Brand New Soup

I can’t begin to express my utter distaste for the way the New Zealand press handles reporting on suicide. Articles in the press here, no matter whether it’s about someone found in a car on a remote hillside with a length of hose between tailpipe and passenger compartment, alone in the bath with a toaster or knife – are reported using one of a collection of standard euphemisms to ‘disguise’ the fact someone took his or her own life. “No suspicious circumstances,” they say “Police are not looking for anyone else in connection with the matter,” are but two of a seemingly endless database of ridiculous standards used here. Why stand on ceremony? Why not just take the whole theme to its absurd conclusion: “A Police spokesman said in connection that they had found their man.” “The killer was found at the scene.” “A Local Police source said on condition of anonymity that this was a one-man murder.” Seriously – it’s a serious matter, a fucking heartbreakingly serious matter but didn’t we discover some many decades ago that not talking about something doesn’t make it go away?

Here’s the thing: it’s not like the NZ press don’t get the opportunity to report self-inflicted deaths – in 2007, 483 people took their own lives in New Zealand and 2670 people were hospitalized as a result of self-inflicted injuries. People from low socio-economic backgrounds are 3 times more likely to be the inflicters than the ones most reporters come from. If you’re Maori, 16.1 of you per 100,000  will kill yourself vs 9.9 per 100,000 for non-Maori population. The statistics are absolutely shocking and this is just the tip of the shock. So, to underscore - people in New Zealand definitely kill themselves: more pro capita, in fact, than the U.S., The U.K., Australia and, uh, Haiti?!

One official line has it that “media reports of suicide may increase the risk of further suicides for a period of time after that suicide.”
“May” is the only word I really give any creedence to in that whole sentence. There is, to date, nothing conclusive anywhere to back this theory up apart from the supportive results of ‘discussions’ between the media and suicide stat gatherers paid by the government. I wonder whether, if the media stopped mentioning a soccer team being shit, that team would suddenly become league-toppers? Perhaps we might want to give this fantastical method a go at some other unsurmountable social ill…say, cancer?

As someone who has experienced the complete devastation that suicide leaves in its wake, I abhor the head in the sand approach whether its in the press or among friends. Believe me when I say that nobody is comfortable talking about suicide. People say “I don’t know what to say” more often than you can handle hearing it. And that is often all they say. It’s an excruciatingly hard topic to broach and so nobody really does. Even your best friends and closest family are completely useless to you in the wake of suicide. But the accompanying silence definitely does not make it any easier.

I tried the not talking about it method myself for a couple of years. Were they good times? Was suicide rendered any easier to be around for keeping schtum? They were the most difficult and gut-wrenchingly, heartbreakingly sad years of my life, to be frank about it and I wanted more than anything to talk about it with someone. Anyone. I just didn’t know anyone I thought might want to talk about it. Oh I had a million and one fucking questions I wanted to ask: mostly of the one person who would never answer any more questions, but I’d have settled for anyone at all – a stranger even. I wanted to talk and talk and talk about suicide but it was three years before I found any help. When I did find it, I also found out it was the only Government funded bereavement counselling service for survivors of suicide in the whole of New Zealand. It’s in Wellington and God bless the people who run it – each and every one of them has been affected personally by suicide. They struggle every year to retain their funding, they want to expand to Auckland and Christchurch and everywhere else but they have to struggle to keep their one little program afloat. Do you think that the press not reporting suicide might be helping their cause?

It’s despicable logic and thank God someone in power has finally challenged it and said what nobody else is saying. While the press prattles on every single long weekend about “killer roads” and “deadly traffic tolls,” the bedroom light fixtures and rooftops and razorblades and pills and high bridges of this country kill more than double the amount of every thoroughfare put together.

Might the act of suicide be sensationalized? Glamorized? Made fanciable by truthful reporting? That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. People thinking about taking their own lives need no encouragement. They don’t take their own lives because its glamorous. They’re not scouring the press looking for ideas and methodology. No depressed person needs tips on how to take their life, for Chrissakes. You can kill yourself with a screwdriver. A person that deep in darkness needs, more than anything, to be confronted with the indelible, undoable harm that their non-presence in the lives of the people who love them is going to cause. If a single suicidal person in ten years read an article featuring the heartbroken words of a parent or loved one left behind and found the strength to not go through with it as a result – that alone would be enough to justify an upturn of these backward-assed rules. Shame on the New Zealand press for not only being pretty much terrible and broadsheet-sized tabloids, quality-wise, but for not ever challenging this absurdism in its  own rule book. The sooner people start talking about suicide for real, the better for everyone.

