I See Red (Red!)

Let’s talk blood.

It was the eighties, meaning Margaret Thatcher and bad haircuts. I was sporting a cross between an afro and a mullet, but I was young enough not to notice and my parents were kind enough not to point it out.

And it appeared. A little protein, spreading its microscopic nucleoli like tiny wings, ready to fly in the face of the pickets and punks. Its name was bovine spongiform encephalopathy, a mouthful to be sure. You might know it as mad cow disease.

England still shivers at its memory. I was too young to know, being more interested in discussing Princess Leia in a two-piece with my friends, but what would you expect, I was a kid in Churchend Primary School at the time. It just happens that the school was in Reading, England.

I grew up. My hair exploded into a curly mop, my parents kind enough not to point it out. Then we moved to New Zealand.

When I hit eighteen I went to a blood bank to do my civic duty and make a blood donation. I was denied. The following year I went back to the blood bank, my veins coursing with reddy goodness. Struck out, yet again. It became a tradition, my annual foray.

“I would like to donate my blood.” I would say.

“Oh lovely dear.” The nurse would naturally respond.

“But wait! If perchance I happened to have lived in England about a decade prior, would I be rendered ineligible from donating my otherwise healthy and much needed haemoglobin?”

“What, you’re saying you lived in England in the eighties?”

“More or less.”

“No. No you can’t give blood.”

“That is all. Thank you.”

For the record, I do not have a heart condition. I have never suffered from any chronic illness, exotic disease or biological agent. I don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, don’t even drink too much, all of which must make me morbidly boring on a night out.

But that isn’t exactly an infectious disease. Yet twenty years on I am considered a medical risk, a walking time bomb according to the good doctors who made this law. And all because I lived in England in the eighties.

Well I’m back in England and I hear they need blood. I’ve lost the afro, which is a shame. I blame my parents’ kindness.

New Zealand is…

“It’s a bit backward.” She said. “I mean, the music in the shops was terrible.”

I couldn’t but agree. They really should stop playing Hootie and the Blowfish in Hallensteins.

“And the clothes. I mean, really. I suppose if you’re a surfie it’s okay, but I mean, really.”

She was pigeonholing which I thought was a little unfair. I happen to know that skaties, and boardies also wear that Billabong and Rip Curl stuff.

She settled on about thirty years. Thirty years behind the rest of the world, meaning England. By her reckoning New Zealand is still trapped in the 70’s.

Now I’m a few years off thirty yet I reckon most of the good music had already come around by then. Baches are still a throwback from anywhere between the fifties and the seventies, and my best moments have been in them. Summers still are still oversaturated in Technicolor, and goody goody gum drops is still being sold in the dairies by the beach. The way I see it, what’s the problem?

I pointed out that we have changed. We have the Internet now. A recent thing, all very technical really. Perhaps I should just stick to watching Dukes of Hazard and M*A*S*H on the box.

We know Godzone ain’t perfect. Our roads are narrow and windy, and our options for the flashest building in our country is a toss-up between a phallic casino with a revolving restaurant and a bric-a-brac museum by the sea. There’s also the housing which really does need to change. In my Hataitai flat it was warmer in our fridge than the lounge.

But name me another place where you can swim during summer and snowboard during winter. Show me where I can collect mussels on the rocks for tea, or tramp down a river gorge just an hour out of town. You takes what you gets.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” she admitted, “I thought it was nice, but it’s still backward. Like thirty years backward.”

Too right. Party like it’s 1977.

Cities Exhibition, Tate Modern

I’m not normally the exhibitionist type, don’t you know. But I was sitting in Scooter Works, which seems to be the only cafe in London bar flat white that offers decent coffee, and I was propositioned by an Irishman.

“Yeeelliket.” He told me.

“Pardon?”

“YeellikethaTate.”

“Ah. Yes, certainly.”

So off I went with kiwi mate Steve. Kiwi mate Steve was walking with his Lonely Planet, which I made a fuss of. “Put it away,” I whispered. “We look like tourists.”

“We are tourists, you dick. Get over it.”

Tourists are, you see, vile hoards who invade foreign countries, complain about everything, block walkways, walk slowly, avoid traffic rules, and generally get in the way of normal people. Tourists are, in short, a pain in the ass.

