London calling!

A new beginning

2007-11-11T12:08:00.001Z

I'm excited, and so should you, because this is the end of my blogspot site.

According to the stats I've thrown 45 posts up here since I arrived in London in May. Of course as travel moves to the mundane and as live begins to settle into more natural rhythms it's become less of a travel piece and more of a settling down phase of life, but c'est la vie, that's just what I've needed after a year of travel.

I don't consider myself a sojourner anymore. England is as much a home as Cape Town and Wellington. Perhaps I ought to consider myself privileged, that I can boast three homes and not one, three cultures and not one single one.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. This isn't the end, but rather another start. A new home, new relationships, and new adventures call for a new way of writing. My friends Elliot, Simon, Steve, and Ingrid have decided to combine forces. We've launched a new little world for ourselves on the ether called www.fifteenminutes.co.nz where we'll be posting together. These are some fantastic people from different walks of life.

So while I've had a great time here, like my journeying this year it's time to move on. Come join me on my new site.

Dawn

2007-10-11T20:01:00.000+01:00

It was still dark when I went for my run this morning. The mist that had settled for the night was slowly waking and rising from the grass as if the Earth was breathing frosty breaths. Some people enjoy sunsets, and who can blame them, but I have a thing for sunrises.

The air outside is sharp, and each time I inhale I feel a stab of chill enter my lungs. It's half past six and the world around me is in limbo. Night has not yet given up its grip and seeks to hold tighter as the days grow shorter, but dawn valiantly fights to break through the darkness.

My hands shake with the cold and I ball my fists to ignore the pain. Although my legs are stiff they lumber forward in rhythm. The dance is simple and they know their pattern without prompting. I glide along the pavement and cut through to the path beside the river. My legs guide me as my mind travels elsewhere. I too am in that place between dream and wake. Ghosts of friends miles and years apart visit me here, and while I am still entranced I entertain them.

Most of my morning runs have an otherworldly feel about it. The potholed path, overhanging branches of a tree, all become silhouettes of black on black. Soon the sky turns from its inky black to a profusion of violets and oranges as the world begins to wake. The explosion of colour to the east creeps across the sky and soon it is a freshly washed blue. A miracle each day.

The world of people and houses and trains now appear. Planes cut thin white scars in the sky overhead. No matter when you look, there's always a plane arcing across the sky. Suddenly I'm back in London.

It's half hour on when I turn the corner, and my terrace house is a block away. In hundreds of thousands of homes kettles will be boiling and showers showering. Soon the tubes will be awash with coats and jackets, limbs and torsos, clambering for their square foot of standing room. And as London winds into another day there is a glow in me that I can't help but feel. For just thirty minutes I had escaped and made it into another world.

The other game

2007-10-07T18:00:00.000+01:00

My ears were ringing after leaving the Sports Cafe Saturday arvo. If nothing else the Brits are passionate about their team, but I’m not sure if they put a lot of faith in their boys.

On opening they drunkenly sang “God save the Queen” in unison with the telly. The swell of voices rose in the air until you were swimming in baritone. I never really understood the passion about a song requesting divine intervention for an already spoilt granny. I have my own Gran to look after who needs a little more help than Elizabeth R.

Still it was rousing to hear. This was monarchic hegemony at work but no-one seemed to care; it’s the way these things slip through unnoticed unless you’re looking in from the outside. Dan and I however were standing in the middle of the throng of white and red and couldn’t have had a louder spot in the bar. We stood our ground.

These English wore their hearts on their sleeves. Each time an English boot sent the ball into the Australian twenty-two the Brits would go wild, as though their boys had hit a milestone. Then would come the choruses of ‘Swing Low’ which drowned out the Australian heckling.

Of course in eighty minutes they didn’t make it across the line once, and unsurprisingly they played the Northern hemisphere game making their boot do the talking. Toward the end the heckling from the aussies became fevered. The whistle blew for full time and a bomb went off in the bar. The crowd erupted, and I mean that literally, in joy. Screams of ecstasy and jubilation filled the four walls. Arms were raised in victory, and groups of hardy men were crying and hugging and then crying some more. It was gaudy and superficial and joyous to watch.

And like turning off a switch we walked out the Sports Cafe and into Piccadilly to see the England of busses and commuters rushing from one deadline to the next. It was a London that went along with its humdrum, oblivious to the microcosm of happiness just meters inside.