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My life may appear to have been wild, windswept and interesting with all the traveling and living in foreign cultures (ahem) etc.. Oh yes, it may seem to have been quite a wild old ride altogether…unless you’re my teeth.

My pearlies are a fucking shambles, man. There, I’ve said it. They are a crumbling monument to neglect. A derelict, if functioning, series of mishap, misuse, poor care and lack of love. To be honest I never even considered my teeth until I was well into my ’20s. I took decent dental health as a given into my ’30s even. ?I went regularly in the UK, manly because it was free to do so, and mostly my teeth got a clean bill when I did go. I had a good dentist in Canada – Dr Johnson – so cool that I looked forward to going to see him. He and a Japanese chap had a clinic in a crap stripmall in the Northeast. My period in their care marks the only time in my life I felt secure in my choice of dentist – shit there were times I’d go for my 6 monthly check up and Johnson, dressed in his customary Aloha shirt, would cheerfully say “looking pretty good, man, nothing to be done here”. I even got out of one visit without paying for the checkup fee – Johnson winking at me with his wild eyes through the ’70s teardrop glasses, saying “nice work, sir”. And he understood my aversion to having to go to the hygenist every visit – I HATE that tingly, sore feeling after their gritty ministrations and Dr. J knew where I was coming from. We were fully 5 x 5 on my dental needs. Dr. Johnson, you mad looking sonofabitch, wherever you are – you are legend. These are the glory days I remember when I wonder where it all went wrong.

Then it was Japan. I was pretty much covered in Japan, it never cost me amounts I couldn’t pay out of my pocket, let’s just say. It was just that the dentists there were so damnably, worryingly rubbish that you avoided going no matter what. I went to a few, just to confirm this suspicion, and talked to any other foreigner who’d had experience and yes – they all reported grim misgivings about the state of dental things in Nippon. They always looked worried there. They had the natural Japanese aversion to dealing with foreigners, mostly, fearing that somehow foreign teeth and Japanese teeth were not equal, but it was more than that. There was a lot of under the breath talking to the hygenist or suddenly rushing out of the room after untoward noises in my mouth. The end result, anyway, is that I have half a mouthful of glittering silver caps where perfectly fillable teeth once stood. Their aversion to putting in fillings is something none of them satisfactorily explained to me, even when my Japanese was sufficient to understand them. At the mere sign of a cavity they’d simply root canal to blitz the feeling, grind off the remaining good porcelain, dig in a pin and shove a big fake on it in your choice of silver (cheap) fake white (expensive) or gold (astronomical). I went with silver. I was cheap.

A lot of it’s my fault too -for example  the latter period of my time in Japan saw a period of stress unlike any other in my life and I began to grind quite hard. My teeth. While asleep mainly. My already weakened stubs weren’t fit for purpose, suddenly, and accordingly began to ache and give in something shocking. I then found myself back in Scotland which was eye deep in a dental crisis whereby local dentists had, on the stroke of graduation, apparently, gone straight to the airport for somewhere where dentists got paid and were able to live in great comfort. This meant that only the shite ones, the old ones, the weak-willed ones with no ambition whatsoever were left and they were struggling to cope with the growing crisis that 5-packs of fresh cream eclairs for 1 pound 50 at Tesco had wrought on this already dentally afflicted nation. They had decreed shortly before my return that if you were not registered on the books of a dentist by such and such a date, then you were out of luck. The result was that greedy dentists filled their books (for they get a fee for every patient per year regardless of the amount of care ministered) with hapless punters they had neither the time nor the inclination to actually do any dental work on. suddenly people talked about a dentist’s appointment as a mythological Eden – a starry-eyed dream for those on BUPA.

