streetscape.

It's the latter, growing out of just about any hole in the wall, closet, stairwell or similarly confined space with street access which has really made the biggest impact upon any local residents larger than a size 24 trying to squeeze their way down the sidewalk past bandy-legged, latte-sipping über trendies (let alone trying to get through with a Hambones-sized stroller, or heaven forbid a disabled person might be allowed out of their home!) which is the main reason for this post.  So let's go for a walk and take a squiz...

Welcome to The Scene.

Without doubt, the avante garde coffee pad for local Funkies in this area is Cafe Stan [not it's real name].  Cafe Stan arrived on the scene very quietly about eight years ago, but became very noisy, very quickly, as word passed around the surrounding doss- and art-houses.  Cafe Stan's one of those places without any signage – it could be called Cafe Freddy, or Cafe Darren, or Cafe Sebastian for all I know, but it's 'known' as Cafe Stan, and that's all there is to it.

Cafe Stan's success, it should be noted, can without doubt be attributed to a fastidious commitment to really incredible coffee.  If you're after a blow-yer-head-off, tangy, single origin/estate blend, served with a fine, aromatic crema at just the right temperature, then this is your place.  But let's face it, when it comes to Funkies just wanting to be seen hanging-out with other Funkies, Stan may as well be serving up molten poo in a bucket, and word would still get 'round that this was THE place to be [seen].

Regular reader of this Blog will know that I am the kind of person who quite enjoys a fine brew just about as much as anything else I've had the fortune to experience, but even I have trouble summoning-up the courage to visit Cafe Stan for my 'morning' pick-me-up.  Why?  Well for starters, no one goes anywhere near Cafe Stan before about 11.30am.  The first rule of Funky is that you're no where near awake, sober and/or straight before 11.29, so it's all tumbleweeds and surly staff - who've obviously drawn the short straw at last night's vampire party – while the sun's in the eastern sky.

But from 11.31 onwards, the place is packed with a most eclectic bunch of [non-]personalities trying terribly hard to see what everyone else is doing without actually looking at anyone.  This is not an easy ask, I can assure you, when one is also straining every muscle and sinew trying to look incredibly cool and comfortable, while balancing on tiny, size 15-arse wooden boxes which only barely stand upright on their own.  If I didn't know better, I'd say Stan was completely taking the piss; pushing these tragically aloof, self-absorbed fashion victims to see just how far their humiliation could reach before they started to get some perspective.

Please allow me to offer an example by way of demonstration.  About two years ago, I found myself out and about alone, around midday on a Tuesday, and thought I might drop by for a long black, to see if Stan still had it going on, barista-wise.  But as I approached the stylised, peeling facade, I bottled out.  Why?  Well this is the gauntlet I faced having to run before I could even get to the door.

Wandering along the footpath towards Cafe Stan, despite it being a work day, I noticed that every one of the six wooden boxes were occupied, and as I approached, I clocked each one in turn;

Wooden box #1:  a lanky gentleman in fluorescent pink board-shorts (circa 1984), golf shoes with the frilly flaps hanging over the front, a leather vest (no shirt), a massive black moustache and a 1960s bikers flat-cap (think San Francisco 1987, or just Google the Village People).  This nit wit was not looking at the person sitting opposite him (who may or may not have been his companion), but did manage a judgemental sneer at the sight of my cargo shorts and runners.

Wooden box #2:  another lanky gentleman wearing checked shorts way up high on his waste (which, if the small wooden box hadn't been in the way, would no doubt have disappeared way up his jacksie), revealing very long, thin, white legs, and on his feet, a pair of Blundstone-style, slip-on work-boots ... SPRAY-PAINTED GOLD!  He was wearing a brown, checked golfers flat-cap (think Chevy Chase in Caddy Shack).  He did not look at me, nor did he bother to withdraw his outstretched stork's pegs, which I was forced to step over.

Wooden box #3:  A young woman in an altered, sequined 1920s cocktail frock, black GP army boots and with a silver-studded, black leather wrist-band, which just happened to match that of her companion, sitting opposite her.

Wooden box #4:  The presumed companion of Ms Charlston on box #3 was wearing nothing but a silver-studded black leather collar.  This individual was a short, ugly bull terrier, and like everyone else outside the cafe, was neither looking at its companion, nor anyone else.  It did spit-out a deep, guttural growl at my plain, blue t-shirt as I passed, however.

