Brand New Soup

I’ll tell you something that rankles me about once a month; where did shower gel come into the picture? At what point in life’s relentless drive to meet the needs of our hunger for convenience, was it decreed that we needed another bottle of soapy nonsense on the edge of the bath? I have NEVER bought shower gel. I am not entirely sure I’d even be able to operate the endless parade of inventive dispensers it comes in. The hooks for hanging on the shower head, gewgaw lids that turn INTO hooks, little pursed-rubber-lip nozzles, anatomical rubber grips…

I’m very much aware of our mindless quest to simplify, and inject the last iota of convenience into, the most pedestrian of tasks. I make a concerted effort to ignore many of these dumb-ventions because I think some tasks in life are quite enjoyable. From tying one’s laces to brushing one’s teeth – there’s good to be had in the little figurative journeys in life’s little tasks, beauty quite apart from their destination. It’s good for the soul, for example, to roll a cigarette – that’s why hand rolling machines have come and gone in an array of designs yet failed to replace the human claw. The little rituals of life seem to have become, somewhere along the way, an enemy. Life’s routines are now something to be phased out, invented around. The mystery of just what, exactly, we’re doing with all the time they save us are another article entirely.

I recently bought an electric toothbrush after poo-pooing the idea for an age and I have to admit that at first I saw myself a fraud in the medicine cabinet mirror. I’ve been able to justify it by two things I’ve noticed:

1. I finally do not feel the inexplicable need to run the tap while brushing – a peccadillo previously addressed herein

2. I’ve made  whole new little ritual out of brushing my teeth using my Braun.

I’m still a little bothered by needing to consume electricity to scrub my fucking teeth but I’m the owner of an increasingly dilapidated porcelain set and anything I can do to salvage any part of them, anything that will somehow spur me to go at them a bit more often and in a more hygenist-approved method, I’ll go after it these days.

But back to shower gel. What the fuck even is it? It appears to be sold as much in flavours as scents – I get near ravenous looking at the varieties of it on supermarket, chemist or Bodyshop shelves. You could, I often muse to myself “put that fucker on a bowl of ice cream.” I confess that this is a two part rant – the very reason I notice this soapy sauce on a regular basis is that I’m not a shower person at all. I like a bath. Boyhowdy do I like a bath? And yes I like a little bit of something in my bathwater, even. Call me delicate but I like a bubble in my bath – primarily for the fact it means you have to clean the bath less regularly (that’s as yet a little ritual I’m no way keen to get at more often) but it kind of softens your skin, too, eh? But let me tell you this – you try and find a bottle of herbal bath soak (Radox, say, or Badedas) nowadays. The best of British luck to you in your quest. Why? For its place has been usurped completely by Goddamned Coconut Cream, Bergamot and Caramel shower gel or Kiwi Lemon Ragout Enriching Shower Treatment.

I do miss Tesco for little things now and then and one is definitely the fact they have as much room for Radox powders and lotions as they have for Lynx’s most recent ridiculous incarnation of shower gel. In Japan, I loved being able to go to the chemist and get every type and level of herbal bath treatment from cheap and cheerful sachets of Lion Brand pine scented synthetic salts, to handmade high-end therapeutic salts that did actually make your skin tingle and your musculature and bones fair sing in harmony in the afterglow. The Japanese still know how to bathe, man.

It’s all connected: that we have made a rushed, entirely standing trudge out of our daily ablution that was once a relaxing, private, sensuous time-out on our back every evening. That we’ve then invented a gaudy, florid sauce to be dispensed by violent squeezing and vigorous application to accompany showering where once we had a herbal, natural salt that had some benefit, some comfort to us. This is the face of change, folks.

It’s enough to make you get into your bath and stay there until convenience disappears up its own non-drip, rubber-orifaced, upside down, hook-handled arsehole.

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I’ve been waiting to come back to this in some spectacular fashion, to have something big to write about but it’s not happening. I’ve got the jitters just sitting here in front of a keyboard thinking about writing again – that’s how bad it’s gotten. I put such pressure on myself.