The government’s answer to this globalisation-made catastrophe was Poland. They started bringing in chartered plane-fulls of eager Polacks with alleged post secondary qualifications. My experience revealed that these qualifications may have been from a trade college or something because half of them seemed like they’d be better with a brickie’s hod or trowel than the expensive instruments my government was handing them to work in the tiny building site that is my gob. After being back in Scotland and in great dental discomfiture for a year and a half, I was finally enrolled as a patient at a brand new, 100% Polish dental clinic in the centre of town. It was a further 3 months before they could fit me in for an appointment. When I finally hauled my creaking jaws up those stairs, you can bet your life I was keen. I’d have let a guy with a hammer and chisel into my oral chamber in a heartbeat, so achy and niggly had things become in there. The living room door and a length of string had occurred to me in all earnestness more than once.

At the top of those stairs there were 4 practice doors: one belonged to a young, tanned, capable looking male dandy. His shoes alone made me trust he could do the business. Then there was a blonde, tanned, lithe young lady that would not have looked out of place in an Eastern Bloc special of Female Order Wives Weekly – beautiful yet again you’d have trusted her clean crisp uniform if it was empty. A 40-something lady popped in and out of the third room smiling, in a hurry, a grafter. The fourth door remained resolutely closed for the entire 45 minute wait as I read every crap, coverless magazine in the place and longed for a smoke. At length, a grunting issued forth from the staircase along with the sound of rustling nylon and heavy clumping footfalls. Barbara, my dentist, appeared with a pie in one hand and a coffee in the other the first time I saw her, and heavy makeup. She reeked of the kind of fag smoke I wished I reeked of. She disapproved of my state of dental health right from the get-go, you could tell. She huffed and shrugged and threw down her tiny mirror repeatedly. Acting with the aid of a local translator (I shit you not) she asked what my dental past was etc and shook her head silently, almost sobbing as I recounted my tale of international neglect. Finally she stormed out of the room and I was told after a ten minute wait followed by an exploratory trip outside by our translator cum vacuum operator, that our audience was over. I called repeatedly to try and get my next appointment but was unlucky for the first month. This was pretty much the end for Barbara and me. I suspect she may have been turning to the bottle for comfort whilst adjusting to the pressures of living in this new, damp world of bottomless dental decay.

Here in New Zealand I dared not go to a dentist. when I first came to see Liz, she generously took me to her dentist up the road to take care of my immediate and most painful problems. It was quality work and had I not happened to see the invoice later, may have been perfectly happy. As soon as I realized how much it would cost me, the pain diminished noticeably and there it stayed for some time. Finally working on a film job again and earning heavily, I went to a dentist in Wellington to start about getting my upper Eastside renovated. She took a ten second look and told me there was nothing for it – three teeth needed to be pulled that day, pretty much, and their replacement titanium-pinned, made in Germany replacements would cost 7 to 8 THOUSAND. EACH. I bid her a curt good morning and paid her the 4 hundred dollars or whatever she wanted to tell me this catastrophic news. I was earning but 24k was a lot of dough to me. I then found Colleen Woo in central Wellington – a cheerful, extremely short dentist. She started to give me the Johnson feeling again – she calmed me after my recent 24k quote and said only one needed to be removed, the other two could be saved. I was rapt. She hauled out the offender and started in on the other two then…she got pregnant. She immediately quit work.

And there, pretty much, it sits. I’m now in daily pain, dull though it be. And a certain itch, a certain bad taste in my mouth when I suck my teeth tells me that things are not all well. It’s no wonder – I’ve got about 3 temporary fillings – one I’m sure from the Barbara era, two from Colleen – and half-done root canals from hither and yon. If I won the Lotto and if it was enough, I would get my teeth sorted up, man. That’s my dream. To be the man I was in Dr Johnson’s care. To get a cheerful “nothing to be done” as I exit from my next 6 monthly checkup and feel that warm, taken-care-of feeling once again.

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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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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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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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My old mate Michael, Canada’s top music writer, has posted a link to this clip of Julie Driscoll, whose more pop-ish work I used to have a Best Of LP ful of, tearing it up with The Brian Auger Trinity, a red hot blue-eyed soul combo. This, my friends, is my kind of music. Writ large. Listen to the drummer at the breakdown just before the end – weaving in and out of the organist’s percussive stabs. Pure magic. And Julie Driscoll, whom I’d thought of as a kind of folky-pop covers artist – wowee! She captivates in this clip. Absolutely spellbinding – her look, as TSO and I just agreed – is timlessly awesome, ditto her moves. Whoosh! That’s good.