Take your queue

2007-10-01T13:33:00.001+01:00

England has been one of the world's greatest empires, and what does it have to show for itself? I'll tell you; it's the queue.

If you go by the numbers you'll find it's the most popular pastime in Alton Towers, England's largest theme park. Of the six hours spent in the park, about five and a half were spent as part of a giant human snake on the way to some or other ride. For the record, twenty minutes were spent at lunch, leaving about ten on the rides; something they don't exactly tell you on the brochures.

In fact most of your Alton Towers experience will be spent staring at the hairdo of the guy in front. The wrinkled lady with husband and two kids on the way to Oblivion sported a kitsch post-punk black and blonde number, and all I could do was think to myself if only I were that hip. My favourite of the day, however, was the ginger Goth with trademark black dyed hair and about two inches of orange regrowth. It was as if joy was sprouting from his body in defiance of his self-imposed gloom.

There were signs posted to remind patrons of the rules of the queue. It's quite unnecessary, queuing is quite the thing to do in Britain, and once you’ve spent any time in this country you resign yourself to it. On the way to the Electric Ballroom in Camden Town a few months ago a group of kids tried hustling into the middle of the line. They were initially met with dirty looks and a few sneers. "They've gone and pushed in!" said one lot of queuers. "Oh how rude!" another remarked and so on. But in the way of British sensibilities it took several minutes for anyone to actually confront these guys and tell them where to go.

Before Kiwis can make judgement, I'm constantly reminded that England is a different beast. At a tenth of the population, New Zealand can't scrabble enough souls together to form a decent queue. In New Zealand if you get more than a dozen folk waiting for something we call it a buzz. It’s a novelty. Oxford Street on a Saturday afternoon on the other hand is a ten thousand person scrum.

I blame immigration. Everyone else does too. They complain about the Indians and Jamaicans, then of the Nigerians and Eastern Europeans and thanks to their recent entry into the EU, the Poles have invaded. I've heard this talk in every country I've lived in so it's a matter of winding up the cracked record yet again. Most of these complainers, like their counterparts in New Zealand, South Africa, and Australia, suffer from short term memory.

Where else would you go if you were a part of an empire settled by the pasty white guys from an Island nation, ruled by a foreign monarchy who has never bothered to visit? When your chips are down and for generations you've been told about the exploits of the glorious British Empire, is it any surprise that its overseas subjects are now flocking to the motherland?

So you get immigrants. Lots of 'em, heading to England in an Aesop's fable of sowing and reaping. After a while you get crowds. And when you get crowds, along comes rules and rule-makers and rule-enforcers. To allow for so many, a sense of order needs to be created and this doesn't happen naturally. You have taxes to take from the former in order to support the latter, and when the dust has settled you discover that between the pyramids and the towers, the pinnacle of measurement of any great society has become the humble queue.

***

More pics of Alton Towers can be found on my Flickr account. Also there may be some news concerning this blog. Don't get all tizzy just yet but in the spirit of community I may be joining forces with a few other like-minded folk online. More later.

Snowdonia

2007-09-17T16:49:00.001+01:00

You have to admit there’s a difference between this:

And this:

Do you see it? That’s right. The first is the second largest mountain in New Zealand. The second is the second largest mountain in Britain. I went off to climb the latter a few weeks ago.

Don’t tell anyone, but I was secretly setting myself up for disappointment. My housemate, however, was eager for me to see Wales. She was probably more keen to see the Snowdonia ranges than I was. But my goodness when I got there it took my breath away.

I had always put Britain into two neat boxes. The first is the Britain of cities, of grimy brick terraces and grey-upon-grey, of satellite dishes, concrete and graffiti. If brick is your thing you can head to thousands of places that would do it for you. The other Britain is its antithesis. Quaint but boring countryside, hedges, vegetable gardens and greenhouses.

Snowdonia is neither. Here, mountains are still mountainous, climbing is still sweaty, and the view is still amazing.

Of course I have to take the latter on faith. Driving rain was stinging against my face as we headed to the summit. Visibility was also cut to twenty meters, but we all know this makes the trip that much more fun.

Thankfully there was some respite from the rain, so some photos were taken. Pictures tell a thousand words, so here are a few to whet your appetite.

