Saturday 26 June 2010

Valparaiso, How Absurd You Are...






After a little headache was brought on by one too many happy hour Pisco Sours, Amaretto Sours and Mojitos at our brand new local favourite haunt, Cafe Utopia in Bellas Artes, we decided to take a little trip to the seaside to brighten our spirits and also to make the most of our last few days in Chile. After a simple enough transfer from the efficient Metro to the bus station at Universidad de Santiago, we sat on the comfortable back seats of the TURBUS for a swift hour and a half route to the seaport of Valparaiso. We passed a fairly uninspiring window view, passing smooth hills and some soil rich farmland on a rather dull day. We could have been driving through any countryside outside an urban complex.






This was to change though once we parked at our destination, clouds gathered ominously and the soft scatter of rain began to descend. Although without the aid of a spray of natural light, the city exuded an impression of containing much character by the way the box houses tilted on the hill overlooking the harbour. I couldn't quite make out the colour of the paint work and this added to the sensation of holding a photograph negative close to the eyes.



The UEA 7 a side FA Cup winners reunite for another scalp. Yes, my jeans are far too big, they were the only ones I could find in the market in Santiago.


We were recommended a little restaurant off a sinister side alley, one that I would not have felt safe walking down at all any time after sunset, called Casino J Cruz Social

http://www.capitalcultural.cl/p4_cc/site/artic/20040513/pags/20040513154823.html

which ranks amongst the most memorable dining experiences to date. The decoration was a debris of cheap collectibles from the world over within glass cabinets scrawled and signed on the panes with tip-ex by past customers. The dated floral table cloths were also blitzed with biro ink, messages from all the guests who'd eaten under the same roof in the past forty years. It was hard not to feel nostalgic about the place, and even more so when the elderly and eccentric waiter arrived and delivered us the only dish that was available by the chef, the highly regarded Chorrillana - heaps of hand cut chips (like the ones Dolly makes for me when I'm well behaved), scrambled eggs with onions and garlic and finally a liberal sprinkling of chopped pepper steak (which Matty devoured without delay).





Street art in Valparaiso

We trawled the streets for shelter, and were reduced to mild irritation on being ignored by one B&B and our other top pick being shut down for the month for renovations. This led us to a promisingly signposted hostel Pata Pata halfway up the rainbow coloured steps of Templeman. We were alarmed to find that the door was opened by a sweet smiling two year old Chilean boy who promptly ran away back into his cot. The manager greeted us seconds later and with his small lopsided beard, round trustworthy face and generous overspilling stomach, depicted the archetypal Latin man of leisure. The hostel was 'homely' in a way that felt like arriving unannouned at a friend's relatives house and asking to stay the night by mark of association. The baby boy, who loved to try and play the didgeridoo to entertain us, provided company in the television room as we attempted to avoid his angular toys scattered on the floor. He didn't appear to attach any desire to sit still and listen to my reading of the Spanish version of 'Three Little Pigs' (Los Tres Cerditos) though, which was his loss, the ungrateful swine.







In the morning, after having our prayers answered from a higher being for the wish of a clear day after the uncomfortable artillery of an overnight storm, we approached the city with a dose of positivity and anticipation in equal parts. Valparaiso is known as the 'Cultural Capital of Chile', a newly appointed UNESCO World Heritage Site and was home to the notorious Chilean poet (and considered to be one of the most influential poets of the 20th Century), Pablo Neruda. Although in the past 'Valpo' was known more for its swarm of drunken sailors, doe-eyed and ugly mouthed prostitutes and blue collar sleaze, it is now considered a jewel of the nation and commonly referred to as 'Little San Francisco'.





Chile has impressed with its reputation for a solid economy of a steady export trade (mainly copper, accounting for a third of the world's total, and wine) which is reflected by the high value, in South American terms, of its currency as well as the impressive infrastructure and general lack of visible poverty that I had assumed.