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I’ll tell you what, I’m heartily sick of hearing about the Swine Flu. In fact I’m listening to an expert on the radio now saying that it has no connection to pigs whatsoever and that the very name we’ve hysterically given it, is a complete error in nomenclature – Swine Flu is a completely different animal all together.

Last night I spent an hour at news time trying to find a channel that wasn’t talking about it in some way. Here in New Zealand, the press have almost made a virtue out of the fact that we were one of the first countries in the world to locate victims and are skulking about outside the homes of those in quarantine, brandishing ten foot mic booms and talking to them over cellphone as they shoot. I mean methods are being developed, to interview people with potentially fatal and highly contagious diseases here! Every news show on radio and TV has talked about it for days now, often in downright officious tones, often dismissing the possible cases in other countries  as hearsay with an “of course WE have real cases here” slant to their diatribe.

Why have I posted a picture of Rory in a tartan tammy? Well, I don’t know about Swine Flu but this little boy has the Pig Squitters these past days – he’s laying heavy cable about four and five times a day and, not to put too fine a point on it, the odour of his fecum is not unlike that I’ve smelt out of our porcine friends. We’ve looked it up and yes, sadly it is normal from now on. He’s so pretty and cute – you wouldn’t believe the smell out of him, man, Jesus Christ almighty, it’s not of this earth.

As well as that, isn’t he cute in his wee tammy? We found it in an op-shop a few weeks ago and got it to take some shots for his granny.

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Well, folks, I’ve now been unemployed since December 15th. It’s starting to become a bit of a bugger now although it has given me time with Rantin’ Rory and TSO that I’m sure a working man would never get, in the first year of his first born’s life. I’m grateful for that. The funds, however plump they may have been in the outset, are now starting to look worryingly skeletal and something must happen soon. We sit on the edge of a decision every day now but never actually make one. The film we moved down here for has ran out of money and is apparently having trouble that movies seldom have, raising the remainder. Most of the people that were working on the project were not hindered by this – they had moved down here with a few suitcases and carrier bags and simply moved back to Auckland or wherever. We, however, had taken the executive decision, given that it promised 50 weeks of work, to move the farm down here. We moved in a moving truck, you understand. So, as others we’d worked with have dwindled in number, we’ve experienced an increasing sense of loneliness down here, apart from our friends in Auckland. If we’d moved immecdiately back there, we might be working and settled there by now but if this picture had found funds, we’d have had to move all over again. This has been our quandary. If it were just Liz and I, no doubt we’d have driven back to Auckland with full cars and a truck following by now but you’re trying to create some sense of togetherness and stability in this little person’s life now, you know?

This morning, I drove to the studio to our deathly quiet and dusty, increasingly sun-faded workroom to get some speakers for (yet another) worker on our team that ain’t coming back an the place was dead as Brazilia. Not a soul. Very discouraging. TSO has the looming prospect of another international job starting in June, but its in Sydney – for a year. This is the only prospect we have with any weight behind it at the moment – obviously it involves not being here in Welington, in our gorgeous wee hilltop perch. Big moves are imminent. Our combined horoscopes every week seem to indicate that this is the big week, this is when it all happens. We’ve forgotten them by the time the following week’s ones roll around. Yet still we read them wide-eyed — like puppies with endless enthusiasm for anything that promises a walk outside or a snack!

How do I keep going? I garden a little. I dive when the water is clear and congratulate myself on a free feed. I wash and polish our two cars (we bought a second out of necessity for this job). And I think about the lovely Beatriz (above).

She’s a Brazilian made VW Kombi, born in 1981. She is currently sitting in a shed in Christchurch but this week she will move to Oamaru where a good man will give her the first of a long list of loving mechanical hugs and kisses that will see her fit for next year’s NZ VW National meeting in Nelson. I just went to the 2009 Nationals in Napier over Easter weekend and re-ignited a long-dormant love of air cooled Volkswagens. I drove up there in a 1962 Karmann Ghia which was a real treat. It belonged to Dan, a mate who is also waiting for this project to arise, but whom owns the Karmann and a gorgeous customized Type 3 (with a Mazda RX7 rotary engine in it!). The weekend reminded me of the simple beauty of vintage VWs and made me at once want to get back to that in some way.