Wooden box #5:  Another woman, this time wearing what must have been a little girl's dress (all pretty flowers and frills), which she had managed to squeeze into with the aid of strategic slits across most of the panels.  She had green leggings protruding out the bottom, pink and purple leg warmers (Flashdance) and pointy, white flats on her feet.  Most extraordinarily about this lady (as if you needed more) was that she held her massive latte in one hand, and in the other, was trying to negotiate an early model e-reader, while trying to balance with only one butt cheek on the box (now e-readers might be like electric kettles in households nowadays, but I assure you, this phenomenon has been a rapid one – this crazy chick was leading the way).  Did I say crazy?  She tipped half her latte onto the pavement just where I was about to walk, and then spat in it!

Wooden box #6:  This kid almost certainly wasn't the Nutcase on box #5's companion, but probably chose to sit there with his NEWSPAPER just to demonstrate that he'd gone full circle and was now completely retro.  He was wearing super thin, black drainpipes, Dunlop K26ers on his feet, a tight, moth-eaten t-shirt featuring Bobby McFerrin (whose rumours of suicide must have been long-cold by the time this young 'un had even been born) and had massive, thick-rimmed Tootsie-style spectacle frames.  He was sitting closest to the front door, and talking very loudly on one of those massive, Motorola bricks from the early '90s.  As I approached the front step, ready to enter, he was screaming into the phone, "Yea-aah, he's wearing like, a pair of contemporary sneakers", after which he let out a very feminine, high pitched squeal of laughter, which caused the occupiers of both boxes #3 and #4 to start howling at a young Mum struggling to avoid on-coming traffic with a stroller out on the road (as the only way to get past the cafe's cluttered frontage).

At that point, I lost all courage and nerve.  I walked straight on past Cafe Stan and went and bought the guaranteed, worst coffee of all time from the next closest option; the last remaining takeaway 'restaurant' in inner Melbourne with an exclusive menu of deep-fried delicacies served straight to you from the glowing chamber of a greasy bain-marie – the eating place of choice for junkies down on their luck!

I know this is showing both my age, and how out of touch I have become with the young and funky, but I really don't know why Lipps Inc were so keen to get here.  Judging by the apparent way the Funkies spend all their time avoiding eye-contact and passive-aggressively competing with each other for wacky self-image supremacy, not to mention their outward disdain for anyone not considered anywhere near their league, Funky Town must be the loneliest place on earth!

Coming soon to a cafe near you ... well ... near me, anyway!  Pic: http://www.radiometal.fr

TV and advertising: no respect for the market

Is it just me, or has TV advertising become completely tired and jaded lately?

Aside from the sharp suits, cool demeanours and sassy women of 1950s Madison Avenue, below the surface of TV's Mad Men, one can't help but be fascinated and appalled at the rapid growth of a wholly unsavoury and immoral industry designed to make shitloads of money through the blatant manipulation of people's thoughts and actions.

These advertising firms are the origin of things which have not only become commonplace in our lives, but have done so in such a way as to convince us that they've existed for ever.  Such as the fat, jolly, bearded fellow who "Ho ho hos" his way down the chimney every December, and whom a few of us can still remember was once known as Saint Nicholas.  It is a false assumption that he always wore red and white – even though this stylisation from the Coca-Cola 'family' can't be more than 60 years old!

Same goes for the 'age old tradition of sending greeting cards' – Hallmark's deliberate, massive scaling-up of an otherwise unnecessary 'tradition' resulting in a multi-billion dollar empire.  Or the introduction and subsequent integration into people's lives of a whole host of 'must have' products such as disposable nappies, frozen vegetables and paper towels.

It's true that this commercially-driven, mass brainwashing didn't happen without firm intent, considerable expense and subtatntial elbow grease, at least metaphorically.  The efforts which advertising agencies went to in order to understand their clients' markets was extensive, utilising focus groups, behaviour modelling, surveys and even illegal, hidden cameras and wire-tapping.  It's fair to say that these processes, honed to perfection in pursuit of the advertising dollar, are now available and utilised today to inform less morally corrupt enterprises such as customer service standards for community or government services, for international aid programs, for disaster and humanitarian responses and, I guess, for international espionage.  So while they are processes which can occasionally benefit society, they were definitely developed to generate masses of wealth.

But regardless of whether or not you agree with the motive, or the method, the intention of the advertising industry to learn about the wants and desires, behaviours and practices of the market is evidence that a certain level of respect for that market exists.  The market is not taken for granted, but rather the individuals and groups which comprise it are viewed as highly legitimate, and their thoughts and ideas important.  Sure, this desire to hear from, and understand them precedes a merciless attempt at mass brainwashing, but up until that point, there were great efforts made towards engagement and learning, and this is what is to be admired.

