Leaving New Zealand

Being the final part of a three chapter series, in which our adventurers take their leave, and take stock, of the journey had and the lessons (not) learnt.

It’s time to close the book on this sucker, for several obvious reasons. Firstly, fickle memory being what it is, it can’t be long before all involved begin to forget some details, distort others, and quite probably repress incidents best left that way. Everyone I’ve spoken to since returning has already noted the process of forgetting that’s underway. Secondly, there’s no point living in the past and not enjoying the present because there’s a lingering sense of irresolution to the trip. Finally, I just want to get it out of the way. And also I enjoy the writing.

When I got back, or perhaps a bit before, I had a distinct sense that all of us foreigners, and perhaps the kiwis who shared our trip, had learnt things from the journey. I’m sure I did. But when I express this, the question I’m asked is: What? To be honest, I’m not sure, and that’s a bit embarrassing. It’s hard to say you’ve learnt something if you don’t know what it is. I’m pretty sure the others learnt something but I wouldn’t want to say what. For me, though, the evidence is at least observable in our behaviour, or our attitudes since the return. I’m sure it’s different, somehow. Maybe it’s just my perception that’s changed. Maybe I’m paying more attention and noticing how everyone changes all the time anyway. To say that we’ve ‘learnt’ something is probably wrong. It’s something more complicated.

Wednesday is the midpoint of the holiday and it’s on Wednesday that we get trashed and climb a mountain. It’s also one of the most entertaining afternoons in memory. Piling into the tour bus, we make a raid on the supermarket (nine increasingly scatterbrained out-of-towners rampaging through the place with a ten-minute time limit) and head off into the sun with Jules at the wheel. When we stop at the base of the mountain suspicious voices are raised: a sign indicates that we’re about to enter some kind of animal park. Like a safari. But with sheep and goats. This is not the afternoon we had expected.

Ten minutes later we see our first bison, peering in the window. And shortly after that we’re giggling like schoolgirls as we offer lunch to 80s-fringed shetland ponies and the freakiest boar things you can imagine (Marcus stealing Rupert’s boot and attempting to feed it to one of the mutant pigs). The drive up the mountain is decorated by crisply lit fields of golden grass, jagged outcrops of ancient rock, a fresh breeze and a sense of goodwill from that honest earth we walk. At our second stop the group scatters to take photos, relieve themselves or climb to the top of a hillock, and I’m standing in the road with a few others when the goats appear, a seemingly interminable stream of trotting figures swarming towards us. There are cries as others return to see the new friends we’ve made. Goats have kind of evil, Satanic eyes. But these guys were on our side (which may make us evil and Satanic, I guess).

Further up we round a corner to be confronted with a massive temple, one side plastered with the crudely painted image of a Korean dictator. It’s some kind of movie set, and we sneak inside where bombed out trucks and barely-there wooden ramparts give a surreal edge to the afternoon. Also, a massively wired dude greets us, looking as if he’s just shot about ten coffees. We keep on running into him over the next three or four days. It gets a bit weird. But it’s a small town, I guess.

The top of the mountain is, well, yodel-worthy. Looking out over the lake/river and the town and the snowy peaks beyond begs some kind of response. You want to thank the mountain for offering the view. How do you thank a mountain? You can’t, but it’s ok. They don’t do it for the gratitude. They’re good that way.

Why do we climb mountains? Because it gives us perspective, silly.

We descend to the valley and pass through the achingly-rustic village of Arrowtown before hitting the Chinese Village at dusk. A strange, icy walk of ghost trees and empty spaces where goldminer’s hovels once stood. Night is falling. What look like puddles are in fact frozen sheets of glass. We slide on them, the Aussies with no concept of a frozen puddle. It’s fun. We’re in an historical landmark but it’s not really making sense. Sense, I suppose, is for later.

It’s true that close confines breed hurt, and later in the trip tensions, as already mentioned, mounted. I’ll be honest in saying that this account leaves out the occasional negative feelings which arose during our nine days abroad, but the reasons for this are simple. Nothing lasted. Maybe we are slow to learn, on the conscious level, but we’re quick to forget, too, I think. And while I can give you my impressions of my fellow travellers, I can’t get inside their heads. So, if you haven’t noticed, I’ve been oblique and one-sided in my description of the others on the trip. This is my view of things, and after reading the first section of this piece at least one other voyager noted how strange it is that one person will remember certain things as pivotal while another will recall a completely different set of events. I don’t want to alter anyone’s own memory of things.

By the end of the trip I was piking pretty early. Zac more than did his part for international relations, outlasting almost everyone else almost every night. While I was back home slumbering, he was enjoying the Queenstown nightlife until nearly sunup, if not later. He generally managed to keep at least one of the others afloat for the duration, but I have to salute the good man for existing on an average of two hours sleep a night.

Rupert often accompanied him on his travels, and it was always a source of entertainment to see him return and try to steal a bed. I’ve never seen someone so devoted to the sourcing of available bedspace. And “available” can here be interpreted any way you want. After being ousted from Emma and Biddy’s double, we saw him make a dash upstairs to the resting place Zac and I had reserved, and we were faced with a raging bull when we tried to relocate him. Sleeping arrangements were never too firm in the house, and you never knew who it was you were stumbling over if you went for a wee-hours glass of water from the kitchen.

Deciding a restaurant between close to a dozen diners isn’t a piece of cake. Zac and Marcus check a Korean eatery and inform us that it looks ok, but is completely empty. I tell them that it might be because they’re blaring disco music. Emma points out that it might be because the music in question is ABBA’s “Take a chance on me”. Not a good call for a restaurant. We don’t take that chance.

In New Zealand, a venue will often multi-task. A restaurant will become a bar will become a band venue will become a nightclub. This is disconcerting, especially when it seems to occur at every spot you visit. I personally find it hard to dance at a place in which you enjoyed some fine fare a few hours earlier. This is just me.

Winnie Bago’s is that kind of place. We hit the one in Christchurch on our first night, and probably should have returned later in the evening, since the predominantly pizza-based place was going to host the Fat Freddy afterparty when the gig at the Town Hall was over. There was a Winnie’s in Queenstown, too, though I didn’t make it there. Mark and Zac did.

Zac: Look up.
Mark: Yeah, I’ve seen it. The flag.
Zac: No, look up.
Mark: Why, what – oh. The roof has opened up.