A couple of years ago on the Tongariro crossing a British tourist was attempting conversation with us. “Aha, I spy this being Elvish country. Is Rivendell round the tussock?” I made the mistake by offering a polite smile in return. It seemed to set him off. “Perhaps the Hobbits are out in this Shire. I say! Mount Doom can’t be far off!” He continued his stream of Middle Earth verbiage, and before long I wanted to do the most natural thing possible. I wanted to throttle him.

And he’s not alone. I have it on good authority that DOC rangers are warned about crazy Israelis on their trails, fresh from conscription. There’s the Italians, who I hear treat everyone with contempt, and of course the Yanks. Like a coming storm, you hear them before you see them.

But the problem, the supreme irony, is that kiwi mate Steve is right. I am one of them; I am a snappy-happy, block the entrance to the escalator, gawk at everything tourist.

With shame I bought along my micro-sized Rough Guide, and sneak out my mini London A to Z. I steal away in corners and study it before whipping it back in my bag, careful to make sure no-one knows my dirty secret. I am a paradox and I am ashamed.

We made it to the Tate. We found it thanks to Lonely Planet, and the Cities exhibition was brilliant. It looks at urban life in different parts of the globe, London included. If nothing else, I discovered that there’s a fair chunk of kiwis doing the OE thing in London. Around 27,000 – the population of Timaru.

And hopefully not a single one speaks Elvish.

Frisky

What’s your best frisk? Travel for a while and you get used to the quickie, so for the record, here are my top four for 2007.

#4 Stone Town, Zanzibar

The lights were out in the Stone Town airport giving the formality that extra intimacy. The airport is not much bigger than a typical storefront. An open-faced building, you can literally sidestep from baggage check to airport taxes to immigration. It’s as quaint as the island itself.

The search was so light that it felt like the guard was brushing the dust off my shorts. My baggage also went through the same fate and was hand-searched so badly I wanted to make them do it again.

#3 Wimbledon, London

Worthy of small dictatorships, the security presence was phenomenal. I was selected for a random search and not only went through the complimentary x-ray and metal detector, but was treated to a bag search for about five minutes. “So, you do this often?” I asked the lady leafing through my journal. “Every fifth person.” She responded vacantly. So much for small talk.

By the by, it means that if you watched the tennis on the telly, one in five in the crowd was most likely sporting a dour expression. Something to look for in Wimbledon ‘08.

#2 Electric Ballroom, Camden Town

Hey hey, a surprise frisk. After waiting half an hour in line, I paid a tenner to get a ticket into the club. Three steps later a bouncer relieved me of the ticket and gave me a once-over. Typically I don’t like burly men feeling me up, but tonight it was service with a smile.

He spotted a book jutting from my coat. “Ya come ‘ere ta read?” He asked, pointing. “Birthday present. It’s a birthday present. It’s, uh, my birthday.” Smooth. He just stared a while, and then burst into laughter.

#1 Harare Airport, Zimbabwe

Technically not a frisk, but certainly a special occasion. I entered Zimbabwe and was promptly ordered into a tiny room for a random search. “Put you beg on de tebel.” The lady in the room instructed. I acquiesced, and asked what this was about. A standard check for illegal items, I was told.

“Such as..?” My anti-Mugabe books were safely in Pretoria, but my mind was running over anything that could be used against me. “Porn. Books, magazines. Do you have any porn?”

My God. I laughed and offered her my copy of Brave New World. I don’t think she saw the humour, but we ended up chatting and she taught me how to say ‘hi’ in Shona.

A queue was forming outside, unsurprisingly every white person in the plane was privy to random searches that day. Ndeipi everyone.

Transubstanti-what?

Let’s start with the bucket fountain.

A off-cast from a Fisher Price set, I’m sure the arty types would have some ponderously creative reason to justify why This Is Significant. Me? The sooner it’s melted into plastic benches the better.

Yet in 2001 Nick Ward gave us Stickmen, and had Paolo Rotondo staring at the edifice in admiration. And you know what? Looking at a piece of Wellington on the big screen, even at this garish plastic-fantastic, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of… significance. In that moment the humble fountain transubstantiated. It became an icon, and that’s what cinema does to you.

Zoom ahead. A couple of days ago I saw the new all-singing Matt Daemon flick. What got me was that Jason Bourne ended up running a lot.

I like running. What made it special however was that Bourne ended up running around Victoria Station in London. You see, less than forty-eight hours previous it was me that was running through Victoria Station. I had a different agenda involving a full bladder and no toilets on the National Rail from Esher, but it was me.

