An Update...

The poor old blog has taken a bit of a backseat of late. There are several reasons why I’ve not been on the ball. Settling into city mode may have been one, been in any city breeds contempt in my opinion. Its not like the last six weeks have been uneventful, anything but, its just I struggle to get enthusiastic about museum exhibitions, coffee, wind and unknown hobbit actors. Saying that, although these things are high priority in Wellywood at the minute, there is much more to Lonely Planets coolest little capital in the world.

It may have recently gained this accolade but you get the impression Wellington has been pretty trendy for a while, If I had have been on the ball I would have packed my backpack with the contents of a Marie curie shop at home and flogged them out the back of the motor on Cuba st. Most of the young crowd looks like a mixture of: Bowie (Ziggy stardust era) Dr hook…Captain hook…and Adam Ant.  Last week I saw at least three Brian Jonesalikes and at least twelve Dylanesque curly hair, ray ban sporting, uber trendy dudes. At home, this would probably annoy the hell out of me, for example. The Rolling Stones have probably tripled their lifetime’s earnings in the last five years with the royalties on the ubiquitous glittery, retro, lip toting t-shirts. It seems every kid wearing tight fitting trousers has to sport a ‘keif’ adorned loose fitting tee. Ask them one lyric from 'Street fighting man' and they’d struggle. In fact, half of these bastards probably think Mick Jagger is the name of a skip hire company or Charlie Watts discovered electricity.

Here in NZ's trendy capital however quirky fashion fits seamlessly with quirky fault line defined buildings, and an overriding art school atmosphere. There are more coffee houses than litter bins and each one of them is full, Wellingtonians love their kava and so they bloody should, being a barista here in Wellington is taken serious business. If kiwis could sort out their bacon, I recon the breakfasts here could be some of the finest on the planet.

Aside from falling into a city slicker lull, I’ve been writing a new blog…daily. Impressed with New Zealand’s vast array of fine craft beers I decided to take up the challenge of writing a daily tumblr blog for a year. With the hope of bringing some continued support to those affected by the Canterbury and Japan earthquakes. It possibly hasn’t taken off how I would have hoped, I’m probably not going to raise a penny but if one person follows a link to a donation site then it’s been worth it. Regardless of this it will still be a personal, humerous insight into some cracking brews. If you like beer I’d appreciate your comments and support….. Raise1glass.com

Life in Wellington as they say down here, has been “choice, bro.” Sharing a flat with a fabulous Canadian, an ever jubilant scouser and a classic comment making Dorset man (if there is such a thing) Dorsetolian perhaps…a bloke from Bridport, you get my drift. Simon’s beauties up to date range from…”are these chilies ok when they’ve turned red” or my personal favourite was during an overheard conversation about the news:

JEN: “ A man who worked as a human cannonball has died in the UK!”

SI: ”Oh yea…that’s terrible…..what was he doing at the time?”

I’ve had my faith restored in Americans after being introduced to two southern rebels spending there days in NYC and writing a fabulous blog about there times in NZ…http://brbnyc.wordpress.com/

Continued to be amused by a knife wielding Dane, and had my opinions of the chatting ability of Lancashire lasses galvanized. Although she recons she lives in North Cheshire…Tomato… Tomatoe I say.

Regardless of all this fraternizing one of the great New Zealand traditions I felt moved to write about in the last few weeks I posted separately below…A fantastic ever growing tradition that left me feeling rather humble.

As for now I’ve been joined by a fellow Yorkshireman its great to be able to say ‘put wood in’t hoil’ and to get an intelligent response. I usually get a painful expression and asked if I need a lie down. At the minute wee spending our time on New Zealand’s beautiful South Island, this country is continuing to dazzle and amaze me at every bend in the road….pictures and more scribbles to follow.