It was easy to see why this place has such luminary plaudits. The rich bohemian vibrancy is apparent from every cafe, restaurant and window sill within the Old Quarter. Houses are painted striking shades of the palette, often to compliment the pigment of the neighbouring buildings so that the streets reach a technicolour synchronicity as if a consequence of the collective brushwork sneeze of the Impressionists. Artwork of the spray canned variety is also thrashed adoringly on walls, abodes and on the ground, as wild canines stroll easily by and ignore the public clamour within the docks.

World Cup fever reaches the walls of the Allegretto Pizzerteria in Valparaiso


After Valapraiso and one final day in Santiago to sample some more ham and cheese empanadas, we set off for Peru to prepare for the Inca Trek in the coming few days. Our connection flight from Lima to Cusco was delayed, leaving us stranded in the Peruvian capital for one night before we were allowed on the next domestic flight. This, we thought, was going to be an issue as after what felt like months queuing at the LAN desk for news of a refund and overnight stay at nearby accommodation we were handed a voucher written elegantly by Maria the LAN air stewardess for the Hotel Rwanda. Thankfully we mis-read the coupon and were not actually treated to a night of genocide and Don Cheadle. Instead, the majestic Hotel Ramada, with its Spa, massage tables, delicious three course meal and spacious twin room was in order - and all free of charge.

Backpacking has never felt so relaxing and has created, I fear, a false impression for Matty. One that I'm not willing to correct just yet.




Flying past the Andes and beyond Chile



Lima Song of the Day: The Beatles - And Your Bird Can Sing
A classic from Revolver. The fab three's (Ringo doesn't count) sunny chorus managed to scale the heights of my in flight playlist (along with Avril Lavigne and Bob Dylan) to ensure that we touched down in Peru with swaying arms and tuneless humming that even the blood red stamps of immigration couldn't tarnish.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ApI7YXQTVZQ

i-Pod Song of the Day: Bruce Springsteen - I'm On Fire
The Boss is at his best on this moody yet moving two minute lilt from his huge 'Born in the USA'
album. The structure of the melody urges you to follow the tracks that the freight train running through his head have passed.


http://www.brucespringsteen.net/songs/ImOnFire.html


Thursday 24 June 2010

¡ Vamos Chile !


Del aire al aire,
como una red vacia

iba yo entre las calles y la atmosfera,
llegando y despodiendo


From air to air, like an empty net,
I would go through the streets and the atmosphere,
Arriving and saying goodbye



Pablo Neruda





Matty found me in Auckland airport as I was hypnotised by a gloriously ill advised meal at an American fast food franchise. He marked our reunion by throwing a tennis ball at my face, which I did not have the reactions to propel to another, less hazardous direction. The LAN flight was scheduled without quarrel or delay and I even managed to pass some time attempting to serenade the Chilean air stewardess with my broken Spanish. This tactic was not successful, which was a surprise to all within ear shot, and I only managed to aggravate her with my perseverance.



On touch down we grabbed an 'official' taxi from Santiago Airport and cruised past a landscape that I had never witnessed before. The Andes, with its snow tipped peaks was the most impressive feature, piercing through a thin skin of smoky urban smog and disappearing in the thick cement of dusty urban decay and then re-appearing again once it had left my thoughts momentarily. The wide roads leading to the Bellas Artes, where we were staying, were lined with rusty tin roofed shanty towns, tired looking mules with matted manes and abandoned football pitches made up of earth and heaps of trash.



We ventured out (me with an irritable spirit due to the jet lag and dehydration from the ceverza and plane journey) and immediately navigated the salmon scales and blood soaked cleavers within the Central Mercado - fish market. After a tiring lap we settled on a restaurant exuding character from its cracked peel paint, the vociferous locals, vino tinto tainted table cloths and a small television pinned loosely on the wall emitting the Brazil versus Ivory Coast World Cup Group game. I ate my freshly caught pescado and potato salad stained with beetroot as I intermittently craned my neck to witness some dubious handballs. All the while our waiter tried tirelessly to converse with both of us in Spanish as we nodded sincerely in a very English manner.