This is the way it has been for years, not only on Madison Avenue, but here in Australia, also.

And as a result, although we now better understand the evil intent, there have been some pretty wonderful, enjoyable and truly entertaining advertising campaigns over the years, not only from the hallowed agencies of Madison Avenue, but also from our own, home-grown pretenders.

Remember the Four-n-Twenty hot stuff ad from the 70s?  Fantastic ambience! – which could have only been possible through in-depth study of who eats pies, and why.  Interestingly, one of my favourite ads of all time was also from Four-n-Twenty, this time from the late 90s.  This was a tremendous demonstration of the advertising agency getting 'back to basics'; everything, including the slick Holden sliding past at the beginning, being clear evidence that it was developed after very close and respectful consideration of the market.

Australian Coke ads were also pretty great over the years, with their big 'blow-up things' over tropical shore lines, on which young people were having about the best time anyone could with their clothes on (although admittedly only barely on), demonstrating that the advertisers' knew what it was that people really want from their fizzy beverages.

Speaking of which, the Big M Girls were a leaf out of the old 'Sex Sells' book.  They were eventually retired to the mechanics' shop walls once the smouldering remains of the last bras sputtered out on the pavement.  But this vehicle boosted the sale of chocolate-flavoured milk to a receptive, even wanting market for decades.

These days, with the advent of u-toob and internet-based social marketing tools, advertising has taken an entirely new direction, with sometimes feature-length ads being developed using CGIs and other home-editing goodies and being spread throughout the world in seconds like supersonic viruses.  But again, someone has done their homework, and aimed this stuff just right.

So with consumerism at an all-time high, and the responsibility for worldwide economic recovery lying squarely on the shoulders of recognised, multi-national brands producing lots of shiny 'must have' stuff that nobody needs, why has the decades-old commitment to understanding the market and targeting advertising accordingly suddenly been dropped?

Or have we, the market, finally 'evolved' such that we are now so brain-dead that we will buy whatever shit is going, for no other reason than that it is there?  My case in point was a TV ad I saw tonight (during prime time, not at 3am) for a jewellery store; an attractive looking, female model in an expensive-looking evening gown opens a jewellery box and says, "This reminds me of Spain".  This is followed by close-ups of a couple of diamond rings and a necklace.

Hmmm ... why Spain?  No reason?  Yeah, that's what I thought.  Tck, tck, not good enough, Madison.  Lift your game or we, the market, might just decide to start thinking again, and decide that we really don't have need for the John Wayne commemorative plate set.

And while we're on the subject of the poor state of TV, a post I read today over at www.clementineford.com.au about the way reality TV promotes nasty, social hatred and bigotry, reminded me of how powerful those horrible, negative lessons can be when such programs go viral and global.

While facilitating public consultation with groups of community, civil society and government stakeholders about the new national health promotion policy in Samoa last year, one of the senior government officials, in complete honesty, asked me, as an Australian, to explain to the gathering about the benefits of "that great, nation-wide public health initiative on Australian television, The Biggest Loser", and to convince the audience to consider such an approach for Samoa.

"Yes, Your Excellency", I replied, "Indeed, public health research has shown that the best way to make obese people lose weight is to expose them to public ridicule by having them wear bikinis and work-out until they throw-up on national television".*  And with that, The Biggest Loser has been adopted as national health promotion policy in Samoa for the next ten years.

It is no wonder the US, through free trade agreements, are so keen to ensure that other nation's TV is rife with their content.  The unsuspecting can be so susceptible to political, social and even religious views and ideologies they see on The Box.  Very concerning indeed.

* - just to be clear, I said nothing of the sort!

The Big M Girls, keeping a nation hooked-up to chocolate milk for decades.  Pic: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDk26MtUq94&playnext=1&list=PL8F060F10E3A34F87

Road trip III: Sex is everywhere, but no where around me

Like the TV series, MASH, which ran three times as long as the Korean War in which it was set, this Road Trip story is reaching Cecil B. DeMille-esque proportions, greatly out-distancing the actual trip upon which it is based.  I'll see what I can do about wrapping it up.

My last waking act before leaving Windy Wellington was to return to one of the hundreds of coffee outlets I'd been churning through over the previous few days, to buzz my brain a little more while I sorted out some onward accommodation using the free Wi-Fi.