Each peak is about a kilometre above sea level which means you're hitting alpine. Also, there is no such thing as DOC markers, so your trusty map and compass is all that you have going for you.

We spent three days in the ranges, possibly the three best days I've spent in Britain since I got here.

And there's now going to be a sequel. In under a month I'll be heading to the Lake District to climb Scafell Pike, the highest peak in England.

I can't wait.

PS: Far too many photos of Snowdonia are posted on my flickr site for your envy.

And out.

2007-09-13T07:21:00.000+01:00

Goodness, who'd have thought?

I didn't win the Blog Idol competition, but I was runner up. Can't say I'm apathetic to it all, after several weeks of late nights there's a tinge of disappointment.

But it's over now, which means I can finally try and return my focus on settling into England.

Thanks to everyone who supported me with your emails and your votes. I couldn't have gone this far without you. And to the old friends who came out of the woodwork, thanks as well, and it was a pleasure to re-meet you.

As for me, I'll be placing my blogs back where they belong. Right here.

The final curtain

2007-09-12T17:00:00.000+01:00

It was only February when I was cycling around Oriental bay, seven years of Wellington life having done little to sally the view of the harbour.

But somehow time and life have metamorphosed, and my daily commute down Melrose hill and along Riddiford Street in Newtown has become the hum of busses and the squeal of trains through the plains of Africa, before settling to the grind of the Northern line to Kings Cross.

There’s a lie that travellers tell to keep the folks back home envious. We tell tall tales of mountains climbed, of people met and expanses crossed. Lies, all of ‘em. The truth of the matter is you spend most of the time hunting for the next toilet, the next meal, the next hostel.

And then there’s the perpetual fight over exhaustion. You plant your ass on a seat for six hours with Zambian countryside as your view, and the only thing on your mind as you arrive at your hostel is a cold beer and a soft mattress. Not exactly the stuff of romance novels.

Yet there’s a perverse pleasure in travel. It’s not listed amongst the usual vices, but like them it will consume you. It robs you of friendships, commitment, money, and security. There’s always a town, a hill, just around the corner. I guess there’s something about the unknown that just appeals.

I had to turn around in Africa after I hit Zanzibar. I almost didn’t. Kilimanjaro was a stone’s throw away, and beyond that, the Serengeti with its wildebeest migrations. Then Kenya, Ethiopia, Uganda and adventure. But I had a ticket to England and a plane to catch.

Settling in London was always the OE thing to do. But the transformation of life from the spectacular to the mundane was never going to be easy. Oh what an understatement. Life returns like an anvil. Rent needs to be paid and bank accounts need to be opened. Then it’s back to careers, utilities and groceries. Surviving the grind is a feat itself.

You’d think it would be the end, but there’s hope for an addict like me. A friend, ex-Black Seeds trumpeter and all-round good guy Mikey Taylor, has moved to New York. He’s invited me to pop around for a visit. I don’t know about you, but where I’m standing it’s a spitting distance across the ditch.

I’ve never been to America, but I bet it’ll be interesting.

Concerning conspiracies and quacks

2007-09-11T17:00:00.000+01:00

An elderly lady stands in a blue and white dress. Her whitened hair is tied into a bun, pulling the crow’s feet tight around her eyes. She’s screaming – screaming – at the crowd. “Your eyes are closed! You don’t see the Truth – just you wait until the day of judgement!” Hiding behind her, and studiously avoiding eye contact, is what I can imagine her husband and two children.

And here it’s obvious. Not only does the government control you, but it’s in cahoots with the media. Only through a socialist agenda you can prevail. Oh, and Jesus, Muhammad, and Moses are the only way to heaven. It’s all true, you know. I know because that’s what I learnt last Sunday at Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park.

She laments about the decline of the English empire, then talks about criminals. “We sent them to Australia – because we didn’t want them!” The crowd takes offence and starts heckling. Cameras are taking photos, movies. I move along.

Elsewhere among the throng another man is yelling in an African baritone. “Mugabe? Mugabe ezz my hero!” He declares. “Ets the West that’s destroyed Zimbabwe! You! You whites!”

A crowd of about thirty gathers around each speaker, but this is less a marketplace of ideas and more a circus. Tourists are taking shots, and dozens of hecklers shout back at the speakers on their step-ladders. It’s a zoo.

