Curtains.

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing."
Benjamin Franklin

Trouser jazz.

So, I started a new job this week. Being between jobs had started to wear thin and I've been glad of the distraction from the distractions of home life. I scored a job selling power tools and that with a company called Mitre10 at one of their superstores under the Mitre10 MEGA banner. Early 90s superlatives are not yet considered an outmoded style of speech in New Zealand, so any waggish comments I made about the name to my new colleagues were met with politely disguised bewilderment or thinly veiled disapproval. Nobody likes a smart arse in the home improvement domain, it seems. It's been good though. I've learnt about all kinds of hypothetical DIY and some things that make sense too. My colleagues are, in the main, good humoured and middle aged. As you might expect, the footfall ratio of glamorous young ladies is rather slight. This leads to very unbecoming, lingering, wanton yet wistful looks from my direction and, as such, is inevitably not helping my only feasible route to a work permit - namely, to shack up with a Kiwi chick. Indeed, lecherously staring at women can be detrimental to many aspects of one's freedom. Erm, perhaps this would be a good time to change the subject...

My meal of the week: Steak & Kidney Pie cooked by the Old Man.
In the continuation of the Offal Series of Meal Favourites, this week's entry is an all-time, World-beating, piping-hot, stone-cold classic from the land of hope and glory. The Old Man's always had a deft hand with a rolling pin, shallow dish and gravy-based stew. This offering was certainly no climb-down from the exacting standards of old and I covetously hid the last slice to have for my lunch the next day. But I still haven't rid my system of the offal cravings. There is a pack of kidneys in the freezer which are slated to get their comeuppance in a devilled sauce for my supper on Wednesday. I have to keep these organ-ic desires to myself though. Every time I mention the 'O' word in public jaws drop, lips curl, eyes bulge in horror. Must-be-getting-on excuses are hurriedly made. Offal and staring does not make me look good in the eyes of New Zealanders.

My CD (*spit*) album of the week: New Orleans Jazz - a 1984 BBC comp of 1920s classic amazingness from shellac 78s, digitally remastered.
With early offerings from Louis Armstrong's Hot 7, Earl Hines, King Oliver, Celestin's Original Tuxedo Orchestra with genius multi-instrumentalist bandleader Oscar 'Papa' Celestin, the clean-living virtuoso clarinetist Johnny Dodds and his debaucherous brother, a innovating master of syncopated drumming, 'Baby' Dodds. I can't hear this incredible, urgent, musically super-accomplished collection of standard hot jazz tunes and songs enough. The tracklisting is pretty much a who's who of dixieland, and that's before I mention the Original Dixieland Jazz Band (often billed as the 'Creators of Jazz') and Jelly Roll Morton (the confidently self-proclaimed Originator of Jazz). I guess you either love this type music of music or you find it rather tiresome, even twee. I think this sub-genre still has relevance in today's musical melting pot (or quagmire depending on your viewpoint). The rhythmic mastery of the musicians and their playful interlinking has rarely been equalled in the 80 or 90 years since the recordings were made. I think this period of New Orleans jazz was when jazz was at its very best. Well, it's my favourite anyroad. Its characteristics are comparable with those of the pioneering whisperings of hip hop. The two genres were intellectual and urban, serious yet often playful, highly popular with swathes of the youth and always unashamedly anti-establishment. Black American music has a history of being one of very few outlets of expression available to the people it was made by and for. But I don't want to get side-tracked... Where was I... At the time of the earliest of jazz records, the limitations of the available recording techniques were such that tracks could not be more than about 3 minutes long. This was due to 10-inch 78rpm records simply running out of room on the side. This technologically enforced time limit seems to have directly influenced the mood of the jazz recordings, making them more upbeat and succinct. When you hear this music it is no leap of imagination for one's mind's eye to picture the lively bars and brothels of the New Orleans 'Storyville' red-light district, its patrons jumping and jiving on the dance floor. A far cry from the "mmm, nice" beard-stroking wankers of more recent times, standing at the back of the room with soft drinks, clicking fingers in preposterous time signatures. By way of demonstration, below is a link to Youtube of a recording of King Oliver and his Dixie Syncopators, made after Oliver's move from N'awlins to Chi-Town in the '20s. Oliver remains one of the finer exponents of any type of music in any time in recorded history, in my humble opinion. He also made up a really very cool name for his band. Enjoy, jazzcats... It's some cut and paste bidness, yo. But worth the extra couple of mouse clicks, intit.