With the Hostel Andes Owner and fan of La Roja in womb

The following day, waking at 5am and eventually bypassing the persistent questioning from our Belgian dorm mate (whose discoloured teeth and monk-like features made me wary of him from the onset), we ventured towards Plaza Aramas, in order to view the much anticipated Chile - Switzerland game. We wandered past Parisian styled streetlights and small parks similar to that of central Madrid, and stopped by for a brief watery coffee at Cafe Haiti, known locally as 'Coffee on Legs' where short skirted and thick thighed waitresses shuttle business men their thin early morning antidote (a Latin American version of Hooters, I suppose).

Since arriving in Chile it has been apparent that chauvanism still pollutes the routine of society - from men striding in front of women who are left lumbered with chores surrounding the offspring as well as the unquestionable lack of chivalry on display. The ladies here seemed to be overwhelmingly pleased when we opened doors for them and helped them to carry their luggage up the stairs of the metro station.


Chilean fans: In need of Head & Shoulders



Back to the promise of herds of supporters in the midst of the carnival spirit of soccer we entered the main square where there was a big screen showing of the Chile game. We were immediately concerned by the vast number of armoured riot police, dressed in mouldy green khakis and armed with shields, guns, tear gas and teenage mutant ninja turtle-esque body armour. The kick off was at 10am on a Monday morning so we were both mildly mystified as to the extremity of the measures taken place in order to keep the peace.


The 1-0 win sparked wild celebrations with the partisan crowd, of around ten thousand, mostly students, in the square as confetti poured on the cobbled streets and streams of paper were dispensed from high by rebellious office workers watching unsubtly from their commanding buildings overlooking the screen. Matty was almost pick pocketed for his camera but managed to heroically cling on to his photographic device, in what was otherwise a joyous atmosphere.

A few hours later we spotted a number of riot vans and louring tanks equipped with water hoses and armed guards on erect proud horses watching menacingly over a mass crowd of post-game revellers. The scene soon turned ugly as some of the fans began to hurl bricks and stones towards the vans and policemen. Matty and I hurried towards a gelata shop, Emporio La Rosa, for shelter (mostly for the heady selection of homemade ice-creams, though) and peered through the window panes onto the on going chaos that was ensuing. Once we'd devoured our helados, we tip toed back to the hostel only to be caught in the middle of a battle between civilian thugs and soldiers. Heavy rocks were thrown like grenades over our heads towards the garrison and we actually had to set camp behind an iron gate of a mechanic who rushed us into a place capable of fending off the projectiles. We watched on as a number of the hellions were arrested and one rogue was eventually handcuffed on to a police motorbike on one hand and subsequently dragged and paraded on his knees in front of a curious public. Perhaps the military / civilian tension was a glimpse into the lasting legacy left by the Pinochet led junta.



Me: How do I look?
Matty: Dirty and sleazy


Once our pulses had ebbed somewhat, we celebrated our victory from turmoil with a terramota (a dangerous concoction of wine, beer and fruit salad flavoured ice-cream) in a cavernous pub called La Piojera, where spirit soaked oak barrels played the part of tables and the distant sound of an accordion played in the background. We were even audience to a fleet footed elderly man attempted to seduce flirtatious women with a bizarre handkerchief dance. Matty was too busy attempting to befriend a seemingly dangerous indigenous magician to take notice.
The piercing blows of plastic whistles and matador flag waving football fans in clear intoxication continued to stifle the stillness of a wintry air.





After an arduous trek up to Cerro San Cristobal to view the statue of the Virgin Mary overlooking the city of Santiago (perhaps an attempt to match the infamous O Cristo Redentor, in Rio), Matty and I decided to reward our strained knee joints with a quick pastry snack at a local bakery. As I sunk my teeth into a flaky miniature croissant I noticed three teenage girls beyond us, snickering and pointing at us rather inconspicuously. After a short pause they all ventured towards us in a coy manner. It transpired that they believed that we were in a 'Rock Band' (they had numerous badges and stickers on their knapsacks of the 80's inspired band whom we were meant to be but looked nothing like) and wished to find out where we were playing that night and how long we'd be in the country for. We couldn't quite manage to correct them of their error as they dived in to embrace us, leaving us both perplexed as to what just occurred. We certainly grew to the idea of being part of the Beverly Hills elite, though, as we later toasted our newly found status with a potent flute of Pisco Sour at a local den.