But walking through this carnival of ideologies, there is a distinct buzz about the place. The big three are here in numbers, each holding up their holy books and announcing similarly sounding maxims. I’m impressed. By all accounts they should be fighting each other, right?

Hundreds of people gather here. Perhaps it’s because such level of public debate is now unheard of, there is a wonder to this place. There’s laughter and discussion. One speaker is mocking his heckler. “Shut up! Know your place. I am the speaker and you – you – are the corner!” There is laughter, including the heckler, who is momentarily disarmed by a flash of a smile.

I return to the elderly lady, where she’s now lambasting a Welsh couple. “You Celts always cause trouble! This isn’t your home! Go back home!” They stand their ground. A bewildered woman next to me turns to us. “I don’t get it,” she says, “why do they allow stupid people to talk?”

I know why. It’s offensive, rude, and utterly enjoyable.

Lies, damn lies, and jobs

2007-09-10T17:00:00.000+01:00

Kiwi mate Steve and I were having a couple of quiets in Farringdon. He’d just been to an interview.

“They wanted to know if I could act.” Kiwi mate Steve explained.

“And then they started talking about role-playing.”

It all sounded pretty kinky so I wanted to know more. I ordered a few more beers.

Don’t buy the dream of a better life in England. Unless you work with money, computers, or kids, it’s a hard road. Reminds me of a joke that’s done the rounds: what do humanities graduates call commerce grads? Boss.

I’m a humanities grad, and so is Steve so we’re feeling the punch-line. If you have kids who you adore, throw them in a chartered accountants course before they go all teenage on you.

It took me a couple of months of hunting before I got a job. Steve’s been on the prowl for a month now. There’s nibbles, of course, and he’s had interviews too. But no catch. His latest interview was for a job as a recruiter, which is why he was a little surprised about needing to role play. So why the acting?

“From time to time you may need to contact one of our clients and role play as a conference organiser, so you can find out about their staff.”

They head hunt within their own clients, essentially robbing Peter to pay Paul. It’s a cheeky little racket. Of course Steve’s an honest guy and couldn’t take the role, but it makes you wonder how desperate you have to be to take an ethically questionable job in a foreign country. And with the level of immigration into England, there’s bound to be a fair share of entrepreneurs around for some fresh OE meat.

Not all recruiters are bad in the same way that not all sharks eat humans. But you get the feeling that as soon as you land on this little island they begin to circle.

We finished our rounds and headed off to a cheap pub for a feed. Wetherspoon was offering a two for one deal for £5.50. Perfect. And while tucking into our fish cakes and cottage pie, it occurred to me that life could have been worse. I could have been a commerce grad.

A piece of Kiwi in Kabwe

2007-09-07T17:00:00.000+01:00

“Hand built.”

I aah’d. “Aaaah.”

“Well you can’t exactly get the parts round here, mate.”

“True, true.” I replied, but I had no idea. I’m not really a cheese man.

But it’s not every day that I get to see a cheese press. Big steel barrels, temperature controlled rooms. Quite fancy, and NZ owned and operated to boot. We exited and were led out to the yard where I’d interrupted his work on the ute.

The hood was up. He was constructing a grill to stop the tall grass in the paddocks from wrapping around the radiator and overheating the vehicle. As I stared down, inspecting his handiwork, I spotted a tiny LTSA plaque on the chassis. Call me soft, but it caught me off guard. My voice cracked for just a second and I had to feign a sneeze.

The ute, the farm, myself, and this guy were an anachronism. The dairy farm is in Kabwe, about an hour north of Lusaka, which is pretty much bang in the centre of sub-Saharan Africa. After several months of travel, of Afrikaners, Sutu, Shona, and Bemba, I had found myself unexpectedly standing on an island of New Zealand in the middle of Africa. Homesickness hit me like nausea.

Maplehurst farm, as I learnt, was started not too many years ago by New Zealand missionaries under the banner of Bright Hope, a US aid organisation. It’s host to a bunch of Kiwi farmers now, as they spend their days running the place, helping to improve the livelihood of the Kabwe community.

“Wanna come in for a cuppa?”

I did. It was my final few hours in Kabwe, before heading north to take the gruelling TAZARA express to Dar es Salaam, a two day journey taking me through the heartland of Tanzania.