A week later Dan phones up with this proposition – Beatriz had been up for auction on Trademe (NZ’s premier online auction service) and hadn’t sold but he as a watcher had been offered her for a trifling $3000 and was I interested in going halves. I took a look and I could see her charm – the double “barn door” versus the troublesome sliding one, the fact she’d obviously had a lot of love from someone already, the fact she had under 80k original kms! Obviously purists would prefer a split window, mid ’50s Kombi but this old girl had some hope going for her -I could see past her reduced circumstances. So yes, I was interested and now Dan and I have a project.

So, I spend my days dreaming about Beatriz and how she will look when she’s on the Interislander Ferry next Easter. We are already agreed on a primer grey/white roof paint combination, roughly as per this picture. Both if us have experience of doing up VWs and are keen moles for new sources for parts, used, custom and new. I’m excited by the project. Within the next few weeks I’ll be going down to Oamaru to collect her and drive her back up. From there the real work of restoring her will begin – I’ll keep you updated.

If any among you fancy creating your own dream, check out BusSelecta.com.

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Today’s Score

Paua: 3
Cray: 2
Kina: 4

Got the call from Dan and Ben at 9am that there was a southerly blowing in this afternoon and was I in for a dive this morning, before it churned the sea to milk once again. Had woken up with the no-job blues and was glad of the opportunity. Grabbed coffee and was in the carpark at 9.15am as arranged.

I took up diving almost exactly when this job ended in Dec. Some of the boys in the workroom had been going freediving for Crayfish, Paua, Kina etc and I liked the sound of it. So it began – a series of rented snorkeling gear, gobsful of brine, struggles underwater on a single breath which brought many a feed of paua and kina but nary a cray. I saw them, you understand. In their little tight holes, waiting for dusk – in no way interested in coming out. Being short of a brush shank or scissorhands, I was in no position to winkle them out but that doesn’t mean I didn’t dream of feeding on one of them one day, when my lungs got stronger.

Now we’ve been all over the Wellington area, as far north as north Makara and as far south as the Eastborne/Pencarrow shore and had heaps of fun. I now own all my own gear and love the sport of it quite considerably. I’ve never been much of a truly underwater guy – no interest in Scuba or anything like it, though I’ve always enjoyed, on a visit to a warm oceanic country, a go with flippers and snorkel. I’ve nearly drowned a couple of times in my life in fact, and had developed a slight aversion to the deep, so my snorkeling was always in a mere few feet of tropical water. Now I reckon I’m down to about 6-8 meters though at 8 I’m not good for much and must start back up almost immediately. Still, I’ve grown more comfortable and am fine tuning my single-breaths and belt weights to a fine art.

So back to today. We met at the carpark at Princess Bay, not ten minutes from here and a stone’s throw from the busy residential Lyall Bay – all within Wellington City limits. I was skeptical – the south cast in general has been absolutely raped and pillaged. Previous trips have revealed nought but plundered paua beds, scrawny mussels and not the square root of the progressively mythical Crays. Even the really experienced divers we’ve been with weren’t plucking out many, I noted. They’re the kind of big kingfish or massive salmon taken on the wet fly of free diving, I assumed to myself – every fucker’s got a story but nobody ever actually gets them. Weh-hell today changed all that.

In the water not 5 min and Ben shouts me down to a crevice about 4m down, pointing frantically. I shoot down and there they are – 12 beady little eyes and a tangle of antennae, taunting our thick gloved hands to go ahead, reach down and pluck us up, big-handed humans. Six of them, two of us. Not a shot. We worked that hole for ten to fifteen minutes, Ben shoving his hand in the back of it, and me lying in ambush at the front. Nowt doing. We started to widen the net. Suddenly it became apparent that we were absolutely surrounded by Rock Lobsters: every nook and crack held another pair of beadies. I steeled myself, ready for the coming fight. I was going home with crayfish or not going home again, I thought. There were some other notable appearances not least of which was one rather large Moray Eel, as big as I’ve seen. No idea the length but his face was about 3in deep – big enough I wasn’t shoving my hand anywhere near his hole.