Santiago Song of the Day: Chi-Chi-Chi Le-Le-Le, Viva Chile!!
The hundreds of hyper teenagers who pressed up close behind us threw confetti liberally towards the back of our heads whilst we tried to watch the Chile World Cup game at Plaza Aramas. To blend in somewhat we attempted to sing along with local football chants which we mastered after listening a few verses on repeat. I'm not sure the locals bought into this harmonious facade though.


i-Pod Song of the Day: Ryan Adams - Nuclear
It's been hard to resist mentioning Greenwich Village's leading troubled troubadour in every post, as I generally listen to his songs every day on the pod. Nuclear, from his B-sides / rarities album Demolition, has been on repeat since I landed in Bangkok. It's one of his more uplifting tunes from his earlier years and reminds me of my many visits to New York City. Did I mention that I used to live there? I'll have to tell you all about it sometime...


For some reason the only video I can find features a Smallville montage which I can only apologise for. Well, enjoy, and sorry for the video:


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gbjZYOd48gM

When I saw her the Yankees lost to the Braves
Sentimental geek
Shut up and go to sleep




Friday 18 June 2010

An End To Middle Earth

Not surprisingly, it wasn't overly difficult to bid farewell to the seizure of downpours and woes of the elements that rattled the bones for the past few weeks in the capital city. I did grow fond of the litter of sculptures on the streets and quay; the graffiti art on the shady corners and the grungy cafes on Cuba Street empowering me with daily doses of caffeine and much appreciated shelter. My lasting memory of Wellington, apart from the jesters parading down the halls of The Cambridge, is the sheen on the pavement immediately after the patient rains and the way in which the neon lights from forgettable bars reflected within. I will miss a city with a rich urbane and cultured verve, which is reason enough for the locals to brave such cruel conditions.

Now on to my final leg towards Auckland via a couple of nights in Taupo, five hours drive from the Southern Tip of the North Island. As I followed the vacant winding roads, uninterrupted even by the woolen waves of disorientated sheep, I gazed at a landscape much altered now from the one I saw earlier in the year. The snow and ice had placed a healthy veil over the mountains and the peak of Mount Ruapehu which erupted last, rather worryingly, in September 2007. This was a scene of disaster on Christmas Eve 1953, when a volcanic mudslide digested a railway bridge and derailed an oncoming train, killing 153 passengers on board. We didn't encounter any such obstacles.


Mount Tongariro was similarly coated in velvet snow, and as I looked up at its towering vent I recalled the climb up Mordor which was both tiring and rewarding during the Alpine Crossing in March. I realised at the time how the light air would cause Frodo to lose faith in Sam and his focus on his task up Mount Doom. I can also appreciate, at long last, the reliability of the cover photograph of my trustworthy Lonely Planet guide with its helicopter view profile of the volcanoes in a winter majesty. It was a slight shame that I had missed out on the more picturesque South Island though in a similar sharp spectacle.


The snow covered Mount Doom

On arrival at Taupo I strolled under a stark cloudless sky and generous June sun to the lake with its open view out across the Central Plateau. I had never observed it at eye level as my bird of prey descent from a parachute was my only impression of the area on the previous visit. From ground level the vista has a pensive tranquility as the eyes search beyond the elevation of the mountains and leaves one with much to ponder. I carried this visual weight with me at the Easy Bakery whereupon I carefully dissected a flaky egg & bacon pie which came in a respectable 5th place at the 2009 Supreme Pie Awards.



The Lake itself, the largest to be found in New Zealand at 616 sq km, is not a conventional form by any means. It is actually a water filled crater of a volcano (a caldera) which erupted some 16,500 years ago. Apparently, the subsequent destruction of land mass was felt throughout Oceania and the Pacific and the Chinese and the Romans all have written accounts of the ash filled skies and the subdued sunsets following the apocalyptic blast.