This is a reconstruction of an actual conversation. It might not convey the mood accurately. But I wish I’d seen the roof of a nightclub open up to reveal the milky way glimmering overhead.

Did you know that stars actually twinkle? In Queenstown, at least. Cheeky things.

I believe Mr T. may be trying to kill us. Yes, he seems intent on our destruction, and if he goes down too he’s willing to pay that price.

Emma’s Dad takes us out on his jet boat. And I suppose there comes a time when every young person wonders if a newly met elder would rather have them dead. This is not a speedboat, a dinky little offboard thing. This is a roaring, face-melting beast that runs on a dime and zigzags its way across the lake in stomach churning fashion. As Mr T. hits the throttle and we speed off into open waters, both Marcus’ and Zac’s hats are left spinning in space like a Warner Bros. cartoon before sinking into the depths. I’m sitting up front in the passenger seat and within seconds of take-off I realise my entire body has automatically repositioned itself to form a kind of human brace – every limb, white-knuckled finger, tensed knee or elbow has wedged itself against dashboard, seat or railing to anchor me to the vessel. We realise pretty quickly that Mr T. doesn’t want us dead, he just wants to show us a good time. And once that’s clear, a good time is what we have. Although he does cut his finger somehow, and I didn’t know jetboating was a bloodsport.

Amidst all of the beauty, New Zealand seems to be a vaguely dangerous place. An elderly Australian skier passes away on Mt Hutt while we’re there. There are crazy killers, just like anywhere, too. The newspapers report on a P epidemic, and I’d never even heard of P. I’m told it’s a kind of pure form of speed without the side effects, which makes it far more dangerous. People can get into P and still go to work, or out with friends, no one the wiser. Except that they can start acting like idiots and it won’t be apparent why. And it’s really addictive. But that’s about all I learn. I can’t really comment.

The other odd thing is how common nitrous is. On the streets of Christchurch we pass shops with big old handmade signs selling the stuff, no pretense that it’s for making soda.

It’s almost time to wrap up. The drive back to Christchurch was, maybe, the most entertaining drive I’ve ever been on. Biddy and Lisette take the station wagon ahead of us, and Mark, Marcus, Zac, Emma, Dylan and I zip up for a half-day on the slopes before the big drive. Mark’s shoulder is playing up from all the damage he’d done over the past two days of skiing, so he decides to take the day off the snow. I’m pretty down and weary from the night before, having gotten to sleep at about 5am (I was tired and emotional) and I’m almost broke, too, so I sit it out with him in the van. It’s good. We have a break. This is good. This is necessary.

We also crank up the stereo and dance in the carpark for some reason.

The drive takes us well into the night. Mark is at the wheel the entire way, since no one else is really in a fit state after a while. Everyone tips over into a mildly hysterical mode, and Zac and Dylan are the tour entertainment, keeping everyone amused for a non-stop 7 hours. As others drift into sleep or reverie, they continue to chatter, sing, joke, etc. We even get a talk on Zac’s favourite topic, the Eastern Volcanic Regions of Melbourne. I still don’t understand what he’s talking about with that. We stop at what Marcus dubs The Restaurant at the End of the Universe and somehow spend over $300 (mainly Marcus’ fault what with the Jagermeister and all). We arrive in Christchurch around midnight, battle-scarred and dragging our cases. A last minute call to Lisette and we’ve secured somewhere to sleep before jetting off back home tomorrow. She and Dylan show us the last of New Zealand’s great hospitality, and that mingling of sadness and relief at our imminent departure makes for a quiet night.

The flight back home is quieter than the one on the way over. We watch the movie or listen to music or whatever.

What have I forgotten? Everything, probably. But whatever is important is still up there, in those mountains, grinning the contented grin of a massive volcanic swell of rock pushed up from the earth millions of years ago. That’s the mountain madness I had on the tour. Joy.

To all my friends, old and new, who made the trip what it was, I have this to say: you are joy and light and rocky terrain, and without you – all of you – along for the ride it would have been a flat and featureless landscape. I hope that I brought something similar to this, myself.

Thanks.

Or, maybe, cheer bro.

New Zealand Tour Diary Part 2

Marcus fell off a cliff.

The cocktail party we’d planned didn’t quite happen. The four members of the crew who’d organised things are sitting around the kitchen devouring several varieties of cheese, wine, olives, crackers, and assorted deli items while trying to stave off the inevitable question: where is everyone? Admittedly, we’d not told them about the cocktail party (an enthusiastically improvised arrangement). And due to the lack of participants, we hadn’t dressed in the glam gear we’d decided on, since four people in regalia is less noble, and more sad. But we’re having a fun and easygoing time, which is strangely different for a trip that has rarely allowed groups of less than eight. It was Biddy’s idea to make sure that today included lots of split groups, and it worked out well. We all went our separate ways, crossed courses midway, stayed in contact or wandered down our own paths.

And now we’re just the four of us, the final quartet, drinking peacefully in the grey post-sunset, wondering where the hell the rest of the group has gone. A call from Rupert confirms that he and Verity are off to dinner, with a house arrival time of 8pm (we suspect this is an optimistic estimate). Later, we get a call from Marcus, who along with Mark and Zac has been bushwalking for several hours. He’s fallen off a cliff.

Prior to this, the conversational tone of the evening has been varied. We’ve mulled over the quality of the wine, discussed tomorrow’s plans, and someone has confessed to a very personal problem, the “very common medical condition” known as furballs.

I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure humans don’t get furballs.

As the discussion proceeds, we discover other speakers suffering from equally obscure “common medical conditions” such as Fill-In Toenails and Parallel Line Epilepsy. Emma gets a phone call and returns to inform us that Marcus has fallen off a cliff.

The Boys from Oz, minus me, had gone to a trail called Paradise to walk for a few hours in the afternoon, and as we learn later, had decided to walk until it got dark and turn around to head back around sunset. This might sound a bit risky, but there’s a strange course to the travels of the Queenstown sun which won’t be unknown to people who live in valleys, but is probably rarely thought about anyway. If you inhabit an area surrounded by mountains, the sun will never set on a flat horizon. Instead, it sinks below a distant lofty range at an early hour, maybe 4pm, without truly leaving for a long while after. As a result, valley-dwellers must be used to stretches of soft twilight that last for hours and hours, only gradually settling into night as the reflected rays of the sun slide up the opposite slope in a brilliant golden sheet. This very slow sunset might do something to the mindset of the valley-dweller, since things never seem to happen suddenly around here. Maybe not.