You recognise the little things: the concourse filled with commuters, the Oyster barriers, the escalators that seem to go on forever. For most Londoners this is the daily grind. Except in that darkened cinema, Hollywood had dropped by and had anointed the mundane. I was spell-bound.

Perhaps this is the religious experience for the twenty-first century. As for me, I’d arrived in Blighty earlier in the year after three months trekking through Africa. For better or worse, railway stations are now my life. I left Africa with a bullet-proof hide, like a merit badge for doing it solo in the third world.

Arriving in London I realised I was like a kid again, wide-eyed and unprepared for the big bad world.

Makes me miss Godzone. Wellington seems so quaint. A beautifully small town with a metro feel. Flat whites and eggs benedict at Brooklyn Cafe, jumping off the pier at Oriental bay. I never thought I’d burn for the place, but there you go.

And the bucket fountain?

As if. Incinerate.

Announcing blogs to be suspended on this site until further notice

Because they're being posted daily on stuff's website: http://www.stuff.co.nz/blogs/andrewfeltoe

Those of you who regularly visit my blog (and thank you for doing so) should visit me on the above address for the next week (or however long I stay in this competition).

Perhaps I'll do well, perhaps not. In either case this will be good for a laugh.

Tube Life

He stares at her and smiles. He speaks softly and she returns his words with a whisper. They hold hands and time disappears like a breath. Some movement, she leans over to him, and a hand disappears into a bag.

It returns with a toothbrush. He slips it in his mouth and begins brushing his teeth.
Not really my choice of next move but then again this is happening about two feet away from me on the tube to High Barnet. Yes, London. Yes, that tube.

The thing is it’s not even out of place. For every dozen commuters who understand the veil between public and private, you have one wretched soul who seems to be born without the little thing inside each person. You know, the thing that tells you other people might not appreciate you, say, singing in a crowded moving carriage. People call it a conscience.

Couple that with being trapped on the oldest underground transport system in the world. The council boasts about that little titbit as if you should compare the tubes to a fine wine or a mature cheese. It’s summer here, which means you’re trapped in the sweat and stale air of these subterranean tins. With no air-con, hustling for standing room, it ain’t exactly Pleasantville.

So let’s get a tally of what two months in Blighty’s tubes has given me: louts and drunks, which frankly are the best of the lot. Dozens – dozens of guys who decide to spread eagle just a little too wide like they’re on show. The obese man passed out over three seats, a sliver of drool running down his chin. The construction worker who pulls a three litre container from his haversack and slurps the mashy, meaty contents into his mouth. And we have our two lovebirds who find that intimacy is best enjoyed in a compartment with fifty strangers.

Back to our lovers then. The man has been smiling at the girl for a while, toothbrush sticking out his mouth. Bubbles of toothpaste threaten to escape his mouth. Coyly, she raises her bottle of Evian. “Water?” I hear her ask. He shakes his head and pulls out a bottle of his own. They share a laugh together.

Which means they also share it with me. If he has any smarts, he’ll get to second base by flossing.

Quick Update

I don't have time to write, so instead I'll link you to a few pictures.

Steve's moved up to England, so we hit a few tourist spots. I still remember walking the Tongirario Crossing and wanting to punch the British tourist who kept turning to us and exclaiming, "Oooh, there are hobbits here in this shire!" and words to that effect. Consequently, and not without irony, I dislike tourists.

Very lame touristy photos are here. Of note are the sculptures of people throwing up, spitting, and peeing. And they call it art.

***

The week's been so frantic that I've barely had time to process everything. Until yesterday, that is. On Friday I was so exhausted that I passed out on the Northern Line on the way back from work. A kindly lady woke me at the end of the line. "I think you have to get off the train." My eyes focused and when the world re-ordered itself, I found myself in High Barnet on an empty train.

So for my 28th, I had a quiet night in.

The following day I decided to do the loner thing and visit my old home in Tilehurst, Reading. I have heaps to say about it, but will leave that until later. Photos of those little places that I used to remember as a kid are here, although this will probably bore the socks off everyone aside my immediate family.

***

Finally, Blog Idol starts on Monday! I have yet to be given a link to it, but if all goes well, I'll be blogging each day somewhere on stuff.co.nz's website.

Surprise Stuff

Late one night I was visiting stuff and saw a little box called 'blog idol'. It was a competition, a blogging comp.