The concluding circuit of the country, Aotearoa as it is know in Maori (land of the long white cloud), from Taupo to Auckland was on board an empty Stray bus, bar the driver, Baggins (not sure how he picked up this nickname, but there was something authentically hobbitty about his thatch of hair) and a Dutch passenger. I was happy enough to sit all the way at the back and plug in my headphones for the half day trip but both Bilbo and the girl from Holland harried me to join them at the front of the vehicle. Their company was relaxed enough, and being so close to the steering wheel enabled me to acquire my own personal tour guide for the North Island as I constantly bombarded the driver with questions about any curiosity that scratched above the surface of my regard.


Lake Taupo at dusk

Baggins had a wonderful gift of effortlessly moving from amusing anecdotes - such as mentioning that a friend of his moved into a former brothel in Cambridge and continues to have her door knocked by farmers wishing to pursue midnight debauchery - to touching respect for his country's history, as a mile later we held a minute silence as we passed the foot of the cemetery hill where Maori royalty are ceremoniously buried.


Baggins gives the thumbs up in an empty bus back to Auckland

Now checked in at Nomads hostel in Auckland (I'd rather gorge my own toe nails out and feast upon them than return to the Base hostel with its goon swilling mob of riffraff) with a couple of days to contemplate the experience of breathing in the underbelly of the oceans. The bacchanal activity of the city was disorientating at first but after a few moments I retraced the same steps that I had made earlier in the year and found comfort in the familiarity.

Now for a day or two of concentrated revision of my Spanish phrase book. The only question that I have managed to memorise thus far is usted tiene helado? - which is probably all I'll need.


Taupo - Auckland Song of the Day: Run DMC - It's Tricky
We surged past the grazing cattle and the bright road signs directing us towards the Farmers Expo 2010 as Jam Master Jay and his buddies hippity hopped on the radio. This came on soon after the more sombre scene of the Maori cemetery hill and provided us with an instant distraction from inward reflection on the lives that had been lost.
I did try half-heartedly to rap along but failed miserably.
No one seemed to notice though.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1cYQV62WhkM

Saturday 12 June 2010

Goodnight Wellywood Boulevard


I was catapulted out of The Cambridge at the weekend, due to an overbooking and the fact that it was the Queen's Birthday bank holiday weekend. Damn Commonwealth. Still, this meant that I returned back to my old stomping ground of Nomads for a few days. There was to be no sign of the versatile thespian Dean Knowlesy, whom I had been informed by reception as working hard on post-production nuances to the Yogi Bear Movie and completing the voice over finishing touches to his much anticipated breakthrough character 'Agent Florimo'.


For the duration of my stay I have volunteered my able and supple hands to the Nomads Pub - Blend - in exchange for the roof above my head. I believe the kids out here call it WWOOFing (even though that's an acronym for 'Willing Workers on Organic Farms', which doesn't directly relate to the bar environment at all). This piece of fortune arrived on a dreary Saturday night as I sat in the moderate t.v. lounge, tilting my head back to view the World War II movie 'Defiance' on the flickering flat screen. Three German goons sat in close proximity and successfully eroded my concentration and apathy for the Jews in Eastern Europe as depicted in the film, with their continuous banal conversation, which echoed around the room like the droning of a freezer. Thanks to my tenacious grasp of the German language, I made out the words 'Red' and 'Big' in their diction, and so was confident that they were not offending me personally. On verge of imploding to their boorish behaviour, an impish chef emerged through the revolving doors of the leisure room and announced, under deep sighing breaths, whether anyone was willing to help him for the night as his colleague had called in with a bout of tonsillitis. I glanced up at Daniel Craig beating up a Nazi with a louring cleaver on the DVD and saw this as an immediate omen to roll up my sleeves to purify my own petty vengeance against a courgette.

The only sign of Dean, actor extraordinaire, at Nomads Capital Hostel

"You have worked in a kitchen before, right?" were the inquisitive first utterances by the chef on throwing me a glorious stained black uniform and flat chess board cap. I hesitated for a moment before lying nonchalantly and confirmed that I was indeed experienced in that chaotic environment. 'I'll leave you to it then" were his final words before pointing to the avalanche of dishes, pots, pans, cutlery that lay in ruins by the sink alongside the vibrant Mediterranean vegetables I had to prepare.