I suppose it was inevitable that one of the foreigners did something suddenly. As they were on their way back towards the van, Marcus a few metres ahead, the ground gave way a little beneath him and he disappeared. Zac and Mark ran to the spot he’d been standing and all they could see was bracken, with the noise of breaking branches somewhere below. They made their way to the bottom of the cliff, and found that Marcus had fallen a long way. Maybe 10 metres by his own estimation. The first few metres he was falling through bush, but once he’d cleared that he was going head first in open air, and he remembers thinking that he should have hit the ground long ago. That was when he realised how far he was really falling, and what would happen when he hit. He also mentioned seeing his life begin to flash before his eyes, and being annoyed that this replay was so short. Or at least it was cut short when he impacted head and arms first into the side of the cliff and slid down to rest against a log, a sharp shard of wood a few inches from his head. He’d lost his glasses, and his jacket was dangling about four or five metres above him. Just to get some perspective, the distance he’d travelled was around the height of a three storey house.

It’s dark. They have no torch, not even a lighter. They have a camera flash, and it’s eerie, I think, to have to take a photo of someone and then examine it to see if their hurt. I suppose that’s what an X-ray is, though. His neck and spine felt crushed, and he was sporting an open head wound on his forehead which was swelling to the size of an apple. The boys got him up and back to the car, which was still a half hour away. Zac drove back, and they stopped at a petrol station to refuel, which was when the call was made back to the house.

When we heard the news, no one really knew what to think. I mean, we’d spent the week so far playing minor jokes, or stretching tales beyond credulity, but no one really falls off cliffs. Well, Marcus might. It didn’t sound like a joke, but it didn’t make sense either. When he arrived home, he wasn’t on a stretcher, and since he’s pretty tough he didn’t appear to be in agony. But the visible evidence was there, so we got him off to the medical centre to get checked out by a doctor who wasn’t really a specialist in this kind of thing (it was around 9.30pm by this point), and were told to come back the following day for X-rays.

This is half-way through the trip, and it was at this point that I thought I began to feel the stirrings of internal tension amongst the group. We’d been living in close confines, almost always together, for some time now, and had travelled over halfway across the South island along the way. It’s only natural, I guess, that we start to go a bit stir crazy. And it’s not like we’re short of big personalities. I went to bed early. I didn’t have any problems with anyone, but I could feel concerns simmering away in the house and I wasn’t comfortable. I think things have settled, mostly, to the point at which we can, at the very least, go along to get along. My early night was also inspired by drinking a beer and finding a cigarette butt in it. I don’t think anyone will ever kiss me again after reading that.

Dramatis Personae

New Zealand Trip: The Players

Me, aka Jack LaPlage, aka John McEnroe.

(Headband and bad attempt at moustache optional)

Emma, aka Camp Mother, aka Mama Camp.

Marcus, aka Gringo Loco, aka Marked Marcus.

Mark, aka Dirty Mark, aka Marky Mark.

Zac, aka Fraggle, aka Zac on Crack

Biddy.

Dylan and Lisette.

Rupert.

Verity.

Jules.

The Land of the Long White Cloud

I'm back. I've been in NZ for a bit over a week, and I'll be posting some thoughts I had over there. This is part one. Apologies for the length.

It's 9.20 on Wednesday morning. I've had a toasted Swiss cheese sandwich, a very large black coffee, two cigarettes and a Berocca. I've showered and shaved and brushed my teeth. I've begun to do a little cleaning, although the level of last night's fallout covering most available surfaces means it's more like trying to sweep up after a hydrogen bomb blast. It's at least a two man job, anyway.

The view out the window is magnificent; cover-of-travel-brochure magnificent. There's a massive snowy-peaked mountain leading down to a twilight blue lake which stretches almost all the way to our back door. To either side there are more panoramic mountains, also white-tipped, and the sun is washing over their sides just so. They seem warm and content, as content as mountains get, at least. Which I would say is pretty content.

And amidst this beauty I've just given in and tried something new. I'm staring at my first Boredom Breakfast Beer. And it's glaring back. It's not that I especially felt like a beer (which I think it knows, and resents). But I'm bored, and it beckoned to me with it's yeasty come-hither look and I gave in. How can I be bored here, in the middle of this beautiful day? Well, it takes a lot of work and a combination of events.

Firstly, everyone else is asleep. And that's a lot of people, somewhere between eight and ten at my estimation. I was fast asleep when they arrived back home from wherever they ended up last night, and I think it was probably about four or five am when Marcus came into my room and kicked me out of my toasty double bed and drove me to the hard single bed in the next room. I vaguely remember him saying something about how the double bed should be offered to our newest guests, couple Rupert and Verity, but they're wrapped under a sleeping bag in the lounge room next to me, so I have the distinct feeling that Marcus himself is currently snoring away in the lodgings formerly known as My Bed. Ru and Verity are joined in their dreams by a couch-bound Zac, who despite steamrolling into the kitchen behind me and inhaling a litre of cranberry juice twenty minutes ago, has purchased and validated his return ticket to sleepyland and it looks like there's still a fair few stops before he gets back. Mark, who shared the single bed room with me last night, probably won't be surfacing soon. And this leaves unaccounted Biddy and Emma and Jules, who I suspect are distributed throughout the remainder of the house. But there are no conscious, speaking humans within the vicinity, and this is a major contributor to my boredom. Not that I mind, mind. The other contributor is the unconfirmed bodies in my old double bed, which are preventing me from going in to get bags, jacket, shoes and other things which could allow me to, say, go for a walk or find something else to do.

There have been hinted stirrings, noises behind closed doors or shufflings down corridors between bed and bathroom, creakings of timber as bodies turn in their sleep, readjust themselves just as the house readjusts itself and settles down around each motion. There was the possibility of voices coming from the downstairs master bedroom, but I may have imagined things.

We were tentatively planning to go snowboarding this morning but I don't think it'll happen. This might be a good thing.

