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

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

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

The Corridors Of A Blue Hotel

And now back to the capital city of Wellington, with only a few weeks left before striding further to more adventurous shores. I checked into The Cambridge Hotel, a dense grey building lurking in between a few substandard restaurants and local cafes on Cambridge Terrace. The Hotel, much derided in local terms due to the vagabond clientele frequenting its pub, has a 'backpackers wing' where the low lives are sheltered away from view of the moderate paying guests. The rooms are not so bad; impeccably high wooden beams and ceilings. There is graffitied and amended 1950's iconic posters pinned up on the walls to advertise the in-house deals on offer, there's also the added bonus of some curious looking erotica art hung proudly throughout each floor. The poster that caught my eye, in my current economic crisis, is that of eggs on toast for breakfast at The Cambridge Pub - annexed to the side of the hotel, for a wondrous $2. Thus far this week I have enjoyed this calorie and protein rich diet everyday at around ten in the morning, alongside the company of the local constructors and dead beat drunks whom at dawn already have a warm pint in their hands.



Wellington has had a turbulent past in regards to its geographical location. The tectonic plate movements of where the Australian plate rides over the heavier, but thinner Pacific plate has resulted in three major fault-lines running close to Wellington City. The last major earthquake was recorded in 1855, hitting the lofty heights of 8.2 on the Richter scale. Although a series of smaller undulations have been witnessed in the past hundred years, the population of the country hold their breath for the onslaught of another, long overdue, 'big one'. On Saturday night, I thought that I was in the midst of the predicted tremors as my bunk bed rattled violently to and fro. On taking off my night eye mask that I stole from my Qantas flight over (very Zorro) and removing my neon orange foam earplugs I was distraught to discover that the god of sleep was disturbed only by the nocturnal habits of two loathsome Welsh vulgarians, enraptured by the poisonous vipers of lust on the bunk directly above me. I decided to pack my rucksack - Rollerpig - first thing in the morning to escape the abominations of common decency and moved rooms down the hallway as the very fabric of my innocence had been torn.


Te-Papa entrance

Having made casual acquaintances with a southern country lad from England with the whimsically Dickensian name of George Baden Hugh Sulley, we opted to spend an afternoon to visit the much lauded Te Papa National Museum by the quay. The hugely enjoyable and interactive Te Papa, translated loosely from Maori as 'Our Place', was built relatively recently in 1998 and has a wealth of collections spanning over five areas: Art, History, Pacific, Maori and Natural Environment. The real jewel in the crown for those visiting is the preserved specimen of a captured female Colossal Squid, measuring 33 foot in height and having the eyes the size of a football.



Other highlights included a decorative display of 'pounamu' - the jade stone that holds much 'wairua' and 'mana' (spiritual presence and prestige), which increases with each passing of the emerald ornaments from generation to generation. The Maori believe that genealogy 'Whakapapa' connects people to one another and also to the natural world. A fascinating insight.


Meeting House in Te Papa (Te Hono ki Hawaiki)

After Te Papa's abundance of riches I walked up to the edge of the CBD to the Executive Wing of the New Zealand Parliament Building, named 'The Beehive' - an atrocious building conceived by the Scottish architect Sir Basil Spence in 1964. I took advantage of the daily free tours of the building so as to absorb the intricate workings within the government and the processes of developing state legislation. Murray, our soft faced and kind tour guide with a self proclaimed heavy dose of Alzheimer's disease, banished concerns of his mental state and successfully orientated the tour group down all the appropriate corners of the building. This included an extensive demonstration of the anti-earthquake measures of the structure, utilising 417 base isolators which effectively separate the building from its very foundations in the likely event of an upheaval from the surface of the earth. They should perhaps think about installing some of these base isolators onto my previous lower bunk at the Hotel.


Parliament - 'The Beehive'

Interestingly enough, the style of the debating chamber, including the pine green carpet and moss green chairs are direct reflections of the House of Commons in London. Murray was overly keen to address (on four separate occasions during the hour long presentation) that there are five Samoan members of Parliament at present (of the 122 in total). I'm still not overly sure of the significance of this, but it was pleasing to hear nonetheless, if only to make our elderly guide feel worthy of his role.

On to a more light hearted evening at the local cinema complex, where George (and all his elaborately embroidered affluent names) picked 'Iron Man 2' to watch in the comfort of an empty theatre. The verdict; not too bad and Robert Downey Jnr's instant on screen charisma ensured that it was totally watchable. In return I treated George to my favourite Sixth Form free period past time of 'Cinema Roulette' whereby after watching the initial film you paid for, you sneak into a random screen. You then have to take a seat and view whatever movie appears in its entirety. Our luck was in, as when we stealthily entered Screen 9 it was just starting to show some trailers and we were then rewarded with our patient and lawless game with a showing of Ridley Scott's Robin Hood. Russell Crowe's mythical character demonstrating all the merits of lawlessness, providing the poor with illegal provisions that we reflected with our own courageous game of chance.


Wellington Song of the Day: Fleet Foxes - Blue Ridge Mountains
As I sat amid the Sunday morning ambiance of the Olive Cafe on Cuba Street, I sipped my flat white coffee and was mesmerised by the smartie spectrum of glittering cakes behind the glass counter ahead of me that I could not afford to purchase as the baroque harmonies of the Seattle based indie-folk band's first album was playing softly in the background. This took my mind off succumbing to gluttony whilst the chorus of weekend babies crawling and crying ceased for only a few moments.

Fleet Foxes perform Blue Ridge Mountains on The Letterman Show - very Cold Mountain indeed:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dx7_Gmr4qMM

i-Pod Song of the Day: Josh Rouse - Rise
Josh Rouse's soothing voice and melodies usually put me to sleep, and I've never needed his songs more than this week. This is the last tune from his album 1972.

http://www.ilike.com/artist/Josh+Rouse/track/Rise

Should have caught a ride on a Brooklyn train / 30 years old and nothing's changed