King Oliver and his Dixie Syncopators - Snag-it

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wFcfIoyOaxQ&feature=related

Wat-er week it's been...

This past week's adventuring highlights have been two kayak excursions on the Queen Charlotte Sound.

The first time was last Sunday in unseasonably warm sunshine with not a whisper of a breeze. I went with my Ma & Pa. Also, their friends Paul the sheep farmer (qv) and his wife Muff (yup, I know. But nobody seems to mention it so I won't either) joined us and a 16-year old Austrian trainee farmer called Hannes, who is staying with them for a busman's holiday. We saw a herd of fur seals basking on the rocks. They weren't at all bothered by us so we could get really close to them. But not for long - their stench being rather high. Two slid into the water to get a closer look at us and were playful and curious. Fur seals grow to a large size (a very stout 5ft or so) and look like plump, flippered dogs with their large eyes, pointed snouts and quizzical expressions. It was a rare, truly humbling moment of mutual interest between man and beast. Or, indeed, beast and beast as Richard Dawkins et al would have it.

One could imagine the unsportingly easy targets they would have made for hunters in the days of yore, pre-Marine Mammals Act. They were hunted firstly by the Polynesians, who arrived sporadically until around 1300AD before developing into the distinct Maori culture, who ate the seal meat. Then, they were killed in truly vast numbers, indeed to near-extinction, for their pelts and blubber oil by European sailors in the 1800s. Happily, they are thriving once again due to the introduction of more palatable foodstuffs, Gore-Tex clothing and the electric lightbulb.

Entertaining as they were, the seals couldn't really compete for my attention with the unmistakable gliding arcs of two dorsal fins surfacing a few hundred metres away. As fast as my little arms could paddle me, I tried to head the common (that's their species name, not a reflection of their enjoyment for The Jeremy Kyle Show or the music of Simon Cowell's underlings) dolphins off at the pass. But it soon became obvious that they are rather more manoeuvrable in water than I. Like the seals though, they seemed to be quite curious about the wildlife botherer in the red canoe and didn't disappear straight away. Rather, they toyed with me, swimming rings around me, letting me think I was getting nearer before appearing again elsewhere. They did take pity on me though, just before they vanished for the day. They came up about 20ft away from me before one of the pair shot underneath me, just below the surface, clearly visible and indescribably graceful. It actually took my breath away. I can't say that about many things in life. Although it did also happen in a rugby PE lesson when I was elbowed in the nuts, but those circumstances were less pleasurable.

The second expedition was yesterday. Obviously, I was keen on another dolphin encounter but it wasn't to be this time. Ma, Pa & I stuck the boats in Maxine The Very Useful Van. A kayak for me and a blow-up dinghy with outboard motor for them. It wasn't so warm as last weekend and was cloudy with a slight chilly breeze, but no matter. As we were getting afloat we spotted a couple of fur seals close to the shore with their rear flippers waving above the water, duck-diving for something-or-other tasty. When they saw us they came straight over to say hello. Then, across the water of the bay, we spotted a rather excited cloud of seagulls wheeling, diving and swooping close to the water. I ventured over for a closer look and it turned out that it was a seal dining club getting their munch on. A dozen or so were working together, rounding up shoals of fish towards the surface. When the poor little fishies had nowhere left to swim, the seals would launch themselves from below, coming up through the shoal, often jumping out of the water with their lunch vainly struggling between the jaws of defeat. As I got even nearer, the seals, having eaten their fill and the gulls having disbanded, were now more concerned with the red, plastic floaty thing they had seen last week. Some individuals turned out to bolder (or perhaps just curiouser) than others and came almost within touching distance, snorting for breath as they popped their heads up to have a look around. They didn't seem in the slightest bit threatened and I just sat there while the oddly slithery sea-dogs became most intrigued with the small black rudder at the stern of my kayak. I suppose they might have thought it a fin, like one of their own. But then again, the bright red colour of my boat should have betrayed the fact that I wasn't one of their Pinniped brethren. It occurred to me that seals might not be the most intelligent of creatures. Nevertheless, by the time Ma & Pa had inflated their dinghy and motored over to join us, the seals' interest had not been exhausted and they continued to splash around the two boats for nearly an hour. My Mum thought this was wonderful (well actually, it really was) and talked to them like they were newborn nephews and nieces ("Ooh! Hell-oooooo!") whenever they bobbed about near the dinghy, sussing us out.