Skip a couple of weeks and it turns out my entry (and subsequent work) has earned me a place in the finals. Ho-hum, fame and riches await. It's a wonderful way of stroking my ego but it won't work unless two things happen:

1. Starting from next WednesdayMonday, I have to write a blog entry on Stuff's website each day.
2. Also, as it happens, next WednesdayMonday you have to visit my blog entry on Stuff's website and place your vote for me.

Fingers on your keyboards.

UPDATE: Due to a technical error on Stuff's site, we're starting on Monday. Go figure.

Gran

Gran summoned me to Hastings for a day.

A diminutive lady, her eyes still twinkle with intelligence. There’s almost sixty years between us, several lifetimes as far as I’m concerned, yet she remains spritely and alive. She talks and talks, and with ninety four years of memories I listen.

We sit in her lounge. She lives on the second floor of a block of flats by the sea. The Victorian chairs mix awkwardly with the wooden Rhodesian etchings of lions and elephants, but it seems to suit her awkward history of English and African.

In a month she has an appointment with the ophthalmologist. Or so she tells me. She has a distain for the medical profession. “Ave never been in a hospital, not once!” She tells me, and tells me again, and yet again throughout the afternoon. “Ah had all me kids at home. Even had ma teeth removed at home. The dentist gave me a wiff of chloroform and when ah woke me teeth were gone!”

Still, I can tell she is nervous about her visit. “The doctors tell me me right aye is dead, and me left is almost dead. I don’t think they know what they’re doing I tell ya, because I can still see from me right eye. Still, if I suppose if they can make them see better...”

This time we don’t go for a walk, but she pushes me out of the house after a few hours and tells me to have some fresh air. I’m grateful for the offer; four hours of conversation has left my head full of her memories, and I need some room for my own.

She won’t be put into a home, despite her daughter-in-law’s persistence. She speaks of Yvonne often. “I tell ya, she’d make a good Prime Minister. Every man would have ta do what she tells them.” More I should not say, other than it’s a clash of wills between a powerful and well-meaning woman of wealth and class, and a proud, stubborn, and slightly mad Geordie pensioner.

“It’s just that I canne read me books.” She returns to her eyes. “It’s an awful thing, getting old. I used to read but I always need me glasses and I now need a magnifying glass.”

Gran has an opinion on everything, and with a captive audience she tells me about her family, neighbours, and television (“The world’s gone mad! Mad I tell ya. I wouldn’t be surprised if it just ended!”). She talks of all “these foreigners” that have come to England, then tells me she prefers them to the English. “They’re ever so polite, not like English people.” Most of our conversations are about how disturbingly awful the world is becoming. I cannot argue with her.

I perk up when she tells me about Rhodesia. It was around 1956. Gran tells me about the adverts on the radio about a new colony, how the Government was telling people how beautiful the new country was, and how her and her husband decided to emigrate. “Fourteen days and fourteen nights on the Duke of Edinburgh. But we had muney then. We had a house by the seaside in Brighton. Six floors.” I press for her memories of Rhodesia and for a while she is lost in a better place. A two week journey down the west coast of Africa, and a three day ride on the coal train from Cape Town to Bulawayo. “Everybody was just so nice. It was so much better than England. Warm, you know.” I wonder what it must have been like, after the war, to travel through Imperial-controlled Africa with four kids in tow to start a new life.

She lost everything there. A son to madness, following a car crash; her fortune to bad debtors; and eventually when they returned to England, a husband to depression. She doesn’t dwell on it long, but the thoughts linger in the air. Her reverie snaps. Fifty years have since passed by. She is left with a one bedroom flat in St Leonards by the sea, a handful of relatives scattered around the world, and ninety-four years of memories with which to retreat within.

Respite

It’s taken a shade over two months, but I’ve finally found some work. Everybody tells me once you crack through the job market it becomes easier. We’ll put that to the test.

But for now I’m in a position I’ve wanted to be in for a long time. I’m working for a publishing company. The trouble is it’s at the bottom of a very long ladder. I’m the tech support geek; probably my least favourite role ever. But it’s a means to an end and if I were to be a little more honest I like the idea of being mobile, of accessing anyone in the entire organisation. I don’t feel like the kid fresh from school. Something inside has made me hungry and focused. The years in Unisys have thickened my skin and taught me a thing or two. It seems too that my time in Africa has strengthened me. I guess there’s nothing quite like exploring a continent on your own.

And part of me wishes I were back exploring Africa. One day.