ANZAC DAY

I rose at 5am this morning. Today is ANZAC day. Intrigue, admiration and a sense of duty have propelled me from sleep. Typically it’s a damp Wellington morning as I step out. I head down Cuba Street, one of Wellingtons busier thoroughfares, it becomes apparent there isn’t another soul about. The silhouette of a broken shop manakin is the only human form that I share this ungodly hour with. Towards the bottom end of Cuba, others begin to appear. Couples link arms against the wind, heads down. By the time I reach Lambton Quay people are converging together. The familiar sights of a pre dawn modern city abound. A Bakery truck driver checks his delivery sheet; Joggers do their bit to wear down Wellington’s walkways. As Lambton begins to curve towards Molesworth and Parliament, the Hollow thud of an artillery gun stirs everything into action. What had been a precession of sleepwalkers now becomes a mass of people striding out to reach their destination. Every bird in the neighbourhood squawks into life as if they had been waiting for this confirmation of daybreak. I round the corner to see a mass of people stood silently in the breeze. These are the ‘dawnies.’ Men and women, young and old, representatives from many creeds and nationalities here to pay their respects to the fallen. I pick my spot towards the side of the crowd as a Turkish ambassador makes an address about the Gallipoli landings. As he finishes the crowd in front of me parts slightly. Two young women no older than 18 are making their way out of the throng, heading to the back. They carry in their arms an infant, each wrapped in pink ‘Dora The Explorer’ duvets. Following the service people part ways, head to work, head for breakfast, head back to bed. By the time I’m back at the flat many of Wellingtons inhabitants stir and awaken to enjoy their public holiday, some blissfully unaware or unconcerned of the vigil that has been held in their countrymans honour. 

..."Staying near a dock in Hawkes Bay...watching.."

I’m lying on fresh, crisp white sheets staring into space. The ceiling above me is split into six panels and each is as blank as the linen under me. One of them is completely smooth whereas the others have a cracked texture where the plaster has begun to peel. The room has a view out over Napier’s colourful rooftops and to the stark blue Pacific beyond. I am back in a hostel where just short of five months ago this whole Hawke’s bay adventure began. Yesterday I got sacked. Tomorrow I’ll be organizing my things, Saturday I’m at an 80th Birthday Party. Sunday I’ll be in the capital. My life has again swung, from that of a seasonal worker, in temporary work, and settled accommodation, to someone on the move, constantly planning ahead. The axe fell pretty suddenly, and before I knew it I was sitting around, watching TV whilst eating the lunch I had packed for the apparent working day ahead. It was 8.45am. 

As I sit and go through the emotions of the loss of a job and my sudden, abrupt, change of state, I can’t help but think about those people on February 22^nd. At 12.50 they where finishing their lunches, flicking through tonight’s telly listings, walking the dog, going to town to buy a gift. By 12.52 many of their lives where over, or changed insurmountably. I’ am not for one minute comparing my situation to the plight of those people in Christchurch. However, its made me realise, even more, that there are events in life that you can’t predict, and the twists and turns that come from those moments you just have to roll with. As John Lennon simply prophesized, “life is what happens to you while your busy making other plans.”

     As I lie here I notice, in this twin dorm room, there is a sound next to me. Another body is beginning to awaken. Constricted by a fear of waking this mystery person I look over. It’s a man, about my age. He too looks like he had too many last night, his arm flung over his eyes and his clothes scattered about the floor. What amazes me is I didn’t notice him when I returned after midnight, or worse he came into the room after me, and I never woke up. I try and asses his nationality by the tone of his snoring! He’s certainly not a German, his bag is too hastily packed and, the many Germans I have met on his trip find it too expensive to drink heavily in NZ. Going on the stench emitted by the pair of us, this guy has had a skinfull. He’s possibly of European decent. I stick with the generalization he is either British or possibly North American, although his traveling gear bears no signs of U.S  gaudiness or the ubiquitous Canadian Mountain Coop. This ridiculous CSI guessing game starts to wear thin and I tire of laying awake. As soon as I jostle, Lazarus sits bolt upright;

“Good morning” in a wonderful Irish lilt, the way he sounds you would think he’s been up five hours, had a jog, a refreshing swim, nice breakfast and is throwing a greeting to a fellow guest passing on the stairs. I reply in a muted, hung over tone but try and convey some positivity.

“what time would it be out there”

he quizzes.

The question amuses me, its as if in this tiny sleep box, time has stood still, while the rest of the world goes about its business. His name is Paul, we have a good chin wag, and decide its time to raise from the dead. He too took advantage of some drinks offers at a local Irish bar. Although I’m guessing, he didn’t sing ‘House Of The Rising Sun’ on the karaoke, with a Chilean, as I hazily recall. After straightening my self out, and re living the embarrassment of putting Eric Burdon to shame. I head into town, its well after midday. Today, I decide will be a day of great progress, all my clothes are in need of a good wash, I have 101 things to do, but first….Caffeine calls.