After many false starts, bogus postings and rude landlords refusing a two-night stay, I eventually got onto Frank, a beach house property owner from Napier who answered the phone with, "Awwr shut! ... ah, hello?  Frank speaking...".  Frank's engine had exploded moments before I'd called, and he was swearing blue, kiwi murder as he stood stranded on a country road.

"Yeah, thut should be no worries ... fuck ... just come up and we'll sort everythung out when you get here [boom!] ... shut, nooooooo... [click] beep beep beep...".

So with a gullet full of caffeine, a well-rested Hambones and Mrs D wrestling with a plethora of chords as she tried to get the sexy Kiwi GPS navigator working, we started on our way out of Welly ... just after a final supply run to the ironically-named 'New' World.  In no way is New Zealand more like 1980s suburban Melbourne than in its supermarkets; when I was a wee one, Coles supermarket was known as Coles' New World, and walking through the doors of the Wellington New World, the surroundings immediately had me reminiscing about climbing into one of those hard plastic trolley seats, and taking a massive dump in my daks.

The setting was flawless 1980s; tins of food were stacked in precarious, delinquent-child-attracting pyramidal displays, the trolleys were massive, deep and without the modern child-safety straps, and there was a tobacco counter up front at which stood four or five old ladies in plastic shower caps trying to buy cartons of ciggies with loose change.

Mrs D and I went crazy with the nostalgia of it all and filled that stretch-limo trolley with all kinds of stuff you haven't been able to buy in Australia for 25 years.  As we approached the checkout, we were more than a little sheepish in anticipation of the expected whack this was going to make in our savings.

The first pleasant surprise we received at the checkout was a surprisingly pleasant young man ringing-up each item with a smile, a laugh and a generally amiable disposition (something we haven't experienced in Australian supermarkets for at least two decades), and the next wonderful gift was that the African-famine-saving haul of 1980s groceries we'd just procured totalled exactly what it would have back in the '80s!

Are you kidding me?  All through our trip in NZ, all we ever heard from people we met, or on the radio, TV current affairs programs or in the papers was that Australians' salaries were 40% higher than Kiwis', and that economists were tipping this inequity to rise in the next year by 20 - 437% (depending on the disgruntlement of the person relaying the story – "Err, it's not fair.  You Australians get it easy.  We're thinking of leaving and going over to live in Aussie 'cause it's just too expensive here").  And yet there we were, with the biggest hoard of groceries since Henry VIII decided he was going to up-size Christmas dinner, costing only about 40% of a regular grocery bill back home!  Get some perspective, Kiwis!  We might get paid more than you, but it costs you nothing to live, eat, own a vehicle or an ocean-view property.

So with that warm feeling one gets from having a wallet still full of cash, and with our mouths full of pineapple lumps and 'chocolate fush', we nudged out of the New World car park, and thanks to the seductive, dulcet tones of 'Dulcie', the sexy Kiwi GPS, we were on the highway and heading-off on the Road Trip proper with some classic Black Seeds dubbing it up on the stereo to help us on our way.

Within moments, sophisticated, windy old Wellington was behind us, replaced by stretches of farmland dotted with periodic communities of New Worlds, McDonalds-es and Bunnings Warehouses.  The suddenness of the city's disappearance reminded us just how small this country was, and while musing over this, as if to hit the point home, we emerged from a deep valley and were looking out over a spectacular, sun-swept bay with dramatic, mountainous islands shooting-up out of the sparkling water.  The road along the shoreline was as tight and spectacular as our own, much-lauded Great Ocean Road, with the adrenaline-pumping bonus of no safety barriers, and we were thoroughly pumped as the dramatic views and Salmonella Dub's Dancehall Girl created an expectant air of exciting adventures to come.

As we passed through Palmerston North, university town to many of our Kiwi friends, I exhaled a deep sigh of relief that I had stuck to my guns and refused Mrs donkey's demands that we book a night's accommodation here.  Apart from Massey University, the only other thing Palmy is famous for is that at least one of its residents features on the evening news each night, usually for having beaten, killed, raped, eaten or been practicing polygamy with a neighbour and/or family member.  I quietly locked the doors as we cruised down the main drag, and gunned the Epica through the red lights to ward-off University pranksters and/or armed car jackers.

As with Wellington, we were through Palmy in a jiffy, and before long were hurtling along a windy, barrier-less road through a spectacular gorge at ridiculously dangerous speeds thanks to a massive cattle truck balling down on our arse.  This deep canyon seemed to be the sluice via which inland communities emptied their refuse into Palmerston North, and before long we were cruising though the quaint little town of Woodville, where we stopped for a break, a leak and an ice cream.