In the intervening hours, we’ve moved back in with TSO’s elderly father and renovated half the family home. It’s strange, living with an elderly relative – something I never thought I’d do, to be honest. I’d have to say that having Rory with us has made it much, much easier than it could be. I’ve discovered just how similar babies and the elderly are, for one thing, but Rory’s attitude and unstinting cheerfulness is definitely a beacon on the days when it’s not so easy. And I’m not saying it’s that hard, exactly, it’s just kind of…God, what is it?!  He’s quite a singular old fella, my pa-in-law – an ex naval-man from WWII. Bred off Scots parents in Oamaru in the deep south – like many from that area and indeed those from Scotland, his outlook seems shaped by long hours of rainy, grey days, bitter winds and general natural mirk.

I’m predisposed to understanding this, being from the old Scotland myself, but at times I have to say that I struggle when confronted with someone so deeply like myself, to be honest. His outlook on world affairs is a handy example. Say he reads first thing in the morning, about an earthquake killing 1200 in Mexico: he can’t wait to tell it and when he does there’s a certain twinkle in the eye, a certain flourish in the delivery suggesting he’s almost happy with the result! I remember this from Scotland – it’s a sort of “aye, thats a thoosand away in Mexico. Deed. Earthquake” delivered with a smile and wry shake of the head. I think you’d say we’re fatalistic in our worldview but I’m nonetheless amazed to see that these traits transcend geography – that a Scots couple can move way down here – about as far from Scotland as you can physically get without space travel options – have kids, and they still look at things with a grey cloud! Genetics is a strong, strong force!

A little on the grumpy side by nature, PIL (Pa-In-Law as he shall henceforth be known) was never going to be the cuddly, touchyfeely grampa to Rory so we were curious to see what exactly their relationship would be. Rory approached him at first with caution, then with amusement and finally antagonism. He saw how nervous and on edge Grampa was around him, worrying about him getting burned on the heater, tripping on the carpet, anything at all happening, basically, and a curious thing happened (for an under-2). He started to take the piss. He’d hang a wavering hand over the radiator as Grampa turned blue and apoplectic shouting ‘no, no, HOT HOT. Now Rory knows full well not to touch a heater and the look on his face as he watches Gramps’ agony suggests nothing but pure, unadulterated cheek and impudence. He can’t even TALK! Other times we’ll tell him to “shush, Grampa’s sleeping” only to find him 5 minutes later, grampa’s door shoved wide open, standing staring at a prostrate OAP roaring at the pitch of his lungs “PEMPAAAAAA, PEMPAAAAA”. He refers to this old man in the back room of his house as “Pempa,” incidentally. Far more cute.

There are other behavioural similarities: They’re both needy. They both refuse to eat vegetables. They’re both prone to sulking when their own way is not freely given. They both wake up double-grumpy and excessively tousled from naps. They’d both live on candy if one wasn’t a diabetic and the other way too young. They both sneak candy behind our backs – often together. They both love fish and chips like it was haute cuisine. The ways are many.

Overall, due to Pempa’s emotionally distant ways and Rory’s utterly emotional availability, they have achieved some kind of perfect balance and their relationship is actually quite nice. We’re pretty glad that they have this time to make any kind of relationship at all and, on days when living with someone’s dad gets a bit heavy, a bit un-private, their relationship is the anchor that I cling to.

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I’m on my way back, friends. I’m growing more tired by the minute of the social networking game that has fair sucked the minutes out of me for these months of absence. I’ve got a few things to say and I’m appreciative of anyone who still looks at this. You might want your head looking at but I’m pleased all the same.
Right now, I’m watching the brutal sight of a big blackie in the garden, whaling into a big fat juicy snail and I’m thinking – that’s me, so it is – that’s gonny be me.