When I decided to retire early last night, which is a nice way of saying I piked (cue drunken protest, the obligatory dragging out of house minus shoes towards waiting taxi, passionate counter-argument and eventual return to bed) it had already been a long day. I could have kept going but I was already walking dead, so I probably wouldn't have been much value. I did notice the much-spoken of and almost legendary FergBurger wrappers which have turned up this morning, so I'm sort of regretting not buckling up and hitting the town last night, but there'll be other chances. And I've just opened Beer 2, what the Mexicans call Cerveza Duo, assuming duo is Spanish for two. And until someone wakes up to tell me otherwise, it will be.

No sign of that happening soon.

We've been in New Zealand since Saturday afternoon and it sure hasn't gotten old yet. We arrived in Christchurch where we spent a couple of nights, and as Rupert put it last night, Christchurch can give new arrivals a distorted perspective on the country. It's very English; it was the first place they arrived and they've done their damnedest not to change it since. The river is called the Avon, there's plenty of Tudor style cottages, egg and bacon breakfasts and British pubs. It's normal for newly settled colonies to cling more steadfastly to their roots than country of origin does itself, and you can see the same thing going on in Victoria, Canada ("more English than England") or dozens of other countries across the globe. Christchurch, like NZ as a whole, though, is also a solidly postcolonial place, however, and this becomes clear our first night of arrival. We head out on Saturday to catch a gig by one of New Zealand's biggest bands, Fat Freddy's Drop, a loose dub/reggae collective playing at the Town Hall.

It's actually the Town Hall, as in major civic centre with seats, stage, middle-aged red-vested ushers and all. It's a full house downstairs, and we're at half-capacity in the stalls, which I am guessing puts the attendance at about one and a half thousand people. This is in a town of three and a half hundred thousand. This is pretty huge. Like the band, in a literal and figurative sense. There seem to be somewhere between eight and fifteen members onstage at any one point, with guests wandering on and off to contribute vocals and things. Fat Freddy's are one of the countries leading proponents of dub and that's saying something for a place with one of the most highly concentrated dub and reggae outputs this side of Jamaica. Why is it so?

In a jolting van ride across the southern countryside yesterday, Verity told me that New Zealand's musical heritage is majorly based on two things: the 70s and acid. The way to rebel against the anglo musical background arrived via these, and so it was that Caribbean styles, soundsystems and roots music entrenched themselves as big parts of the local landscape. Everyone seems to know all of the bands, and it's a strong contrast to that Australian desire to find niches, unknown bands or styles you can claim as your own. Things that mark you off as different.

I'm always wary of trying to spot national character, something that unites a nation. To me nations are about plurality, about that difference between you and your neighbour. But New Zealand seems a lot more unified, if that's the word. Travelling across the South island, we meet up with various people who all seem to be loosely connected, and wherever we go there's someone who knows someone. Moreover, everyone seems to know everywhere. I've been to Tasmania once when I was a kid, and driven up to Sydney on a few occasions. I don't feel like I've got much in common with Australians, since the place is so damn big and I've seen so little of it. But New Zealanders, Biddy tells me, feel more like this is their country. It's small, and it's easy to see it all, and they know it well. Different locations will have different associations, so wherever you go you might find a memory or a friend you've forgotten. I kind of envy that.

We drove from Christchurch to here, Queenstown, mountain-fringed lakeside town where the sunlight drifts down like snow. There are clouds at eyelevel beside the mountain opposite me. Jules, freshly risen and planning a breakfast foray down into town, has just put on a cruisy number by Salmonella Dub, another well known outfit. Biddy has gone to shower, and there have been various recombinations of sleeping arrangements. A little more time to write.

The drive was meant to take about five hours, but although we got out of Christchurch before midday it was still well and dark by the time we hit town. We'd stopped a few times along the way, taken photos, spotted a few zombies and penned some original tunes for the band (most of which are now forgotten). Jules met up with us after we arrived, and Verity flew in yesterday. More are expected as the week progresses.

Sunday, still in Christchurch, we drove out to Lyttleton, half an hour away, and wandered the streets as the sun set. It was quaint, historic feeling. A port town. They filmed The Frighteners there, and our first stop was the cemetery featured in the movie. Second, obviously, was the pub, and we didn't want a cool bar or renovated place. We wanted a real local joint, with people who'd look up at strangers entering. We found a place that fit the bill pretty quickly, all dark brown wall panelling and people smoking inside (with New Zealand's no smoking indoors laws, you'd have to know the owner to dare this). We spotted our first zombie in Lyttleton. We also had a child say hello, locals ask us where we were from and an old man in the toilet drunkenly inform me that the jukebox was too loud. I liked Lyttleton.

That was the night we played Is It Butt?, the latest drinking game to sweep the nation or at least the living room in Barbadoes Rd, Christchurch. It's success comes from the simple inclusion of all of the vital components in any good drinking game, namely partial nudity, photography, television, competition and drinking. Lots of drinking. Here is how to play: A nominated photographer takes each party member aside and snaps a body part, hiding the identity of both the subject and exactly what part is being shot. Once everyone has been done, the camera is plugged into a TV so each photo can be seen by all. Spin a bottle, and whoever it lands on has to guess body part and owner. Get both right, photographer drinks. Get either wrong, guesser drinks. If it's a butt (Is it BUTT?!?) you multiply drinks by 3. That's the basics; now you can impress your friends and potentially disgust your neighbours by playing it yourself. Not a good solo game.

This could be a motto for New Zealand tourism. Not a good solo game. What it lacks in positivity it more than makes up for in utility. This place is much more fun in groups, especially in groups which include locals. The crew we're with know all the good spots to visit, all the tourist traps to avoid and how to enjoy a good night in (which, when you're travelling, is harder to find than a good night out). I've travelled solo and with friends, but it's very different to take the guided tour. Of course, these are the people that can also con you into ill-advised excursions, such as bungee jumping. When I mentioned that we wouldn't be going snowboarding today and that this might be an advisable omission, I'm sure I was right (we didn't, though we will tomorrow). But in the meantime, I may have been convinced to take the big jump tomorrow.

While the Melbourne boys went off bushwalking today (in a place titled Paradise, which would be an overstatement in most countries but is probably entirely accurate down here), I had a Ladies Lunch with Emma and her boss, Ian. Ian is editor of the magazine Emma works for, and was entertainingly pissed by lunchtime, which put him in good company. We gabbed on about his son's band, his film career, his magazine. Mostly about himself, really, which I'll frankly admit is an allowable concession for someone who has made it in this world. I also managed to get him to offer me something writing for the magazine, which was a bonus, though perhaps a drunken one which won't be followed up on. I'll follow it up.