The latter was sourced from a wonderfully, 1950s-looking dairy in the main street, and we took our 30 cent (!) treats a block down a side street to a magnificent local park.  What I have failed to describe to date is the great contrast between the colour of the Australian countryside and that of North Island New Zealand – NZ is so spectacularly green!  And this public park was just incredible.  Reverently we each took off our shoes before tiptoeing onto the fluffy, emerald carpet, and then grinning guiltily, we stood waiting for some old Kiwi, Mr McGreggor-type to come running over to us waving a shovel and shouting, "Git off the grass, wull yous!".  But we soon realised that this lush, well clipped and rolled public lawn was fair game for all, and judging by the indifference being displayed by the bike-riding teenagers wandering across the furry floor over yonder, such facilities appeared reasonably commonplace.

We stuck around in that park for about two hours, lounging back on the soft grass beneath the swaying oaks, and watching Hambones amuse himself on the gravity-defying, 1950s safety standard play equipment.  After a while we also came to take a little interest in the other park users, and to notice certain behaviours and circumstances that bound them.

Firstly, over the course of an hour, a gathering of young teens swelled from three to about twelve, comprising tough, fit, young white boys in low-slung daks, and similarly-conditioned girls in cut-off denim shorts and crop tops.  They would move from one set of play equipment to the next, flirting and laughing together, almost touching and then breaking away again.  They seemed intimately familiar with each other and ... well, bored. 

From time to time, one would call out to similarly-aged citizens walking along the park's periphery, or through the middle on the immaculately curated paths as they pushed prams containing wee, crying babies.

The original group continued to wander from the swings, to the slide, laughing and flirting and occasionally splitting off in couples to hold hushed conversations beside the thick oaks, before outing a shrill laugh and re-joining their friends.

As we packed-up and headed-off to join potty-mouth Frank in Napier, I reflected that despite the lush surroundings of Woodville, like so many small towns the world over, there was very little to occupy young people such to prevent the kind of boredom which can rapidly slide into circumstances which may ultimately anchor them in the very place which offers them so little stimulation.  I had no doubt those swinging teens (no pun intended) would soon be joining their park-traversing compatriots during infant-sleep-inducing perambulations.

Fine green grass might keep the mid-week golfing ladies busy, but for the youth of Woodville, it's not quite enough to steer 'em clear of the rough.  Pic: http://www.hickerphoto.com/putting-green-shot-oliva-nova-golf-course-valencia-12635-pictures.htm

Park Life

I much prefer being at the park with Hambones when the prevailing activity around us is other young families with children playing on the equipment ... rather than transactional sex!

Visiting the local parks for a daily play on the equipment is new to me; as a kid, my parents were all, "You must not go to the park by yourself or with your friends ... only with us".

"OK", I would nod uncertainly, understanding the instruction, but not the sentiment behind it.  "Can we go to the park?"

"No!".

So there was pretty much no park at all for young Donkey, but we lived in the outer 'burbs anyway, and compared with the postage stamp that Hambones has to run around in today, our backyard when we were growing up was as big as any park going.  Still, one always wants what one can't have, so I continued to nag.

But to be honest, compared with today's facilities, the park in those days wasn't really that fantastic; just a couple of metal-coloured, metal bars and a metal slide baking in the harsh midday sun (and guaranteed to cook my young, supple Donkey butt into a couple of toasty-burnt muffins).

So while I could appreciate that the park was pretty boring, and a little bit painful, I didn't really understand what my parents had against it.  When I was a bit older, I suppose in an effort to put an end to years of incessant nagging, I was told that the park was to be avoided because, "it was a dangerous place where strange people went and did dirty things".  Unfortunately for my folks, this off-hand explanation ended up causing a bit of a social scandal within the local primary school community and had to be publically retracted after our driving past the park one day and me seeing Sam D'Mond (one of our neighbours' kids) playing there on his own.  I went to school the very next day and told everyone that my Mum had said that Sam D'Mond (already a bit of a social outcast due to a penchant for the taste of his own snot) was "a weird little twerp who did dirty things at the park!".

Still, despite the red-faced retraction, I remained unaware of the dangers of the park.  As nearly as I could ascertain, apart from a burnt ring, boredom and Johnny Butler and his gang alternating between dishing-out common, schoolyard, Chinese-burn-style bullying and experimenting with cigarettes and soft porn magazines in the bushes in the back corner, there was not really all that much to fear from the park.  Besides, Mrs D'Mond didn't seem to mind old 'Snot Muncher' playing there on his own!