It felt like a dream. I went in, passing the dogs running circles around me, and the kids jumping on the tramp. The farm looks like a kiwi farm. It has the feel of a kiwi farm. For a moment I was having a coffee in Taranaki.

We chatted for around half an hour, about Zambia, the Copperbelt, and the decision to emigrate. I had been trained to write down names, to remember things, but truth be told I can barely recall a word of the conversation. My head was still spinning.

In what felt like moments, I was told we had to leave. There was a train to catch. I agreed, smiling. We stood and the farmer shook my hand. “We’re heading near the Congo border in a few weeks. You’re welcome to join us if you’re around.”

His words were like a punch to the stomach. There was nothing more I wanted to do but stay in Maplehurst farm. Down the driveway was the potholed road into the dusty town of Kabwe. And further along, through the velt and the stalls selling mealies and sugar cane was a Chinese built train waiting. And beyond that? Who knows.

I’d found paradise, and it hurt to leave it behind.

Who's your idol?

2007-09-06T20:27:00.000+01:00

I remember sleeping.

It was some time ago. There were friends too, emerging relationships with housemates and Londonites and ex-pats.

All suspended. Because of stuff's blog idol. The good news is that I've managed to make it to the final three. I have three more posts to finish before it's all gone, so this is the final leg.

And then rest. I finally get to clean my room.

That Kodak moment

2007-09-06T17:00:00.000+01:00

Where were you the moment it happened? Do you remember?

I was a teenager in Cape Town at the time, a picture of innocence in a youth hall filled with thousands of similarly starry-eyed ilk. Everyone remembers though. It was Joel Stransky who finished it off with an eleventh hour kick, setting the ball sailing between the posts, and our hearts thumping in our chests.

I heard it was a dark day in Godzone, but on the shuttle home, all I could see were people dancing in the streets. You could hear singing, horns blowing, laughter. The country was electric with joy. South Africa had won the 1995 Rugby World Cup, and for just one beautiful night this bedraggled young nation felt less a pockmark of tribes, and more a people. Tearfully, we celebrated together.

No-one outside of New Zealand could imagine exactly how dark kiwis were about it. The first words ever uttered to me when I arrived in Auckland a few years later were, “Ah, youz poisoned us!” The next ten years were spent enduring wisecracks about my time in South Africa.

The boot was on the other foot in 2003. I was still doing youth work, but my sheen had well worn off. We watched the matches in an affectionately grimy house in Newtown. New Zealand was out of the tourney, but a bet was forged between myself and Luke, the barrel-chested strongman from Nelson. if Australia won I would publicly wax my chest.

But it was Luke’s hair to be ripped out that weekend, when England snatched victory, also in the eleventh hour, also from a drop goal. Ever the gentleman, I invited our youth kids to come along and watch the waxing. A photographer caught wind of it and joined as well, in what turned out to be a pleasantly torturous afternoon.

For some bizarre reason I’m in England during this world cup. I’m calling it a sign, and if it weren’t for being perpetually broke, I’d be screaming in the stadiums with the other fans. Luckily there’s enough kiwis around to fill the rugby bars, and I guarantee a good time’s to be had.

Over the three continents I’ve visited this year, there’s only one team on everyone’s lips, I’m proud to say. I’d also like to say something to that team.

Please, please if you have it, take the kick.

Rule Britannia

2007-09-05T17:00:00.000+01:00

My flatmate Lizzie berated me a couple of nights ago because I appear to pick on the English a bit. She said something about me being unfair, lumping all English people together and something about it being racist. I guess it’s well overdue to say nice things about the place.

Yup.

The tubes are on strike this week.

Um.

Well, job done then.

To be fair, there’s many things I love about England. The public transport, although perpetually mocked, and currently non grata, is brilliant. At a moment’s notice I can catch the Eurostar from London to Paris. Reading is under half an hour away, and Cambridge is a shade over an hour. And tickets are cheap.

Then there’s the comedy. Without equal, they have best comedians in the world. From Monty Python to Eddie Izzard and Ricky Gervais, the subtle barbs of British humour have done much to shape the Kiwi brand of funny.

And you can find any shape and shade of person walking on the street. You pass burkas and punks, yarmulkes and crosses and after a while think nothing of it. Aside from the London Lite and Metro newspapers, you can pick up a free paper specifically for Aussies, Kiwis, Saffas, as well as Polish, and many other ethnicities. You feel like you’re in the centre of the world.