I'd like to go back on the next clement day, to see if they're still there. Apparently they are not perennially present and are rarely in these parts of the Sounds at this time of year. Perhaps they're hiding from some particularly ferocious orcas or something. Whatever, I'll have to try to make the most of them while they're here and will take a camera in the boat next time. Perhaps even some fish-flavoured bribes...


On a different note...

My meal of the week: Rognons Turbigo cooked by the Old Man.
This was an old family favourite when my siblings and I were in the proverbial short trousers. It is a kind of French peasant-style stew of sausages twisted into little round mini-sausages, kidneys, onions and a lovely thick gravy with white wine and sherry in it. With mash and leeks. Yummm! It rekindled my adoration of all things weird in the world of meat - the offally good titbits generally eschewed by the Kiwis, more so even than the Brits. Down here, kidneys, liver (called 'fry' as in lamb's fry), oxtail ('beeftail'), pig's trotters (these probably haven't even been graced with a name) etc are seen as barely fit for the dog's dinner. Resultantly, they are amazingly cheap and are being bought in giant, freezer filling-sized quantities by me and the Old Man. On tonight's menu was liver & bacon, which we scoffed with fried onions, mash, greens and the all-important gravy. We were going to have roast pork but that can wait till tomorrow. Somehow, roasts always seem to taste better on a Monday anyway.

My book of the week: Once Were Warriors by Alan Duff.
You may have seen the powerful and successful 1994 film of the same name, which seemingly kick started the then-modest worldwide interest in New Zealand cinema. It has certainly become a universally recognised and culturally important reference point for the country's youth, despite its fearsome subject matter. Having now digested both formats, I prefer the book. I usually prefer 'the book' to 'the film', whatever it happens to be. As is the case with literary/cinematographic translations, the book affords the reader the time and mental space to use his imagination to the advantage of the story and its message; a privilege not often extended to film viewers. In this case, the film could be conceived to work against itself by showing violent scenes mostly absent in any graphic detail from the book. Violence so evidently despised by Alan Duff. When writing, he didn't want his important and valid themes to be belittled by cheap thrills or titillation. A danger for any serious filmmaker is that the original point of his including violent or otherwise horrific scenes could be robbed of its gravity by that oft-banded word 'gratuitous'. One successful example of brutal cinema - although not adapted from a book - being very effective is French director Gaspar Noé's Irréversible. It is the most shockingly violent film I have ever seen but I would defy anyone who has managed to watch it to its conclusion to say that it glorifies violence in any way. However, for a director to expect viewers to recognise the wrongs in these celluloid actions and situations would be dangerous. In Irréversible, Noé is successful but he is in a tiny minority. The scenes in question must not be misconstrued as acceptable by the "go on! hit 'im!' mob mentality of cinema audiences. Nor by the lone home viewer who might have a rather 'head-on' approach to confrontation. Please don't misunderstand me: I do not think that films are directly responsible for the violent actions of viewers but I do think they can exacerbate the sometimes blurred boundary between respect and fear. That said the film adaptation of Once Were Warriors is excellent and effectively delivers some hearty food for thought. But the book is even more "hard-hitting" and ruthlessly "uncompromising" than the sometimes hard-to-watch film. The story portrays a Maori family blighted by the poverty/violence cycle which almost always affects societies marginalised by the oppression of another race. It is not a pleasant book. It is not supposed to be an easy read. It uses bad language to a point which would damage the book's credibility were it not for the fact that this really is how the characters would talk. The author is careful not to cheapen the weight of his hammer-blow first novel by the family's situation appearing inconceivable in any way. He finds himself in the most unusual position of being almost un-criticisable due to the book being excellently written, subtly structured and wince-inducingly real. Indeed, upon the book's release a Maori reviewer was so incensed the by the chapter 'The Visit' that he could no longer continue reading. He later said that it mirrored his own childhood experiences to a degree which was unbearable for him. Duff is, of course, himself a Maori. Were he not, the book - had it even made it to print - would have surely (and rightly?) become a symbol of racial hatred in the same way that Salman Rushdie will never be forgiven by the Muslim community. As it stands, Duff has been lauded for his bravery in pointing a brutally raw and honest finger at his own kind. Once Were Warriors is a very powerful book. It is pertinent not only to the Maori people but to each and every of us who are concerned with society as a whole. I recommend this book extremely highly indeed. Just don't be tempted to watch the film as an easy alternative to facing up to some nasty truths about human nature.

Must try harder.