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I’m not a curmudgeon (yet) but I have to say that the hooplah about Avatar has brought out the worst in me. Whenever I hear such massive outpourings of adoration and people bordering on religious fervour over a film or band, it makes me dig my heels in and almost determine not to like the damn thing.
The most immediately obvious example, coincidentally, was Titanic. I evaded seeing it for at least two years after its release, on a whim at the video shop, and I was completely and utterly justified. It was the worst kind of schlock imaginable and I think history has borne out that appraisal – you don’t often hear anyone nowadays going on about that magic cinema experience that was shit Irish accents, slightly dodgy special effects and a plot so thin and romantic, it could be a cousin of Russel Brand.
I might not go and see Avatar, while the barrage goes on, we’ll see. the thing is, I’m the worst at watching sci-fi stuff – I’m far far too deeply rooted in reality to be able to suspend belief for two hours or more.

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Well! I was expecting a lovely rendition. I’m now wondering if he’s ever heard the song before. Awesome stuff though – and a deservedly famous Youtube hero. Keep them off  Slow Suzie Boyle.

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What to say about my favourite show on TV lately? Homai Te Pakipaki. It’s warts and all karaoke on Maori TV and the singers come from the length and breadth of Maori-dom to do the song they’ve made their rep off of at local singalongs since they were of age. They love a good sing song, the Maoris, much like yer fowk on Scotland used to be once upon a longago. A good singer is valued strongly. Everyone has their number they can really, really nail with the right amount of imbibing. And by God, no matter what great feats the Maori people can claim in history, no man could claim they cannot fairly sing. I’ve never witnessed such a high percentage pound for pound, of extraordinary singing voices in a people. Ten contestants a night in an hour, with pre song interview and awesome banter between co-hosts and crowd. The budget for the first three entire series would be a mere trifle next to the per-episode budget on the cheapest American sit-com, you can bet your ass. A scaffold in an empty room with a dozen rows of old cinema seats and fifty of the most entusiastic audience members a producer (if indeed it has one) could wish. Black curtains for backdrop, sign cut out of MDF, painted in ’80s colours and hung on tow rope behind the main stage.

Tonight, a grisly little grandma in her ’40s with a mile of black hair pushed up menacingly in a beehive, absolutley WRECKED a mike on “River Deep, Mountain High”. Her version, and me a strong Ike and Tina / Spector fan, was absolutely the best thing I’ve ever heard. I was left spent! This furious little five footer shook her little fist as she delivered a menacing “and it gets straw-hawng-er, in every weeeehhhhyyy” so that I believed. I believed she had written and produced the song as well as thundered it out so. Her physical presence was so time-worn, so ravaged by the life of a native person here in this awesome place, but that voice roared with a pride and spirit that’ll never be tamed. She wasn’t even placed at the end of the night – some little modern country-snooze-singing pretty-bitty in her late teens took top honours (there are certain realities that won’t be denied anywhere) but in my eyes she walked off with top spot as well as second with at least five others equally deserving of third place with drum-tight performances and soulful deliveries of great songs.

I love a good sing song. I love Homai Te PakiPaki. you will too – here’s a taste – season 3 winner Dane Moeke delivering an earthshaking rendition of Whitney’s finest… if you don’t think that’s amazing, I don’t want to hear from you ever again.

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I should make clear, right away, that I’m not one of these people who go through life wryly picking on everyone who doesn’t know their split infinitives from their erse hole – in fact they kind of bother me, although we laugh at the same things sometimes. But lately, wrecklessly bad use of the English language appears to stalk me, dog my every paw fall. The thing of it is this: It’s all connected to soldering. I’m learning a new skill or, more accurately, kind of reviving an old one – I’m making myself more self-suffish as an Apple repair guy – motherboard repairs. Anyway yeah, what the hell? The solderers of this world, one may safely assume, will not soon be giving Garcia-Marquez or Dan Brown restless nights if this lot is to be held against them…..

“Use your Exact-o  knife and gently scrape the dry solder from the hole.  And WALLA!!  You will have a clean open hole” Walla! Wallup! OohWallawallawallaooh! Great!

“1. Initial use, there is a some smoke temporary but it will soon diminish. No more smoke after all.” – well! What a lovely wee story with a beautifully encapsulated ending! “Diminish,” if you don’t mind, ladiesangennulmen! Gorgeous!

“Heater is having a very high temperature, suggest to use soldering to get burnt or fire” – Succint! ? The writer has done away with several very widely used conventions of the thirdmost popular language on the globe there and yet I find I almost know what he’s saying. He may be onto something or, should I say “may on to something”.