Even the twee-ness of the place is charming, with its Victorian and Edwardian buildings, narrow streets and tiny cars. It’s even better when you know you can escape to an antipodean bar and mix with people south of the equator whenever it gets too much.

I could go on too. Camden Town is like Cuba Street on steroids. Christmas is in its proper season. The live music scene is fantastic.

I’m sure I’ll find a few more things. And I’m sure there’ll be plenty of annoying traits that come along with them. But while my heart is still in Wellington, I now have made London home. Willingly, even.

You give me fever

2007-09-04T17:00:00.000+01:00

“Come. Come, look here,” said the dispatch clerk in Durbanville Post Office, South Africa, “I support the All Black, see?”

He flips open his phone and shows me his picture of Carlos Spencer. “All Black. See!”

And everywhere the talk is about Jonah Lomu. “Is he well?” I’m asked. Many times. Gosh, I know we’re a small nation but we don’t all get together for a feed on a Sunday arvo. I just nod and tell everyone he’s doing okay. He’s doing okay, right?

The thing is, you just don’t exactly realise the extent of the cult following until you leave Godzone. Aside from Lord of the Rings, the All Blacks have an international reputation that borders on religious fanaticism. Through my travels this year I’m constantly asked about the AB’s, as if talking to me will make some of their magic rub off on them.

So I’m not in the least surprised that their training sessions in France are mobbed by legions of fans. Branding execs take note, this is how to do it. I could be cynical, but I’m a fan myself, so a part of my heart is swelling.

England on the other hand celebrated their world cup launch by hosting a Scrum in the Park last weekend. I’m not exactly swimming in cashflow, so heading to Marseille to catch the kiwis didn’t make it on the agenda. Regent Park on the other hand is a few stops up on the Bakerloo line, so I decided to drop by and check out the competition. The difference couldn’t be any starker.

If you could stereotype the All Blacks as burly men dripping with testosterone, then the image I got of the English team is a tea party in the park.

They’re jolly fit, and marvellously well-spoken. Ready to give the world cup a go. They even won the trophy last time round (and by-the-by saved me a bet of getting my chest waxed, of which I am still ardently grateful).

But walking round the park, I felt no hum of energy. There was no pre-tournament electricity that seems to hang in the air with these things. It felt like a fair, with fans in red and white enjoying the lazy British summer.

The thing to do was to press flesh with the English rugby team. A queue had formed with their rugby jerseys ready to sign. I timed it and it was three minutes long. That is to say, the walk from the end to the beginning of the queue took me three minutes. It was depressingly orderly, polite and tidy. You can mock them, but the English really do know how to make a good queue.

So call me disappointed. Although I’ll be watching the English play on the paddock, and I’m sure they’ll knock out a few good turns, the scrum in the park was nothing much but a large advert for 02, sponsors of the English team.

For sure, the All Blacks have their sponsors too, but maybe the difference is the All Blacks are the brand. Sponsors must queue in droves to have the AB’s on their merchandise.

And I guarantee you they won’t be orderly, polite or tidy.

Refreshes the parts other beers cannot reach

2007-09-03T17:00:00.000+01:00

Beer will save us, I promise. And I have proof too. Klaude told me so.

It was a starry May evening at the Corel Rock hotel in Zanzibar when Klaude told me about the Heineken factories in the Congo. Sorry, make that the Democratic Republic. It would seem that even warlords aren’t without irony.

It’s a country the size of Western Europe. Trees, rivers, Jane Goodall, four tar-sealed roads and one never-ending civil war. So it’s a little peculiar that a Dutch brewing company has set up a HQ in the nether-regions of the world.

But Heineken seems to be doing alright. It’s one of the only corporations that still exist in the DRC. They’ve never been bombed, and are turning a profit in the region, proving that you may be a guerrilla, but you still need a good brew. Or two.

Klaude knows a little about this. While knocking back a pint (or two) of Kilimanjaro , he tells me that he heads a field office for a major aid organisation in Burundi. Forget Neighbours From Hell; to the north is Rwanda and to the west, the DRC.