But as I mentioned, the facilities and surroundings in today's parks are another thing altogether, and especially here in the high-density, inner city, it's no surprise that families turn out in droves to play on the colourful, non-heat-conducting plastic slides, rubber swings, flying foxes, non-splintering wooden beams and airborne-child-cushioning, bouncy-floors, all situated beneath wonderful, shady oaks and gum trees, and surrounded by well-manicured, grassy lawns.

In most of our parks, there are also free gas barbeques and picnic chairs and tables for the public to use, as well as necessary, disability-accessible public lavatories.  Our friend Mr Belfast still can't believe the barbeques, "If this was in England or Ireland, people would piss and shit all over them - there's no way I would use one of those things!".  "Ha Ha", we laugh, humouring his European naivety.  He clearly doesn't understand that such things don't happen here in Australia – no, Australians would never shit on a public barbeque in a park when there is well-moulded, designer play equipment easily on hand!

Recently, while playing at the park, we were approached by a gentleman whose firm had been contracted by the local council to survey park users about the facilities.  T'was an interesting experience to be approached by this supposedly impartial surveyor, and to watch him get increasingly animated and agitated as the survey unfolded;

Surveyor:          How would you rank [1-5] the cleanliness and tidiness of the park?

Donkey:            Yeah good.  It's pretty clean.  I'd say 4.

Surveyor:          A 4?  Are you kidding me?  What do you call that over there?

Donkey:            Oh yeah ... there's some rubbish.  OK, a 3.

Surveyor:          You don't think a 2?...

Surveyor:          How would you rank [1-5] the state of the play equipment?

Donkey:            Oh.  Really great.  4-5, I reckon.

Surveyor:          Were you aware that a child broke her arm here last week?

Donkey:            Um ... no.  Maybe a 3?

Surveyor:          [smiles and nods].

And on it went for about half an hour.  He said that this was his first day of surveying, and that he was going to be there all week (obviously I stayed away for the rest of the week), but no doubt he was, through his Woody Allen-esque neuroses and generally judgemental disposition, single-handedly responsible for the play equipment upgrade just a few weeks later, which included a quaint little cubby house with chairs and a little table ... just perfect for little kids to sit in and share a picnic and, as it happens, also a pretty tidy place for young people to start experimenting with each other's bodies.

Look, I'm all for a bit of experimental teenage safe sex, but it might be nice if they could deposit these 'Agents of Protection' in one of the nearby bins when vacating the premises – after all, what we don't know won't hurt us ... or our tea-partying toddlers.

So maybe these were the kinds of goings-on at the park that our parents were trying to protect us from all those years ago ... or maybe it was something else again ... maybe it was what Hambones and I were exposed to yesterday afternoon.

As we approached the empty park, I noticed a couple of people about fifty metres ahead of us wandering towards the recently established disability-accessible public lavatories.  I wasn't really taking much notice, but only became aware that something was not right when, on arrival at the play equipment, neither person was in sight, and the only sign of life was the urgent blinking of the red "occupied" light on the lavatory door, silently screaming out like an emergency distress beacon pleading for assistance, "Danger!  Warning!  There are too many people in the loo!  Please assist.  Danger!".

But you know how you get all irrational when you're scared?  I thought to myself, "Oh look, Donkey.  I am sure it's all legit.  He's probably a man with end-stage colonic cancer and she's his carer, and they've gone into the disability-accessible lav so that she can help him to change his colostomy bag".

Time dragged on and on, and still no one emerged from the toilet.  While others may have viewed this as suspicious, I took it as further confirmation of my very plausible scenario.  "You're onto it, Donkey," my delusions continued, "Those bags can be pretty tricky to get off ... and sometimes they leak and have to be cleaned-up.  It's all good."

After about half an hour, by which time another couple had arrived at the play ground with their infant son, the carer emerged from the toilet looking every bit the qualified health worker that she obviously was; a big-haired, gum-chewing "lady" in a professional ensemble of dirty white crop-top above (which showed-off her massive falsies) and low-slung black tracksuit pants with matching runners below. 

Seeing the park occupied by playing children and wholesome young families, she immediately turned to go back inside, only to find the door locked.  "Can ya hear me?" she shrieked to her patient within, "We better get going".  

About five minutes later, out stepped the tumour-ridden gentleman; a dirty, lanky and very skanky dude in jeans (no belt), runners and a long pony-tail, and would you believe, he was actually scratching his [no doubt, greasy] nuts!  "What the fuck are ya yellin at me for?", he politely enquired of his carer, and off they took themselves (walking along the fence-line, rather than on the designated path), conversing (read: arguing) loudly to each other.