You know how sometimes you feel like doing something? Something which takes a bit of effort but which you enjoy doing, provided it turns out all right? And so you do it and it all turns out dandy; you're glad you made the effort and happy with with the result? Yes? But then other times you feel like you should do that same something but your heart isn't really in it? So you give it a go anyway but are glad only that you made the effort as opposed to being glad at the resultant outcome? You know, yes? And there're also the times when you really don't want to do that something? However, you make yourself do it and you dislike the outcome and you feel bitter at having wasted the time? So then you dig your heels in and don't bother with that something for a while? Still with me, yes? Oh, I'm being vague am I?

This blog is my 'something'. I haven't wanted to update it for a while - reason stated above. Every time I wrote a draft it read badly and sounded miserable and I deleted it. Chronicling my Radventures became something I dreaded. Indeed, a self-slung millstone cutting into the back of my neck. I wanted to use an albatross analogy here, especially as New Zealand is home to the globe's northernmost colonies of these weighty flyers. But I haven't read Coleridge's best-known work and was wary of missing a glaring flaw in the comparison. Anyway, in acknowledging my desire to combat the aforementioned vicious cycle I sat down an half an hour ago and tap-tap-tapped and delete-delete-deleted away until a promising start revealed itself. Feeling better already.

Recently, I must confess to having felt rather Eeyore-esque: It's winter (albeit a bit warmer now); I can't get a job (that's can't, yes. I won't be granted a Work Permit - exonerating me from the shackles of my Working Holiday Visa - unless I find an accredited employer who is willing to pay little unskilled old me way over the average wage. NZ$55,000 since you ask); I miss my friends (well, anyone under 50 actually); I'm stuck in a cultural wilderness (local am-dram and YouTube do not count) listening to my parent's "conservative" record collection; I wear overalls most days because I have precious few clothes, and also because I hold most of my conversations with a chainsaw and a selection of felling axes these days. It wouldn't do to wear a blazer and tie, they'd think I was soft.

On the plus side: It is very satisfying to cut up wood; I have taken log-stacking to levels of precision which would reduce an OCD-ridden Swiss to cold sweats; I'm learning how to make stuff out of wood; I get to drive my Pa's ute to collect more trees to cut up; I get to destroy my parents' garden under the pretext of 'clearing the weeds'; I don't have to pay for beer.

The hope is that the more regularly I update this blog, the better I'll feel and the less I'll mind about my sloppy prose- and graceless grammar-based insecurities. With a modicum of good fortune I might even feel like I'm making some progress in these disciplines. Being as I now am a gentleman of enforced, impoverished leisure I propose to sit myself down in this manner on a weekly basis. If fortuitousness abounds, I may actually feel happy with the results.

High time for pie time.

I have been slacking, there can be no denying it. I could run off a list of excuses of why I don't have the opportunity or inclination for regular blogging but I'm sure you don't want to hear them.

Anyway, following on from my last post, I have responded to the overwhelming number of requests for a pie blog. I hope that the 3 of you who wanted it are not disappointed. Jon, sorry that you were outvoted. I will endeavour to chronicle Maxine's erstwhile adventures in due course.

If you haven't already seen it, you may like to click on www.piesofnewzealand.blogspot.com

Rain stops play.

Waves of drizzle pitter-patter in from the ocean, swirl through the deco streets like graveyard ghosts. The colourful, characterful harour town of Whakatane becomes enveloped and greyed by the ragged shrouds of wind and water.

Autumn yawns, stretches its arms, rubs its eyes. The usually clement Bay of Plenty warily, wearily regards the approaching season as one might a cantankerous landlord calling last orders. Enjoy your final glass of fun in the sun people; closing time draws ever nearer.

Glorious blues, greens and golds are shrugged of by the beaches to make way for their woeful wintry wardrobes of miserable monochromes. The steely sea and sky shuffle and swirl in uneasy unison like emos at a shoegazing gig. Not 10kms offshore the enigmatic Moutohora or Whale Island is veiled like a curvaceous belly dancer. Coyly, she waves away the adventurous imaginations of would-be explorers, their idle musings kept to themselves until a fairer day.

The weather is the coercive nudge I need to get me into the cyber extortion centre: An hour's internet usage costs the same as a glass of chilled premium grog, and in warm sunshine the choosing of beer over bits and bytes is a no-brainer. Ergo, I am behind with this blog but expert at watching condensation trickle merrily down cold glasses on hot days.

Indeed, there is much for me to tell you about since my last post from Marlborough over a month ago. Too much for me to tackle in one post (and I daresay too much for you too) and too much to warrant keeping things in chronological order.