How hard is washing up anyway? Pretty darn hard as you have to spend most of the time wrestling a violently recalcitrant hot water hose towards the lasagne caked porcelain whilst attempting not to douse the stoves and the cook with fiery water (which I failed miserably at. You can't tame the elements, it would appear). However, by midnight the place was just about hygienic. I even mischievously finished the leftover cold chips left soggy and betrayed in an aluminium serving bowl, dunked generously in a half used pot of barbecue sauce. I needed to use a handful of potato wedges to actually pierce the thin layer of skin on the discarded dip. It tasted like socks.

After my second day, I was inaugurated by Sandy, the fresh faced chef, to the rest of the team who comprised of a trying-too-hard-to-be-young bar manager, three dead eyed waitresses, a kitchen hand and the bouncer. I was introduced confidently as 'Cash'. Sandy's loose tongue and distant ear struggled to get to grips with the pronunciation of my actual name. I opted out of correcting him on amusement with my new Nom-de-Guerre. I'm not sure any employer will ever get my name right. This suits me fine though, as it allows me to detach the loose cape of vocation with consummate ease.

The team bought me a few drinks for my heroic work, which was not to be tango to compliment my newly acquired moniker. Sandy, on my last day, stated that I had what it took to make the transition from dishwasher / kitchen hand to stepping up to not only preparing salads and vegetables, but also desserts. High praise indeed.



This is the only poster I've seen (squint hard) in the whole of Wellington City acknowledging that there's a World Cup going on

I'm at a loss, marooned at the bottom of the earth as the greatest tournament on the globe kicks off. My memories of the last World Cup were that of a confusingly searing London summer, watching England's gallant one dimensional football unfold within the theatre complex of the Clapham Grand. I also remember, with modest bitterness, allowing my friend to acquire close relations with a South African native so as to obtain a better understanding of the complexities behind the socio-economic implications of this 2010 tournament.


This time around, there is no abundance of St George's flags parading the streets. Children aren't dancing around with white and red face paint on and there is no sound of the Barmy Army orchestra (which is a relief). The only coverage on television is that of the All Blacks' winter tests against Wales, Ireland and England. The Wellington Post at least has a daily Sports Section where Ryan Nelson gives his daily verdict on the All Whites' likely progress in the cup (2nd Round is a distinct possibility, apparently). The kiwis also are fond of ridiculing, in their good natured spirit, the over confidence of the English support and how the nation is looking forward to observing what goes horribly wrong this time round.



The neo-classical Government House building. The second largest wooden building in the world (behind Todai-ji in Nara, Japan)


After three weeks of solid rain I was at last afforded a clear and sunny day. I could hardly believe it and ensured I took advantage of an opportunity to dilute some of the S.A.D. that had tormented my nervous system of late. I wasted a few hours viewing different shapes of anchors at the The Museum of Wellington City & Sea, and then quickly pirouetted around the wooden floors of the National Portrait Gallery which was situated in a hanger within close proximity.



The timer is a beautiful thing. A pretty hiker caught me taking this and mocked me mercilessly


In an attempt to get prepared for high altitude trekking in a month, I shoved on my delectable orange and brown hiking shoes and attempted to conquer Mount Victoria, a mere half hour walk from the ominous statue of Queen Victoria herself on Cambridge Terrace. I was not prepared for such turmoil to the cardio-vascular system and with sweat pouring feverishly down my spine I finally crawled pathetically to the summit as carefree joggers passed by with barely a charitable look in their eyes.



View of Wellington from Mount Victoria


i-Pod Song of the Day: Charles And Eddie - Would I Lie To You?
OK, so not my i-Pod, but that of the waitresses at the Blend bar who took control of the sound system and turned up the volume of this 90's soul duo's worldwide hit. I heard this as I was mopping the floor of the kitchen on my 'work week' and sang down the end of my mop-cum-microphone whilst sliding down the waxy floors with pompous skill.
Only after a little research did I realise that the duo are no more. Charles Pettigrew passed away nine years ago. Thank you for this memory Charles.