"I guess those anti-cancer drugs can make you pretty narky", I thought to myself.

Within moments of their departure, the park was full of oblivious families, laughing and playing with their children on the wonderful equipment, in the shade of the swaying oaks.  That's Park Life, inner-Melbourne style!

Breaking Bad's Wendy the Crackwhore demonstrating her new career caring for terminal cancer-sufferer's in Donkey's local park yesterday. Pic:  http://remotelyinterested.blogspot.com

Road Trip Part II: The Real Wellington

Walk into any travel agent in the land, or log onto a myriad of travel webs and one is invariably faced with multiple images, mostly falling into one of the following three categories;

i)                     Beach scenes with hot young guys and girls in fashionably skimpy swimming costumes; aqua-blue water, sparkling white sand, azure skies and horizons punctuated with coconut palms and/or sailing vessel.

ii)                   Ancient ruins with groups of grinning young girls and guys decked-out in funky threads; all looking like they're having the time of their lives, partying their way through all the attractions of Europe and the middle east.

iii)                  Mountain-top vistas in front of which pose fit looking young women and men, all decked-out in the latest, brightly-coloured outdoor trekking gear, beanies and cool sunnies reflecting the bright sun and deep blue sky of the upper Himalayan atmosphere.

Obviously the pony-tailed marketing executives have done their homework and decided that of all the things that people want from their travels, these three scenes strike a strong chord with the geographically bored, and offer hope and excitement enough for people, regardless of their physical appearance, fitness, fashion sense or ability to party, to sign their hard earns away and take to the skies.

Interestingly, the common element of the three scenes is age; everyone in these pics is young, regardless of the location or the activity, suggesting perhaps that they are designed to make people feel young, or to think that going on a trip might make them young again.  Of course this is ludicrous, and anyone with half a brain would be able to see right through this cheap marketing stunt in an instant.

Fortunately, between Mrs Donkey, Hambones and myself, we manage to come-up with just over half a brain, and this type of manipulative marketing has no effect on us, whatsoever.  Quite the contrary, in fact; past experience has demonstrated time and again that Mrs D and I are much more likely to visit an attraction if it is the recreational choice of octogenarians with hearing aids and colostomy bags, rather than young people with iPods and stubby-holders.

For example, many years ago we slipped-off early one Sunday morning to try out a different Samoan beach from our usual, idyllic locale, and spent a delightful half-hour alone together beneath the swaying palms.  Shortly afterwards, however, a tour bus pulled up and within moments the water around us had taken-on the appearance of the set of Cocoon; the beach became crowded with tanned, leathery, old German men and women in skimpy Speedos and rubber bathing caps – a greasy slick from sunscreen and tanning oil oozing in their wake.  They were joined by more buses, and we subsequently made our way home.

On another occasion, we left Glasgow with raging hangovers from a week with friends, and decided to see some of the English countryside on the way back to London.  First stop was Lake Windermere, where the white and purple hair brigade had booked-up every poky English accommodation option in the whole district.  Despite the grumbles from Mrs D, I kept my chin-up and pushed on to The Cotswolds, where the sights may well have been pleasantly quaint, but where there was nary a place to sit on any of the public lawns due to their having morphed into jammed parking lots for wheelchairs and walking frames.

We can't miss a trick, really.  But this was going to be different.  This was NZ!  Home of extreme sports and by all accounts, fine food and wine.

And by mid afternoon on day 2, I'd had about 13 cups of ball-tearing New Zealand coffee, and was having a little trouble getting to sleep during a scheduled afternoon nap.  The same seemed to go for Hambones, who must have been breathing-in the caffeine which was seeping out of my pores in great, brown droplets.

So after much tossing and turning, up we all got, and tooled-up for a jaunt around Wellington.  It's a little known fact that, contrary to popular misconception, the English name for gumboots does not derive from Field Marshall Arthur Wellesley, the First Duke of Wellington, but rather from the only appropriate footwear to be worn in the city which bears his name.  As we walked out of the hotel, there was so much horizontal rain beating down upon us that we made a dash across the road to the only dry tourist attraction within sight – the Wellington cable car.  Within moments we were safe from the elements, and making our way up above the city to the botanical gardens, encased in glass with thirty or so others, all of whom were over the age of 94!  Here we were again – the Real Wellington.