Ian is here doing "research" for the mag, and will write an article on Queenstown – meaning most if not all of his expenses are taken care of. And judging by his hotel room, that's a nice expense account. He also has a free bungee jump tomorrow, jumping being a local specialty (along with parasailing, jet-boating, etc) and since his back isn't up for it he can give one lucky camper the shot to leap off a bridge into oblivion. I ask the group what the experience is like. Jules is nonchalant. Biddy is nonchalant. We'll see how nonchalant I can be.

Speaking of which, it was Biddy who turned up today after lunch with her mother (also visiting – it seems no New Zealander is more than a short drive from any other). She outlined her day, casually mentioning that she'd gone parasailing with Mum, as well as shopping at the supermarket. Now, where I come from, you don't go parasailing on a whim. You go for coffee. You might even go for icecream. You don't go whitewater rafting, or running down a hill in an inflatable ball. But I don't come from NZ so I don't confess to understand these matters.

Short tips for non-natives: A milk bar is called a dairy. You can drive at 100kmph on a lot of roads. Everyone knows someone nearby (while we were lunching, Jules turned up, and two separate friends of his joined the table unexpectedly). You should feel entirely free to end sentences with "bro", without feeling shamed at your lack of African-American heritage. You can also end sentences with "eh", only barely qualifying said sentences as questions. This is an odd phenomenon also noticeable in Canada, South Australia and Queensland. I can't explain it, nor do I find a reason to try.

I'm writing this sitting by the side of a winding road which meanders down the valley to the bay. The last light is grudgingly sinking over the hills and a massive, contented mountain is hovering over me. It's bone cold, but it doesn't really matter. I can see snow, stars, water and a warm house. In case you can't tell I'm really enjoying New Zealand.

Breakups for Action Movie-Obsessed Guys

Dude, I know it's like over between you two, and you're probably having to deal with all these, like, emotions and shit, and I know you're not good at all that so I thought I'd put together some words and pictures and things to help you through it. But in ways you'll totally understand and also maybe dig.

And I know how we spend most of our time talking about way cool stunts from movies so I'll them as examples.

You're probably feeling a bit like you've been set on fire and are running around totally trying to deal with that fact.

But you're thinking - hey, why can't it be different? Why can't I be the guy I really am, which is the guy who calmly walks towards the camera as the building/tanker explodes behind me?

Well wanting it won't make it happen. And anyway, here's the thing, right - if you see the breakup as a big explosion, you're already giving up. So we'll have to think of some other ways of thinking this shit through. And by ways, I mean stunts.

A really cool stunt is when a car goes up on two wheels and drives like that for a bit. Now, usually when that happens the person driving is being chased, and so they go up on the two wheels because they have to, like to drive down a narrow alley or to avoid running someone over. But sometimes, even if the chips are down, and you feel like you've just lost the use of one half of your vehicle and you're careening along in a dangerous way, you have to go "screw this, I'm doing a handstand out the window."

Another awesome stunt is when someone is riding a motorbike and then someone else steps out from behind a dumpster or something and hits them square in the chest with a big plank of wood, and the motorbike keeps on going but the guy riding it gets knocked back. That's so cool when that happens. But I can't find any pictures of it and also, it's not really a relevant metaphor for break-up situations.

Better yet is that old classic, when someone leaps a car from one building to another. I get so pumped up when that happened, and the hair on my neck goes tingling (only sometimes). I'm pretty sure you feel the same way. So what you have to think is that even though you've just smashed through a carpark barrier or maybe even a plate glass window, there'll be something on the other side to catch you, somewhere safe to land. And you probably won't be airborne for that long (but enjoy it while you are!!!)

Now if you're not, you know, driving a car and you go off the edge of something, that safe landing place might not be assured. This is especially so IF YOU ARE ON A MOTORBIKE.

I can't stress that enough. I shouldn't even have to stress it, you're not a baby. But you will know that even though driving a motorbike off or through something might not be the safest thing vis a vis the whole landing scenario, it doesn't mean you're stuffed. Because as you're falling, you can push off from the motorbike and fall separately from it. If you do this, it's pretty likely that you'll land in some water or at least roll when you land, and you might be bruised a bit but you'll be back on your feet in no time.

And don't forget, extra points for windmilling your arms and legs as you're falling, as if to say "WOAH!!!" but physically, not with words. I think it's what they call "body language" and I think I heard on Dr Phil that something like 90% of communication is through "body language". So the windmilling arms is pretty important. And I wasn't watching Dr Phil, I was just in the room when my mum was watching it (as is her wont).

But even if you haven't got a bike and you're falling, say if it's just you and a pair of skis facing the long drop, things will be alright.

Assuming you have a parachute (I'm sure you do). Otherwise you are pretty much fucked. I'm sorry to say it but you are. (The landing places I've been talking about are what you could call your "friendship network" or "circle of supportive listeners" and the skiing thing was just me wandering abit. Basically your friends will help you out.)

Oh and hey don't you love it when a car gets some air and spins over so it's UPSIDE DOWN??? That is so awesome. It's on a level of awesomeness I can't describe.

You're like the green car in this picture, and she's like the red one driving along next to you (actually drag racing) when WHAM! that green semi pulls out of nowhere and you go up over the front and - well, you can see for yourself. I suppose in this case the green semi represents your mum calling Jenny's mum and asking where you are. And the bits of metal coming off your car are like the last mangled bits of dignity you had falling away to the roadside (also she, the red car, will drive straight over them, further crushing them).

Let's talk helicopters, because they're going to come up sometime I suppose. You might think that after surviving the recent jump or whatever that you can handle anything, and you might get self-destructive. This is when you might decide to jump a helicopter.

I know I'm being a bit obscure so I'll spell it out - the helicopter in question has brown hair and she's always trying to sit next to you in Maths Methods. And if you try to jump her you will be lacerated by her spinning blades. Trust me, man, just trust me on this one.

So to finish off, I just want to say that even though you're essentially hanging from a rope being dragged behind the speeding army truck of love, or running along the roof of a speeding train of a relationship heading towards the low bridge of heartbreak, or trying to regain control of the falling plane called emotional wellbeing as the pilot named "Your Happiness" is slumped unconscious over the controls: even though all of these things are literally true (literally means not really), you can at least be safe in the knowledge that your good buddy is here to help.