So... I'll get all interactive on your arses and let you decide what to tell you about next! Below are 3 subjects - contenders for the topic of the next post. Please leave a comment on this post with your choice and I shall accordingly prepare the next installment.

The choices are:

1. What we've seen, me and Maxine - Road-trip adventuring around North Island with Sicky and Prev & Cat.


2. Weatherproof in Warkworth - Kirsten & Tim's wonderful watery wedding


3. Pies of New Zealand - a "pie-ary", if you will, chronicalling my love affair with the Kiwis' national snack and the thrilling quest to find Badcliffe's Supreme Champion Pie of New Zealand.

Fingers on keypads, audience. Please vote now...

Maxine's warm-up

My good friend Will (aka Senor Enfermo Puerco) arrived a few days ago so we decided on doing a small road trip as training for the big one. We set out on Friday (Waitangi Day - a big deal public holiday that no-one really seems to know what it's for except that a treaty was signed between Maori and whities and there's always been rioting but this year there wasn't and the government was really pleased, read: relieved) lunchtime from my olds' place near Havelock and went to Nelson, stopping for pies and paddling at Pelorus Bridge. Nelson is a big town by NZ standards (pretty pokey by other) but rather picturesque with quite a few art deco buildings and a high density of attractive young ladies. We found a campsite of dubious legality in the car park of the City of Nelson Highland Pipe Band Inc. We had picked up a quantity of greenshell mussels in Havelock to eat that night and dined al fresco on moules marinieres with bread, butter and a crisp Sauvignon Blanc.

We then went into town to The Vic pub and got heartily pissed on Mac's (a local brewery) Sundance (a summer beer with lemongrass in it) and I think I might have nearly unwittingly offended a young Maori lady. It was all fine though - she was drunk too and I squirmed my way out of it before long.

The next morning we were treated to an early close-proximity bagpipe practise that we took as a sign for us to leave the Highland Pipe Band's car park.

We met my parents for brekkers at Lambretta's and had what Kiwis let pass for a full breakfast (Oh okay, I admit it was excellent. But no beans or black pudding?!). Then we weighed anchor and made for Golden Bay, at the northernmost tip of South Island. It took a few hours but the views along the way were stunning.

When we got to Golden Bay the views were still stunning, which was nice. We pressed on though, heading for Wharariki Beach of which we had read good things.

We got to an unsealed road (a stoney track to you and me)and drove for 6km to a car park. We had driven as far as it's possible to drive northwards on South Island. Then we got out of Maxine (she's the van by the way - I'll introduce you later) and walked for 2o mins through fields with haphazardly shorn sheep, through woods that crackled deafeningly with cicadas, through sea-grassed dunes edged with windswept trees. Then we got here.

Choose your own adjectives please - superlatives are inadequate for me. The pictures don't do the place the slightest justice. So I took the video but that didn't do it either. I think that Wharariki Beach is one of the most amazing places I'm ever likely to go, certainly that I've ever been.

Overnighting isn't allowed in the beach car park so we found a secret hideaway off the unsealed road and made spaghetti with courgettes and onions in a cream, garlic and white wine sauce.

On Sunday morning, we had a quick look here as it was just around the bluff from Wharariki.

Did you see the cows on the clifftop? I wonder how many have peeped over the edge only to find they can't fly or swim. See the sealions basking on the rocks below? Here, I'll give you a slightly closer look...

Then we started back to Havelock but stopped here (below) for a look at the Pu Pu Springs.

They are the clearest body of fresh water outside Antarctica and a very sacred Maori site. They are also very special for the Department of Conservation who manage the site they're on. The clarity of the waters is quite astounding, indeed a 3m pool will appear only 1m deep due to the light refraction only possible without the usual murk. The DoC have recently banned any human contact with the waters (you used to be able to swim there and by God did that water look inviting under the scorching sun ) in order to try to stop the influx of the Didymo bacteria (or 'rock snot') which is the scourge of South Island's waterways. Didymo rapidly spreads on human skin or equipment and clogs the waters, choking the wildlife and unbalancing the delicate ecosystems. To put it mildly, the DoC are bricking it: Didymo is only 3km away in the Takaka River. A lone lady from the DoC was there to "chat to people about why the waters are closed to people". She was helpful, friendly, cheerful and was very delicate in her approach to enforcing the non-contact. I couldn't help but think how different things might be if the springs were in the UK. They would probably have been patrolled by private security firm monkeys with mock-cop uniforms keping visitors behind a fence several metres away.

There end the exciting bits of our jaunt, apart from the views from and weather on our return journey but you've seen the best bits already.