Re-live an infinitely 90's video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vytZ8_03tqw

Wellington Song of the Day: Phoenix Foundation - Flock of Hearts
I'd be inconsiderate if I weren't to mention a 'local' band on my journey. The Phoenix Foundation, a Wellington institution of a band have just released the album 'Buffalo' which I enjoyed through heavy grey headphones at a high street music store. I think they made meagre in roads in the U.K. and their songs are nectarous enough to put on repeat.

thephoenixfoundation.bandcamp.com/track/flock-of-hearts


Friday 4 June 2010

This Place Is A Circus


The City Gallery of Wellington, by the harbour, had a winter exhibition named 'Ready to Roll', featuring eight local artists, that I was fortunate enough to get a free tour and artist talk on a downcast Sunday morning. I could not stroll past the city without being reminded of the virtues of the collection and on arriving I realised that it all seemed altogether disjointed - there were no linear thematic groupings, merely strong colour, household materials and deciphers of the human body providing any correlation. For three hours I endured feverishly self gratifying presentations from all the craftsmen. The first of which was the stick like man, Cambell Patterson (who moved from Portsmouth to Auckland not so many moons ago), who revealed five looped video montages showcasing his daily routine. This included one scene where he trod, bare foot on around thirty bananas, relishing the mash between his hairy toes. It was most disturbing. I must concede that I was slightly distracted with my zipper being caught on my grey checked H&M jacket to mourn my potassium-rich friends for too long, whilst my jerking movements obtained stern looks of disapproval from the serious sea of faces.


Hipsters, unite

Other notable works included Richard Maloys' 'Inside Outside Upside Down' - basically lots of cardboard stapled together. Another, 'Butter Body', showed a video of him moulding his weight in dairy into a smooth mound.


The crowd, mostly with neat trimmed beards, shiny waistcoats and clown like make-up were obedient enough during an eighteen minute broadcast by Layla Rudneva-Mackay whereby her computer narrated - in a Stephen Hawkings' monotone - a confession of the artist when caring for her dying mother and coping with her dyslexia. The curator and much of the audience broke down in tears at the conclusion of this programme. I however lost interest within the first few threads of the androgynous 'Fitter Happier' musings and was found absorbed in a petty debate with my self as to what to eat for lunch (I finally decided upon a Roti Chanai from The Satay Kingdom - a delicious Malaysian meal for only $6 / ₤3).



The horizontal rains have ensured that most activities in the past week have been indoor based, and mostly in the intimate cage of the hotel. Let me expose to you the kaleidoscope of distinguished and tarnished rogues who parade down the arcade of my current accommodation. My new room-mates for the weekend were made up of three Fusbal players, based in Napier and in their mid-thirties, who were all trialling for the New Zealand national team. One of them was an affable Kiwi, the other a stern and authoritative German (no surprises there then) and finally a festive spirited Brazilian, who used to play in midfield for the club team Corinthians in his native country. The Sao Paolo resident captured me one evening, quickly after my admission that I would be visiting his home resorts later in the year, and meticulously took me through album after tedious album within his laptop archive of photographs from his recent vacation in Paraty and scans of his city. His kindness and enthusiasm was admirable yet his amateur photography was utter rhubarb. I was more concerned as to where to direct my forlorn gaze as he had a disobedient glass eye which circled the room in great eagle swoops. I decided that the best place to focus on him was at the bridge of his nose so as not to offend him in any way.

The other guests at the hotel are a monstrous combination of drunks and connoisseurs of the contraband. They are hospitable enough, and my curtailed free spending has meant that during my daily browsing of the free wi-fi in the lobby in the evenings I have been subject to vocal abuse and daily taunts of "put down your PSP and come and have some Scrumpy with us" as they all conga down to a local den. Most encouraging of all is a mop haired Welsh man who looks and has the same staccato mannerisms as of Pippin from The Lord of the Rings. He is under continuous inebriation, swaggering his plastered frame from one plastered wall to another like the chiseled etching of Morten Harket in the final scenes of the 'Take On Me' video by A-Ha.