Especially if the helping involves driving a hot car through some market stalls.

Malt Champagne

Last night was the launch of Malthouse Theatre's Spring Season, held at the Gin Palace. This makes for a welcome change from launching seasons in the foyer of the Malthouse itself, with its bright lights and all. This time round, we were treated to lots of champagne cocktails and an ok amount of speechifying.

No food. But the cocktails were good.

Can't recall who the first guy to get up was, but he seemed to be on the board or some kind of executive/business type. He held a large beer the entire time he was orating, which I thought was impressive. He also sort of mystified me by arguing that theatre in Melbourne was the Forgotten Art (as compared to, what, opera? Ballet?). Seeing as how more people have been to the theatre this year than have gone to cabaret, jazz gigs, stand up, classical concerts or either of the above mentioned forms, I don't know what's been forgotten. Maybe he meant the Forgettable Art, which a lot of it is. He did say that he wanted that to change, bringing theatre back into the boardrooms - huh? Woah there big boy! What does that mean? The whole boardroom comment got a lot of mileage from my +1, the lovely A, who was equally stumped by the possible connotations.

Michael Kantor got up then and ran us through the 9 shows of the next season, which I was pleased to see include Ben Ellis' adaptation of Kafka's Metamorphosis set in suburban Australia. Ben's a good dude so it's great to see Malthouse supporting him again. The other things I like are the three indie shows which are being mounted in the Tower Theatre, including a Umi Umiamare piece directed by Moira Finucane, and the show Telefunken which Oubykh Theatre put on in the Foundry in North Fitz. last year. Very underground, so big up to Stephen Armstrong for picking up on it.

Went home and made a massive pumpkin and lentil lasagne. I am a genius.

Big Willy Style

Grandpa Joe! Grandpa Joe! I got the golden ticket!

Well, I didn't, but someone did. Space limitations prevented me from publishing the full text of this item of correspondence in Art of the City this week, so I thought I'd post it here to make everyone all green-eyed and tooth-gnashingly envious, like.

Megan K. scored an invite to the red carpet world premiere of the new Tim Burton rendition of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. And it was only her second day in London. Nice work. Here's what she reported back.

" Held at the Odeon Theatre in London's Leicester Square on Sunday, July 17, the London premiere of Tim Burton's Charlie and The Chocolate Factory was like being in a chocolate coated dream. Walking the red carpet, (which was actually green - a la edible Wonka style grass), was madness, larger than life lollies adorning the way and frenzied fans and press alike awaiting star Johnny Depp's arrival.

Dressed in a blue suit, baggy hat, and sporting Pirates of The Carribean facial hair, Mr Depp certainly didn't disappoint. Other green carpeters included stars Helena Bonham Carter, David Kelly (Grandpa Joe), and Deep Roy (yes, that's his name) who plays not one but every single oompa loompa!! Other guests included Val Kilmer, British chat show hosts Jonathan Ross and Graham Norton, a girl group I didn't recognise and Mackenzie Crook, aka Gareth from The Office!!

Inside, Depp, along with director Tim Burton and the kids who play the reincarnated Charlie (the super cute boy from Finding Neverland!), Veruca, Violet, Mike and Augustus introduced the film and we were away. As a Charlie purist - I'm not joking when I say I can sing and talk along with the entire original film - I was excited to see this new adaptation and with a Wonka Fudgemallow Delight to munch on it was a pleasure to see Burton's version of Charlie. Depp's Wonka is quite dark and weird, and there are many childhood flashbacks which help to explain his eccentricity; there are new oompa loopma songs when each of the bad eggs, (or nuts as the case may be this time around!), are sucked up pipes, turned into blueberries, sent down garbage chutes and shrunk by Wonka vision; there are lots of laughs and although it is quite different to the original it was really enjoyable.

Afterwards, clutching our very own Golden Tickets, we were then bussed to the exlcusive after party which was AMAZING. Like being at a really excellent kids birthday party x 100, doubled and then doubled again, with a cherry on top. Cursing myself for only bringing a small handbag into which to cram chocolatey souvenirs, we made our way around the party tasting and trying everything from lollies galore, freshly made fairy floss, milkshakes, and chocolate fondue fountains - white and milk no less- with strawberries, donuts, and various other sweet treets to dip in. The staff manning these fountains were on drip duty, helping many a hand to mouth to avoid the almost unavoidable wearing of chocolate down one's front, or at least chin. Then came my personal highlight - a bounce inside Wonka's Giant Glass Elevator, a massive indoor translucent cube, a jumping castle which, with equal parts chocolate, champagne and over-excitedness, combined for a top night and a fairly sugary hangover! With the child stars hitting the dance floor and the adult ones hovering above in the VIP room, it was a great night all around - I had so much chocolate that even if I'd been offered a lifetime supply I would've had to turn it down for fear of bursting at the seams! "

A Cocktail of Rare Emotions

TOMORROW - SATURDAY - WILL SEE THE BIRTHDAY OF ROLLERS AKA DIRTY MARK AKA MARC AKA NOLES AT TROIKA, LITTLE LONSDALE ST, CITY. TROIKA IS RUSSIAN FOR 'THREE'. JOIN US. 8.30PM PLUS.

Last night's events saw the production of a hitherto unknown array of internal reactions. I will describe these emotions, with accompanying images to illustrate.

The Melbourne OnScreen launch kicked off proceedings. I rallied to troops at work and realised we were running late. I was MILDLY TREPIDATIOUS:

We wandered down through the forlorn wasteland, I mean exciting new development that is the Docklands precinct, and made our way past the cyclone wire and sluiced canals to Studio 5 of the film studios there. Unlike the previous night's gala stars-and-clouds venue of the Regent Ballroom, the Studio was a cold, gleaming steel nightmare. The crowd was uniformly attired in black, mostly older, and reeking of political dollars. I felt out of place. I was NONPLUSSED. But then I spied the catering:

And was CHUFFED. They made no bones about the fact that the beer was VB, but the wine was tasty and the food supoib - they must have done a bulk deal on the fetta since it was pretty much on everything, but bowls of mushroom risotto, pizzetta, folded pastries etc were much appreciated. It was also outrageously vego-friendly. I was BOUYED.