And they were all white, too (not just their hair, but their skin) ... mostly Australians taking advantage of cheap airfares and seniors' discounts to cross the pond and immerse themselves in the world of their collective childhoods; where dark-coloured skin was only read about in His Majesty's Colonial School Readers.  And what better way to relive the Glory Days of the Empire, than by a jolly outing up the hill to the beautiful, English-inspired botanical gardens.

Grumpy, cold, wet and defeated, we waited out the storm and travelled back down the mountain as the sun started through the clouds.  We bailed out of the train, crossed the road and piled into the first pub we could find with an open fire.  To our pleasant surprise, we found that a left turn in the rain, rather than a right, would have brought us to the other half of the population; here were the people from tourism propaganda photo number ii (see above), all singing and dancing and having a great old time.

So despite the cold and our depression at having been yet again exposed to the 'waiting for God' travelling circus, we kicked-back our heels and got stuck into some fine Sauv Blanc and about two dozen Mac's Sassy Reds – now this is what I call a town!  Sure, it may be small, and it may be the destination of choice for aging white supremacists, but the food and drink is superb ... and cheap.  It's not for nothing that Lonely Planet named Wellington an extremely "liveable small city" ... however the caveats around that award were starting to show through the cracks – it is small, and it was time to get out before we became completely water-logged.

Load-up the boot, Mrs D ... it's time to hit the road, Kiwi-style...

This scene is reminiscent of Donkey and Mrs D's romantic, early-morning visit to a secluded tropical island beach in 2000.  Pic: http://www.homevideos.com/freeze-movies/Cocoon/Cocoon24.jpg

Random Observations of Lhasa

Golden ice.

While the freezing temperatures ensure that every man and his Tibetan mastiff pissing against random brick walls less offensive than, say, in a stifling New Delhi summer, it certainly plays havoc with a freezing Donkey trying to negotiate the already treacherous cobbles of Lhasa’s sidewalks in the early morning darkness; the golden, icy slicks sending him sprawling unceremoniously onto the filthy stones every couple of metres, much to the delight of the similarly rugged-up, although considerably more nimble youngens making their way to school.

Did somebody say dark?

As if it wasn’t bad enough that Tibet operates on a Beijing time zone despite being at least two hours ahead (in real time) of the distant seat of power, the Party Regime has seen it fit to dictate that all of Lhasa’s street lights be switched-off at precisely 7.55am, which happens to be approximately one hour and thirty minutes before dawn.

Under cover of darkness.

The opportunistic urbanites of Lhasa use this veiled, pre-dawn window to their advantage, thumbing their noses at Central Government directives to make Lhasa “a model National city” through forced clean-up campaigns, by disposing of their nightly waste water directly over the footpath.  While such practices might be great for keeping the street dust at bay in summer, in winter the frozen slicks encrusted with toothpaste, noodles, slimy vegetables and worse (given what goes on behind the greasy curtain hanging in the back of most of these shops), in addition to posing a potential public health risk, again make negotiating perambulation rather difficult.

Speaking of sex…

Adorning the many shops in Lhasa which sell ladies’ “intimate apparel” are larger-than-life hoardings of Western lingerie models sporting skimpy designer bras and panties in a range of fashionable hues.  You don’t have to get up too close to notice (although one has been known to do so) that despite the advertising, inside these stores you won’t find anything smaller than ankle to neck, cover-all undergarments in a range of fashionable beige; an inventory more likely to appease a grim Victorian school ma’am than a sultry seductress with come hither eyes.

And while you’re licking your chops over that one…

…you may like to join the thousands of Buddhist pilgrims who flock to Lhasa from the remote countryside in their crazy, fluffy headdresses, braided locks and bejewelled faces each winter to worship and prostrate themselves before Tibetan Buddhism’s foremost holy temples, monasteries and shrines, and while they are here, to visit the roadside dental stalls which specialise in gold caps and whiter-than-white pearlies (ridiculously white, really … I guess a mouthful of Clorox will do that for ya).  I can assure you it is quite a shock to be wandering along with the crowd and a sideways glance towards an open doorway revealing a short man in a grubby, blood-spattered (formerly) white lab-coat, cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth, holding aloft an enormous horse-needle poised for insertion into an old woman’s gums while her family strain to clamp her arms to the chair.

Almost as shocking as what you’ll find in the adjacent store, separated from the “dentist” by nothing but fly-blown air; the meat locker, filled to the ceiling with half-frozen, butchered yak carcasses.  Don’t believe me?  Well have a shifty at this.

The Lhasa Meat Locker.  Pic: Hagas