Suddenly I spotted the biggest one yet this morning – a big buck male at least 4-5 inches across at the middle, sitting right out in the open. I hovered above then took my first recce, swooping down behind him I lined up my best approach angle and went back up to gather myself. Fuck, I had no idea how to go about getting the big bastard! Who was I kidding? Suddenly a little awed by his size and my lack of skills, I looked down at my munted gloves – all but one pinkie tip shredded on reef tips and on bashing paua off the rocks. Looked around – the fellas were at least 50m away and this big lad could scatter any minute for alls I knew. It was now or never. Down I went after two deep relaxing breaths, right up to his rear, reached out and grabbed him across his back. My finger went through my glove as he kicked the first time (who knew they fucking moved so dramatically and quickly?) and touched a spine, raking my finger. I let him go from his struggling, he took off at what looked about 40km/h but skelped against the rock wall to our right and fell down into the weeds. Without taking another breath I kicked my giant fins once and fell on him, some 3m to the right again for round 2. Grab, wriggle, gulp. I took in a gutsful of the briny and started to think he’d had me – I was done for. He took off like a wild bucking stallion into the weeds as I weakly ascended to the surface to start my gasping and boaking performance.

So no luck there, then. But undaunted I coughed up half the Cook Strait and went to tell the lads my story. Too late, they were already thoroughly in the fight themselves and the catch bag was a tangle of claws and antennae. Apparently Crays take to shallowed water near the shore in the lead up to a full moon – I had heard this before but here was proof – we’ve a full moon tomorrow. In between chases, we came across some of the biggest paua I’ve seen yet – see the shot below for the empty shell of one that not only filled my hand but eclipsed it totally.

Now I’m sitting here with the paua all gutted, blanched and frozen and the sound of two big fat craw tails intermittently slapping against the sides of a stainless pot on the counter. Yessir, in my house tonight two hand dived crays will meet either the holy trinity of seafood preparations tonight (butter, garlic and lemon) or Sauce Mornay and lie beside a scatter of pommes frites on my plate.

Add to that the tastiest sauce of all: the fact that you ushered it out of the water yourself, and you’ll allow me a “boys oh boys ma dinnur’s gonny be gallus the night,” I’m sure…

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Last April we took a trip away before Rory was born, to Pakiri Beach north of Auckland. The place had emptied out for the season so we got a little shed and stayed for the weekend. Awesome.

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This morning I took off on a walk. It was a gloomy morning but I took my camera because I finally bought a little backpack on the weekend, so’s I can take stuff (lunch) with me on walks. The weather cleaned itself up and I stood on a point overlooking the entrance to Wellington Harbour after about a 2 hour walk in. I see this spot from my front window every day and got TSO to look through the telescope and check me out jumping up and down like something out of Flashdance from our front window, some ten nautical miles on the other side of the harbour. Nice morning.

Still unemployed, then…

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The current carry-on with the gang murder at Sydney International Airport has highlighted one of very few things that I’ve picked out as wanting, here in my new homeland. See, the media here uses slightly childish common vernacular names for a few key groups that really, had they a choice, you feel would like to be described in slightly tougher terms. Drivers of trucks, a group seldom associated with womanly connotations, are commonly reported as “truckies”. It just seems soft, eh? Childlike. And now, in broad daylight in the busiest airport in Australia, someone has been murdered in cold blood by what’s being described as a “bikie”! Can you stand it?! Cute! (is it bikie or the slightly more cheekie “bikey”?)

I think I would like to tickle a bikie. I think a bikie would be a cheeky little scamp. I solemnly suspect that a bikie might even be a little animated character with a beard and a scale-size little leather jacket, in fact.

A bikER on the other hand – now a bikER threatens me. You can bet your shirt, Mac, I’m going the other way when a bikER comes in the frame!

Brrr!

BikER – RUN!

Trucker! Jesus! Muscles! Moustaches! Arse-cracks! B.O.! Wild armpit hair!

Truckie? Heehee! Hello, little fella! Who’s a little driver man, then?!! Gerroutofit ya rascal!

What’s next?

Might I be slain in my bed by a Murder-ie?

Where’s all my stuff? Am I the victim of some nasty little Burglar-ie?”

“Don’t write me a ticket, officer, I’m only a likkle speed-ie”.

It makes all the difference. Truly, it does. I may campaign for change.

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Well, Ive been an absent friend, friends. I’ve been on a bit of a roadtrip covering a fair bit of the south island. We left on Dec 15th and got back yesterday, the 31st. New Year’s Eve was a muted affair – TSO and I and a bottle of bubbly, along with a dire struggle to stay awake long enough to wish each other a happy new year. We’d been up early and traveling all day but you know, I’m over going out and needing to make a effort at celebrations. Anyway, New Year in New Zealand is a bit strange – usually we’d be camping so wouldn’t know any better but last night I realized there’s no televised celebrations or any kind of special programming. I suppose it’s good that people are instead outside doing something nice.