This feeling wasn't to last long - once the speeches kicked off, I found myself listening to a long succession of businesspeople and pollies high-fiving the Melbourne film industry, backslapping their fellow attendees and generally bigging-up themselves. It was boring. And I felt DESPONDENT.

As my ennui increased, I soon became BEMUSED:

I was forced to turn off vital portions of my brain in order to stay standing. In fact, this gradual dimming of awareness led me into a situation of which I had been afraid since the advent of mobile technologies: I SMSed someone who turned out to be standing two feet behind me.

At first, when this dawned on me, I was FLABBERGASTED:

But I eventually found the humour in the situation, and was TICKLED.

In case it's not obvious, I couldn't wait to get out of there. So we cabbed it to Dancehouse in North Carlton for the opening of the second season of 3D - Dance, Dramaturgy and Design. Since the first round hadn't entirely lived up to my hopes, I was MILDLY DUBIOUS.

My concerns were misplaced. The first performance, by State of Flux, began with a few minutes of darkness and some neato live vibraphone, and once lights came on and the five dancers (including one wheelchaired) started up with their crazy impro contact stuff, I was INTRIGUED.

This soon changed to a QUIETLY APPRECIATIVE attitude.

Which continued throughout the second piece, Julia and Phoebe Robinson's Quiet Listening Exercises. That was ace. Each audience member had their own headphones, and listened to the electronic soundtrack to the piece in a private bubble of rumination. I emerged in a CONTEMPLATIVE MOOD.

After an interval, the evening was rounded off by a long, old-school absurdist piece of little to no dance by Five Square Metres. I won't go on at length about it. I did contain some ok moments. But overall, it left me PISSED.

After the show was over, there was more fine catering: eggplant dip with mini sourdough slices; cheese and same; some meaty thing I didn't look at; fetta-stuffed olives and an olive-like thing that none of us could identify, which left me feeling VEXED.

And so, a few more wines and a good gab later, I left and walked home to the UNREMITTING TERROR THAT IS MY DOMESTIC LIFE:

MIFF MAYHEM!

Mayhem, mayhaps, may be a strong word. But it felt like that getting in. Probably due to my lack of organisational ability. Possibly due to the fact that I failed to arrange my entry pass to the afterparty until today, and even that entailed agreeing to meet the festival publicist in the Martini Bar of the Westin Hotel at 10.30pm. Did I know what said publicist looks like? No. Did she know what I looked like? No. Did she turn up? As far as I can tell...no. But then, she had other things to worry about. Like the opening night afterparty.

End of story: I got in (did you expect anything less? Of course you did. I know I did. In fact I was halfway home when my editor SMSed me and said she'd have things sorted in a sec. But then, to quote that Modern Classic The Last Days of Disco, "I'm not that guy. I WILL take no for an answer.")

Do you care about my travails gaining entry? No. You only care to hear of one thing.

The Catering.

Supoib. Plenty of booze and the food was quality stuff. I didn't eat much since I'm currently in Cheap Eats reviewer mode and am keeping my stomach open for the task (ewwwww), but I sampled a bite or two and gave them two thumbs up. Admittedly, I spilled the stuffing of a mini-baguette which left a few pieces of diced carrot on my trouser leg, prompting my conversational partner to comment that I now looked as if I'd thrown up on myself (and a little bit on his shoe). Thanks. Just the impression I was trying to impart.

But two swift swipes of the hand and I am clean.

The event was officially black-tie. To me, black tie means brown tie. Since my favourite suit is a grody brown 70s number, it's a done deal. My portrait pic above features said suit.

Anyway, the MIFF opening was full to capacity with film folks too various to mention. My fave moment came when a colleague asked an actor "Weren't you in Blackrock?" To which he replied "No, you're thinking of _____. I'm ______ from Last Man Standing." Oops. She didn't know LMS. I thought it was funny because I'd just watched the show tonight (taped - is that wrong?).

Overall, though, the night confirmed what I've thought for a while: the film crowd are a difficult bunch. It's not that they're not nice people, or not genuine or interesting or whatever.

It's just that THEY'RE SO DRIVEN.

The theatre crowd, the musos, the artists, the dancers, the photographers, the writers (bless), the thinkers, the lovers, the dreamers and me...we do what we can, and sometimes that's a lot. But the film folk are a different breed. If you've ever worked on films, you know how much effort, ambition, persistence and sheer bloody-minded stubborn insanity is required to get to the final edit, and most of us just haven't got it in us. As for the actors, they've got to have the same qualities in order to sit around for eight hours before pulling off the performance of their careers, six times in succession, before sitting around for another two hours before the next take.

MIFF: I was stumbling around the ankles of giants here. Not to say I didn't have a great time. I did. But I don't know that I'll ever feel truly ruly comfortable around the film kids. Cinematophiles, yes. I can watch a film with the best of 'em. But the movers and shakers, whirring shutters and final cutters: you are a world I may never understand. Mayhem. Mayhaps.

Swing Low, Sing Low

I like it when people speak in a deeper voice than usual, put on a deep voice, I suppose you'd say. It makes me happy, makes me feel a little like Kojak on a good day.

I suppose it's because it makes someone sound a little more vulnerable; it's opening yourself up to something. You simply cannot speak in an unusually deep voice to just anyone. Try ordering a coffee somewhere that way. Or call your boss. Or return a DVD.

Anyway, it's especially cute when someone with a higher voice (mostly females) do it, because there's the sense of a natural disadvantage. And even the biggest haters of Barry White had to admit - he sounded pretty freakin sexy.

Making your voice higher than the norm is, however, generally speaking, annoying.

Also, I've found that if you ask someone to sing a song in a deep voice, they'll generally choose Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.

A Very Funny Tale

A friend of a friend plays in this band - you might have heard of them, but probably not. Anyway, this guy, Damien, is your typical scruffy rock dude. And on Friday he went out, got roaring drunk and decided a bite to eat would help him sober up.
He went to Macdonalds on Bourke St and promptly fell asleep. He was woken by a young male policeman telling him to get out. Which he did. And crossed the road to Hungry Jacks, where he fell asleep again. And was woken by the same cop, who'd lost his cool now and gave him the "you're nicked" routine, dragged him out, called for backup (bit overenthusiastic there) and handed him over to the two female cops who showed up.
Once PC Plod had left to continue his one-man mission to clean up the streets of Melbourne, the two new constables apologised profusely for his behaviour, and offered to drive Damien home in the van. He was pretty pleased, but was a bit lost when, during the trip, they kept on saying how they were his biggest fans. Huh? And then they asked why his ID had said Damien Whatever instead of his real name. He told them that he used a stage name. Could they get an autograph, they asked?