“Used hardly wea-out long, life iron plated tip and simply replicable” And yea! Verily I say the comma after “long” was his!

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Check this site out. I’m one of those people that does a lot of thinking about stuff carelessly posted on signs for all the world to see. Spotting a misplaced apostrophe is like finding a tenner to me. Well, nearly.

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As intimated before, there’s a ot of love for Jesus in Rarotonga. Every day we drove past a huge sign that said, simply, “Jesus Loves YOU” and, after a few days, TSO and I both, subconsciously started singing “Jesus Loves Me” (the hymn) in our heads. After a few days, I sang it out loud, exposing us both. I tried several times to count how many places of worship on the 40 minute circumnavigation of the island but lost count in the high 20s every time. This statue of Jesus at the side of the road caught my eye early on but the light was never right to take his picture. This is the best I could do. He had a lovely little grotto all to himself, with a little waterfall and heaps of gorgeous pacific plants.

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Lord – I’ll tell you, if I had one of these HD cameras that shoots in really slow frame rates I’d never get a blimmin pot washed! I could watch a man reading the phone book in HD slo- mo and call for popcorn and a drink, I’ll tell you. Rapt, I am. This here is my latest best one – a Schweppes advert that has me fair pechin’ parched for a swally of anything Schweppes makes. I’m the great Sam Pechin’ Parched for any effervescing beverage, any plain old aerated waters as long as it’s by Sch-you-know-who. See if you don’t feel like towelling off after watching this masterpiece.

(Thanks to Peteypops for the link to Wimp.com)

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If you find Garageband too complex but still fancy the idea of messing around with making music digitally, check out this little ace of an online app. It’s awesome fun. And, if you like Garageband but find it a trifle simplistic, we-hell then step right over here and fall back into the days of the 808 and a bedroom carpet spaghetti of effects pedals, 9v batteries and patch cords..

Just make sure you’ve nothing to do before you start….

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Jesus, this track is blowing up my ears just now: Check out this link and listen to “She Came Along” by Sharad Feat. Kid Cudi. I never thought I’d hear Patsy mashed up successfully, nor indeed hear country music of any kind getting along with Hip-Hop but this is quite beautiful.

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It’s film festival time in Auckland again and whilst I’ve not been too clever at getting out and seeing my picks in the brochure yet, I did manage to see The Baader Meinhof Complex yesterday. You know, recently we re-watched The Lives Of Others – another German film – and I have to say that in general, the European films I watch recently stand out from their American-made counterparts in one sense above all others: I’m interested in every single minute of them. Seriously – I can think of not one wasted minute of that film yesterday, and there were 180 of them. What is it with American made films now that they almost uniformly contain at least 40 minutes I would cut out?

Apart from all that, this film told a fascinating story in a thoroughly riveting way. Photographically and art-design-wise, it captured the mood of those troubled times in a thoroughly convincing and captivating manner. I could hardly take my eyes away from the myriad details in the set (and costume) design. If I had one complaint, it would be that the songs chosen for the soundtrack were perhaps a little too quintessentially ’60s, a little too ‘pop’ for what I imagine Baader and co to have been listening to. I’d have had them down for a bit of Can or something. Even if the Red Army Faction weren’t fans, Can and a its like would have fit the mood so much better than Bob Dylan and Co. No offence Bob.

I’d read Stefan Aust’s definitive text on the story of these guys before and found that the film told it earnestly and unselfconsciously, even adding a lot of detail that I’d not previously known. Today, thinking back on it, my one abiding thought is that it went to great lengths to provide a thorough description of the word ‘terrorist.’ When I think of what we call a terrorist today and compare it to a time when people were prepared to take to the streets against governments domestic and foreign, I feel a little sad that I could never imagine any country in the developed west where such a thing could ever happen any more.