It’s great to be back in our little clifftop nest and it was amazing to be on the ferry, sailing past looking up at our home, after spending the last few months looking down at the ferries from the back here.

Anyway, when the accounts are toted up and all is said and done – 2008 wasn’t the worst year of my life, I’d say. This picture about sums up. It’s us, in an orchard in Cromwell, picking delicious, juicy cherries on Boxing Day.

I’ll try and be a bit better at this blogging thing in 2009.

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The small town nature of the news here in New Zealand, in general, makes m smile. But this, well, that’s total dog and pony show stuff.

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I’m remiss. I’m one remiss mister. I’ve been taking to the life down under, enjoying having summer in wintertime. I’ve been being outdoors a lot. We’ve moved into a new home here, in Grey Lynn, central Auckland. It’s an amazing area, within walking distance of a place called Ponsonby Road which appears to be a desirable area to be close to. Having been here since January, mind you, I’ve only made its acquaintance in the passing, really. The house is an old house but its had some love and affection over the years, a tradition I’m keeping up by giving it a paint. Exterior only. I’ll post a picture when I’ve finished. It’s a great place to stay but a slightly unconventional set-up inasmuchas Jane, the landlady, lives in the sleepout in the garden – a converted stable. She keeps a dog, a flat coated Fox Terrier called Bruce who’s part of the deal, really, part of the goods and chattels. I’m glad that’s the case. He’s good company. There’s also a cat called Daisy who’s actually a Tom but by the time the true genital count occurred, the name had stuck. This is a picture of me lat week, at Piha Beach, with Bruce. I had just discovered he’s a bit afraid of the surf. He became frantic when TSO went to take a little paddle at the lip of the ocean. Bruce was flipping out, literally, backflips, jumps, barks as though to say “what the fuck? Are you watching this? She’s going right into the beast’s gob, man. Do something!”

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Well, then, back from Aotearoa hale and hearty. What a place, man, what a place. I’ve met many a man over the years, fresh back from New Zealand and singing its praises as their personal Shangri-La. Now I see I was harsh in adjudging them starry-eyed, less than well travelled innocents. New Zealand is an absolutely amazing place – the landscape, the attitude, the people – all beautiful and all utterly enchanting. Along with The Special One – I took a three week roadie covering most of the country save the southernmost south island and the top third of the north. The cities of Auckland, Wellington, Queenstown were all encompassed as well as the beautiful resort town of Wanaka for five days at Christmas and three days at Auntsfield Winery near Blenheim.
At Auntsfield, we enjoyed three days as guests of the peerlessly hospitable owners, Ben and Dierdra with their two rangy lads Oliver and Austin-Suede. I had a shot at driving their new 1928 Model A Ford truck around the vineyard then the family took us out in the Marlborough Sounds to fish and eat fresh scallops right out of the water. It was idyllic. We hiked up to the Rob Roy Glacier near Wanaka on Christmas Eve and watched an avalanche before being harassed by a big green parroty Kea. We played Christmas day games of cricket and croquet at TSO’s family ‘Batch’ with her brother, nephews and friends. We spent the night in Taupo at a gorgeous lakeside apartment with a hot tub that had a view of the mountains, drinking champagne with a strawberry the size of an apple stuck in it. We drank lots and lots of NZ bubblystuff. We watched the new year’s fireworks being shot off the top of the Auckand Skytower. We rode the Shotover Jet near Queenstown too – which is where the shot above was taken. We decided to adopt looks for the pictures – mine ‘Blue Steel’ and TSO’s ‘African Jungle Queen’, which we then kept up even for the action shots of the boat spinning 360′s. That’s some trip – doing about 80mph in a 500hp jet boat through a tight canyon with a mad bastard at the helm who cackles with obvious glee as he takes your bonce within a millimetre of the canyon walls. It was great fun.

Yes, New Zealand is lovely. Ooh – I also picked up a few rudiments on the Ukelele whilst driving, enough chords to get me and TSO singing a few songs. Not quite here yet (thanks for the link, Ben) but enough to put a smile on two faces.

I also took tons of pictures, some of which are quite nice. They will follow over the next while, sporadically.

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