And gradually it dawned that they thought he was Nic Cester, lead singer of Jet. So he played along.

To the point where when they dropped him home, he ran upstairs, found his copy of the Jet CD and signed it for them.

Signed it Nic Cester, of course.

I feel so sorry for those poor fans. But at least they had their brush with greatness, even if it was a hollow one.

We live in furious times, molten times. A new millenium, apparently. Though I have my doubts.

Way back in the 1990s, for those who remember them (a rare few, since we're talking about that age when cavemen and dinosaurs battled for Earth's supremacy), a small bunch of Melbourne theatre folk had a very good idea. That idea turned into The Black Swan of Trespass. I was busy, however, during all this, telling friends and random tram passengers that "mobile phones will never take off" and "the internet is just a passing fad". History is written by the victor, and I, in this regard, am a loser. As in many others.

Black Swan opened again in Melbourne on Friday night, no longer in the basement of director Chris Kohn's North Melbourne home, but in the brand spankin new Tower Theatre of the Malthouse. You can read about the show elsewhere. For now, you are wondering this:

How was the afterparty?

The Tower is a decent theatre with a fine entrance: you walk through a glass corridor backed by a tropical scene, and form something of a spectacle to the crowd in the foyer below. Everyone knows I like a large tropical scene on a wall, as attested to by this shot of me rocking out at work (faces blacked out to protect the innocent). That backdrop was made with the (questionable misuse of) the Age's spiffy 4th floor colour printer. We love it. And let me tell you, sneaking several hundred A3 pages across the floor isn't easy.

Anyway, back to the Malthouse.

The upstairs mezzanine that leads onto the Tower entrance is hardly the spot for a post-show drinks session. The narrow, balconied space is ideal if you're looking for elbowed ribs, false apologies and no clear sightlines. Otherwise, you're screwed.

The food was ambiguous. It seems to be a Malthouse truism that the catering is in proportion with the publicity surrounding an opening, though this has nothing to do with the quality of the show. See: Woman Bomb. Abso-freakin-lutely ace food afterwards (crap show though). Massive publicity. Black Swan of Trespass. Great show, unidentifiable foodstuffs (which is not good for the vego contingent.) That said, drinks were ahoy and aplenty.

At some point, Malthouse Executive Producer Stephen Armstrong invited all and sundry back to his Collins St apartment for curry and booze, and a short bike trip later I found meself amidst the glitterati...I mean theatrati. Which don't sound so good, but cuts a figure nonetheless.

Black Swan director Kohn cuts some fine tunes as a DJ. The small party was pumping most of the time he manned Armstrong's decks. The 70-something Gavan O'Leary, who played a mosquito in the show, was first on the dancefloor accompanied by his partner, and their mean rug-cutting soon drew in the followers. For a party of only a dozen or so, it was impressive to see half the crowd doing the moves.

Sure, there were dance-offs of the old school variety. My +1 for the night, Marcus S, had his ass gently and quietly kicked by the show's femme fatale, Jacklyn B, whilst I was personally subjected to a serious smackdown from writer Lally Katz.

On the plus side, Exec. Prod. Armstrong produced some fine curry, and when I mentioned the veg thing he improvised a passionfruit/raspberry/cream dealie that impressed this foodie.

Cycling home in the wee Sat. hours was an ordeal, but worth it. Sometimes your desire to be involved with the thriving Melbourne theatre scene is outstripped by your complete incapacity to hold a cogent conversation with a stranger. Not in this case. Good night.

The Wanky Art of Not Being an Arty Wanker

It has come to my attention that a great deal of my considerable mental powers are expended fending off the thought that I might be an arty wanker. It's not something I confront directly, but once in a while I'll become conscious that I'm deliberately not mentioning something in case it gives the wrong impression. Mostly, however, I'm not even aware that I'm doing it.

So I think it's time to hitch our trousers, roll up our sleeves and spit in our hands before rubbing them together (not too much spit or rubbing) in order to take this question on and sort it out once and for all: AM I A PRETENTIOUS ARTY-FARTY WANKER?

The evidence in favour:

1. I am currently listening to the avant-garde piano sounds of Erik Satie on my work computer(http://www.af.lu.se/~fogwall/intro.html), when I could be listening to something that ROCKS! HARD!
2. If I were to switch tunes, there is a strong possibility that I would go for an obscure electronic outfit which is really just a guy with a Mac in his bedroom making bleeps and sonic squiggles that sound chaotic and randomly assembled. You know, arty music. Perhaps from Iceland.
3. I have attended the openings of every show put on by the Australian Ballet in Melbourne this year. And thoroughly enjoyed it.
4. I have a painting by Brueghel as the backdrop to this blog.
5. I have several paying jobs, every single one linked to the Arts in some way.
6. I just capitalised the word Arts without even thinking.
7. I have been to shows that I knew I would not enjoy, simply to know that I had seen them.
8. I have had three coffees before 11am, and am considering another.
9. I live in Melbourne.

That's all I can think of for the moment.

I now present the evidence against:

Let the jury decide.

Non Parlo di Salo

Last night's opening of the new Christos Tsiolkas/Spiro Economopoulos/Melbourne Worker's Theatre show Non Parlo di Salo went well off. In the foyer afterwards, the air was electric and had some people's hair standing on end. It was the kind of show that makes other shows look bad. And in tandem with Moira Finucane's Gotharama, now showing too, Melbourne should be feeling pretty lucky.

Better be made of sturdy stuff, though. The show features big black strapons, pretty explicit male-on-male sex (simulated, I think), shit-eating (again, ambiguously simulated), murder, ass-baring, crotch-rubbing, Italian-speaking and semi-polarised sunglasses-wearing (indoors).

All very tastefully done, of course. Lots of faces and I met quite a few new people (which is rare, since I'm such a shadow-lurking sociophobe).

But what I'm really here to write about is...the catering.

A fair amount of champagne, good, no food.

But forgivable, due to quality of show and lack of funding.

Triumph

Too busy contemplating the series of triumphs that are my public and private life, I had simply forgotten to create a blog.

That is to change, from now on.