Also fascinating was the tenderly treated (for all its horrific nature) point at which those who must resort to terror to be heard, end up hurting innocent people, often their own people, in the process. We in this day and age tend towards the view of Terrorists as irrational, unstable lunatics (a view foisted upon us at every turn by those whose purpose it suits) and it is important to remember that, generally speaking, those forced to resort to terrorism are far more politically astute than we are and quite often just by and large better educated.

I admire the RAF and what they stood for. Many of the things they were fighting against are still going on and still not a very fucking good idea. I think, as I did after reading Aust’s book, that Andreas Baader himself was a probably psychopathic maniac – a shit-disturber who was born to fight against anyone that had an interest in stopping him. But he was, in this instance, fighting against a great and real injustice and I have to respect that – I could never do it myself. Maybe the world would be a better place if they had succeeded. There’s a thought.

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This auction, on New Zealand’s Ebay – called Trademe here – is raising a fair bit of noise…

(PS – the kid is actualy pretty funny – he was just on the nightly news – check the Q&A at the bottom of the auction for samples of his humour)

NB: Update on 20th July – the guy has been outed for a fake! He’s actually the son of an ex-MP and the whole thing is a project for design school

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You know, I’m kind of surprised at myself getting all emotional over the Michael Jackson ta-ta revival yesterday morning. I think it’s being a new parent and Rory being in the room or something – I’m getting soft. Anyway, as my old pal Mon, a heavyweight Western Scots cynic like myself, points out to me on Facebook this morning – a lot of stuff is being swept under the carpet in the endless re-spins of “Billie Jean” this past week. He also points me to this article, written by yet another Western-Scots cynic in The Independent. It’s important to keep a balance and, you know, until last week I also thought of Michael as a kiddy-diddler. I need to give myself a shake here!

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I walked to Food Town last evening, to get some stuff for supper. On my way back, at Grey Lynn Shops, I encountered two young Japanese, studying a map rather too intently. I asked them could I help to which they, in that peculiar Japanese way, refused, despite looking like they needed help – A LOT. I said were they sure and, in halting English, they asked me which way to go to “downtown”. I gave them the instructions, slowly and very deliberately so they would get it, I even repeated it all till I was sure they had it. They had it, they said. I said good luck and started to walk away but I noticed they were lingering, trying to form another sentence. I said in Japanese “how long? – about 30 to 40 minutes. If you’re fit…” They were so relieved and excited to find a speaker of their own language in their new neighbourhood. I felt awesome. How many times did that same thing in reverse happen to me in my first few months in Japan and how grateful was I for the passer-by.

Buoyed by my experience, I walked not another thirty feet, when I saw an elderly lady acting rather peculiarly. She stopped suddenly and started to sort of convulse. She then teetered, swayed and, with a great dramatic sigh, fell backwards her full length, cracking her noggin on the pavement as she went down. The wind fairly went out of her. I dropped my groceries (containing a full 12-sack of Mac’s Lager I might add) and rushed to her aid. In the middle of the drama I noticed that an Islander family whose van she had narrowly avoided clumping with her melon, rushed too – in the other direction, hustling their kids into their van and driving off at speed!

Anyway I asked my patient was she okay etc and could she move alright. She said just to get her a taxi, despite that I noticed her head was bleeding from the back and she was repeating herself, gibbering almost. She’d be in her 80s at least. I got her up onto her arse and, satisfied her back and neck were okay, got her a chair from the fish shop and sat her up, with the help of another unspecified Islander chap passing by (who redeemed his team instantly!). He went into the pharmacy to call her a taxi, as she requested though I had grim misgivings. Luckily Mr Bopal the pharmacist came out to see what was the matter and he recognized her as Gloria. Gloria by this time was reeling and chuntering like a monkey. Mr Bopal rushed to the surgery on the corner where luckily Gloria’s doctor was still in the house. He came out and I, the first aider, the first on the scene, was suddenly redundant. I stood down, deferring to the medical qualifications of the doctor and nurse but I don’t mind telling you I was a little miffed! I shamefully felt entitled to a thanks from someone. Instead, another doctor who had come out, an Indian gentleman said “okay, her own doctor is here, he knows her problems, you can go”. Harrumph!

