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 22nd. 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.
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