(Skip to 3:20 on the video - actually, just listen to the whole thing, it's a perfect pop song and my earliest music video memory: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_EXxMlIExpo).

'He is a fool, but an honest fool nonetheless', is the worthy assessment that Gandalf the Grey would probably reach on critique of his harmless character.

Another source of distant amusement is an English man, borrowing rich Ricky Gervais features (a bristly stubble to hide his chins and pudding hands) who described to me at length his journey to work on Saturday morning following a late night of birthday revelry. By his accounts, after waking in a zombie like state, he stayed on the bus past the construction building he was employed at and instead spent two hours amidst the moss and earth trying to search for mushrooms growing in a local park and placing the hallucinatory fungi in his top pocket for keeps. When he returned to the site, already three hours late, his supervisor assumed he had been working at the back yard all day and rewarding him with a newspaper of fresh fish and chips.

Gervais-lite and Pippin are close friends with a Pacifica guy called Sam, who has gotten arrested twice (for drunken behaviour) since I moved in. During the day he's calm enough, we've even chatted about PSP games in idle passing. He shares the same noble strain of innocence as Jonah, from Summer Heights High, when confronted about his actions when intoxicated by the devil's elixir.

I can imagine Sam's school years to be similar to this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wFVQD7Wadaw&feature=fvsr

However, my favourite character thus far has been the mute ogre, who resides in the secret pit of a bed opposite mine. We have not shared a word, nor have I heard him speak to anyone at all in the past few days. All that he divulges to the world is his symphonic flatulence which erupts into life when the curtains are drawn and he is in ignorant sleep. The brass band carnival of noise to an unprepared twilight is the reward for sharing a dorm with the viking assassin.


The job search, in its limited horizons has led me to a cruel rejection for a dishwasher hand at Great India restaurant on Courtenay Place. The much prized scalp of a role was taken earlier that day, much to my disdain. However, Rakesh, the Leicester born Manager, to his eternal credit, saw a sparkle in my eyes and offered me an improved full time job as a waiter / bar staff. I had to decline this fair proposal as my notice period was to be two weeks, which effectively would have meant that I'd have to resign on the second day of work. The lure of free lunch and dinner, along with the stalking scent of the tandoor was enough for me to contemplate the role for a few seconds at least.


Wellington's Botanic Gardens


Twelve days of non stop driving merciless rain continues and there isn't even enough space in between the rain drops to take a breath for clarity. My pale blue umbrella has been destroyed by the gusts and swept away any optimism that I had in my bow. Open to the storms I chased the bright red cable car up to the Botanic Gardens towards the summit of the city. The rattle of rain on the tarmac and on my brow did not lean well to the experience. I followed a meandering path and a gentle floral perfume to Lady Norwood's Rose Garden, which is regarded as the Pièce de résistance of the enclosure. On reaching the maze court I was left disappointed to see that the petals were lying dead and colourless on the dirty ground and only the thorns on the stems were in prominence.



Lady Norwood's Rose Garden, Botanic Gardens


Wellington Song of the Day: S-Club 7 - You
Romero, the Brazilian ex-Corinthians footballer showcased his abundance of musical zeal to room 404 at The Cambridge soon after giving me an extended showcase of his pictorial amphitheatre. His laptop playlist included too many upbeat songs for me to bear, but this sudden blast from my youth was enough for me to wink in appreciation. To his good eye, at least.

Indulge in the good times with the seven wonders of the entertainment world:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afd3FETvNYE


i-Pod Song of the Day: Pink Floyd - Wish You Were Here
This song stirred me a couple of weeks back in Mickey Finn's Irish pub, where a solo musician with an empty stare played to an empty stage as I tapped on an empty glass. His one saving grace to his exaggerated throaty crooning was this little interval from the bland, where his unaccompanied pickings to his acoustic guitar actually revealed some hidden charm from the Pink Floyd original. A sugar sweet episode referring to Syd Barrett and his eventual breakdown.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPm4GH3UUC8