In the space of ten minutes I had done a selfless thing and felt great about it then pushed it and done another good turn and revealed myself for the shallow bastard I undoubtedly am! Will I quit doing good deeds though? Not a chance. If you should happen to be the recipient of one, however, remember and thank me, or you’ll make an enemy of me, you ungrateful wretch!

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“I hate Britain, and I want to move to Spain in the next couple of years, ‘cos our country’s not England anymore. It’s very rare for English people to live here anymore. When I went to Lanzarote, I felt more English there than I do here, and that’s no exaggeration.”

Wow. I mean I suspected the British Nationalist  Party membership consisted of more than a few who might have struggled in school or a couple of ‘slow readers’ here and there but this article seems almost made up! Nick Griffin must be over the moon at press like this. Actually he mustn’t give much of a shite about press in general because any time I’ve heard him speak himself it’s been shamefully embarrassing to listen to. What must it feel like to spend your life denying what you believe in and pretending to be something you’re not? I’ll tell you what -some of these girls, if they spend many more hours on the tan beds, they’ll struggle to get taken for good, clean whitefolks…

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I’m not unaware of the fact Jacko has moonwalked off this mortal coil – don’t get me wrong. I’m just having trouble getting gloomy about it when there are so many fantastic jokes about it coming out of the UK already, in typical British style. My favourite remains the headline “King Of Pop Michael Jackson dies, Madonna has contacts family, asks how much they want for the kids”. Another reported that Eric Clapton had enisted a medium to warn his son Jacko was on his way up. Yet another reports that In light of Michael’s UK contractual commitments, Gary Glitter has been in touch with Jackson’s management to offer to take care of some of Michael’s dates….. And finally, the Jackson family is said to be considering having Michael’s body melted down and turned into toys so that kids can have a play with him for a change….ow! Okay, that’s enough and bear in mind none of them were my own creations.

Sadly, I look on Michael the way I look on Phil Spector: a tragic example of how boundless fame, wealth and bloodthirsty public scrutiny combined with some leftover childhood issues is a recipe for sure disaster. I feel his downfall and subsequent death is at least 75% attributable to us and how we adore fame for any sake. That’s a sad thing. I think his musical legacy from the J5 and the first few years solo when Quincy Jones was at the helm is absolutely immense and will always stand strong as some of the best pop music ever made – that is a really good thing. A man of immense talent and charisma, bludgeoned by fame and poor guidance.

Rest in peace, MJ, you’ve been responsible for some happy, happy moments of dancing (both alone and in public) in my life and I truly wish you hadn’t become a figure of fun in your latter years but that’s how the game goes.

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This little boy hardly had clothes on his back for two weeks. Now that we’re back, he almost refuses to wear them – even though Auckland is pretty cool just now. Nudity is such a natural state – I was pretty jealous of him being able to hang out with the wang out. This standpipe/shower was at the spot we spent most beach afternoons at, our top snorkelling spot. The thing leaked a tiny fine spray permanently and he was forever up there trying to get wet in it. He’s started to walk whilst there also and can now get about six or more steps in before he plonks back down on his arse.

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Well, here we are at the Cook Islands New Soup office. We arrived on Tuesday past and it was our intention to blog daily. The internet connection has been a little spotty in its availability. Nonetheless there have been some observations in the intervening days that may be worth recording. Rarotonga is much as I had imagined an island in the pacific to look. I mean my personal cherished image of such islands will always be that of Mutiny On The Bounty-esque palmy, breezy, semi-clad nubiles-everywhere splendor, don’t get me wrong. But having seen TSO’s family snaps of growing up in Tonga and those in any other book I’ve read (most recently the one about the Pitcairn Paedophiles) left me in no doubt that today’s Pacifica is a bit more lean-to sheds with Palm corned Beef posters on their sides than grass huts and coconut brassieres. However, if one can look past all this makeshift, man-made pedestrianism, the country remains geographically the same. That is to say – beautiful beyond measure.
We’ve found Rarotonga in mid-winter by their calendar so it’s not as stinkin’ hot as I feel sure it will be in high summer but even so, we’ve only seen a spit of rain the once in almost 5 days now. There’s a prevailing offshore wind pointing straight at Muri Beach where we’re camped out, lashing the reef with some pretty heavy swells (2-4m at times) but here in the lagoon, the waters are calm and lovely. We’ve gone snorkeling two or three times round the other side of the island at Black Rock and near the Rarotongan Resort where it’s sheltered from the wind. Christ! It’s like diving into the tank at a Chinese restaurant. The decorative one, not the one with the Koi waiting to get et. Some areas people are obviously feeding the fish cos they are bold as brass and yesterday I had the uncanny sensation of claustrophobia underwater when scads of these gaily-hued little reef fish crowded my mask as though they themselves were looking into some kind of tank containing an exotic curiosity. I must say, having only recently learned to enjoy the sights underwater while snorkeling – what a difference to not have to be sheathed in 7mm neoprene and need 13kg of lead at ones waist to be able to get down to the bottom for a look! And to be diving in lukewarm water! What a joy! Loving the life aquatic in Raro.
We’ve been blessed with a pretty swank place to live. We’re in the garden cottage of a place that has one huge mansion-esque villa with four bedrooms, pool, hottub, art on the walls etc. The cottage itself is lovely. We have use of all facilities so far  except, damnably, the hot tub. There is a couple from the Philippines that looks after our whims and cleans the place up daily – the lady even brings us by delicious cooked specialties. If I could but impart in her how very much I long to be in the big lovely hot tub overlooking the reef, we’d be laughing. Meanwhile, we’ve been making use of the kayaks as and when weather permits.
This morning was the Saturday morning market and it was a special week for there was a large, very organized tent revival happening in the middle of it all. Their appeared to be evangelic hopefuls attending from the length and breadth of the Pacific rim, if the emcee was to be believed. A young gospel singer from San Diego, California and her band whipped the crowd into a huge, devout froth with dance moves, hollers, “praise jesus”-es and “hallalujah’s” that had to be seen to be believed. The elderly church ladies in flower headdresses doing the hip-hoppish dance moves the young American was leading the crowd in, and their serious faces as they did so, was a treat. Yea! By crackey they do like their Jesus down here – I’ve counted the churches of ten completely different faiths so far as we drive around, and I’m unconvinced that’s all of them. Even the Ba’hais are representing for the Raro bretheren!
Raro is, to the New Zealander, kind of a Cabo to the Americans or a Magaluf to the Brits, in many ways. The island appears half populated by middle aged-to elderly Kiwis in their brand new summer holiday outfits. These generously-sandaled hopefuls wander around in goggle-eyed wonder at how different the world can be. I noted at the big market this morning that the only place I saw sell out of anything was the stall selling gourmet breads containing olives and sun dried tomatoes, pizza bread with pepperoni and chocolate croissants.
I was thinking in fact, what a ubiquitous thing the holiday sandal has become in the world at large – does anyone wear the thick-soled, webbing-strapped, 100% man-made Jesus boots when actually at home? Yet enter a holiday destination and you can bet your basket every second person is sporting pale, orange-heeled feet with unkempt toenails full of sock-fluff, enrobed in a set of these clumpy big heel-shredders! When coupled with the south-islander short-shorts or “stubbies” as I believe they’re called, baring legs brown as berries from above the knee to sock-level, white as yogurt from upper-knee to crotch and from ankle down, the sandals off the market stall are a holiday look in and of themselves. To complete the male top half of the outfit, one must seek out either a thirty-year-old rugby shirt, washed to oblivion or else the promotional polo shirt from your local plumbing supply depot – either one must be worn with the collar up and, if possible, a moustache.
The ladies are no slouches either: everything must be white or damn near it. The top half: Sleeveless wherever possible to maximize arm-heft exposure and with a neck low enough to show off the gold necklace and the yawning, plunging, leathery canyon leading to unimaginable depths. On the feet: same $5 sandals as the men only in tan or purply, pinky palettes. Toenails: painted. In between: pedal pushers in neutral colours. These must be thin enough to show clearly the distinct VPL of old-lady pants once the sweats come on when in tropical climes.

Photographs and food updates will follow sporadically

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