And here are where things get interesting. Not so long ago, a refugee camp on the border was experiencing water shortages. To everyone’s surprise, Heineken stuck up its hand to help, and before anyone could stop them, diverted the water supply intended for its nearby brewery to the camp. By anybody’s books whoever made this call is a saviour. So where you can you hear about all this?

Nowhere. Heineken deny it.

I was stunned. In fact at first I didn’t believe Klaude, but he was adamant. Either he was a persuasive liar, or he had witnessed a rare gleam of human decency from a multi-national.

“That makes no sense. Why?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it doesn’t benefit their company.”

Damn straight it does, most people call it PR. And trust me, firms who deal in vices need every scrap they can muster. We argued for a while but Klaude stuck to his tune. Eventually the conversation changed as conversations do, and that was that.

Until last Friday, when I was reminded of my chat with Klaude. While catching up with some kiwis in Farringdon, I heard the news that Speight’s are coming to town. They were delivering a NZ built Speight’s Alehouse to London via boat.

Now, I’m more of a Montieths man myself, but there’s just something special that no PR can muster. I call it goodwill. So onya, Heineken, and onya Speight’s. Looking forward to the party.

Like Klaude said, saviours.

I See Red (Red!)

2007-08-31T17:00:00.000+01:00

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…

2007-08-30T17:00:00.000+01:00

“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

2007-08-29T17:00:00.000+01:00

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

2007-08-28T17:00:00.001+01:00

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?

2007-08-28T17:00:00.000+01:00

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

2007-08-27T22:31:00.000+01:00

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

2007-08-27T17:00:00.000+01:00

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

2007-08-26T10:23:00.000+01:00

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

2007-08-18T11:20:00.000+01:00

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:

Starting from next ~~Wednesday~~Monday, I have to write a blog entry on Stuff's website each day.
Also, as it happens, next ~~Wednesday~~Monday 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

2007-08-14T20:21:00.000+01:00

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

2007-08-14T20:09:00.000+01:00

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.

And Breathe

2007-07-28T21:46:00.000+01:00

Mark called me on Friday. Mark works in recruitment. Two days work over the weekend. Did I want it, he asked.

I could have kissed the man; things could not have been cut any finer.

Down and Out

2007-07-20T22:58:00.000+01:00

Here’s a hint for the kids back home. If you ever want to go on the dole in this country, reconsider. Seriously. It might not be worth the pain.

It lands you about £60 in the pocket each week, a dismal sum which doesn’t even cover the rent. But with almost two months in dreary London and without a signed contract in sight, it was time to swallow some pride and grab a little change from the government coffers.

Being British helps. Last year I wrote about the dole in New Zealand, for Salient, feigning a need for government handouts so I could get a story. For all its mocking, the New Zealand system is efficient. Not only that, but their staff seem to be trained to empathise with the guys who walk through the door. It’s ridiculed and misrepresented in the media, but I’ll stand up for the New Zealand Work and Income. She ain’t the prettiest lady you’ll meet, but she’ll do you fine.

On the other hand, England’s dole is like the town tramp. After a forty minute phone interrogation, I was booked for a meeting with an ‘officer’ in the job centre department. A tube ride to Finchley central, and I walked into an office that could have looked hip about six years ago.

I was treated like a piece of produce. “You need to fill in this form,” my case manager advised. I skimmed it, and found it to be near identical to the questions the gentleman on the phone asked me several days back. I mentioned this, and got a ‘don’t mess with me’ glare for my troubles.

These forms reproduce faster than rabbits. One form turned to two, which multiplied to four. I wondered how often they really needed me to write the same information on different papers. There was even a separate form I had to fill in, “just in case the computer version gets wiped.” I didn’t want to ask why they couldn’t just hit ‘print’ and get a hard copy. This is the inane level of bureaucracy that I had to deal with. I was ready to write a metaphor about IHC and this bunch, but decided to scrap it: it’s way too cruel to the good fellas at the IHC.

But it's the culture of the place. I spent almost three hours in their offices, most of which spent filling in various forms. The answer to every question I had was tied into some form. I had to explain that I was a ‘habitual resident’, but no one could tell me what the phrase meant. I had to answer questions like: ‘Where do your friends live and what do they do?’ and other intrusive quizzes.

And it wasn’t the end of it. Forms to request a housing allowance, a form to backdate payments from when I first entered Blighty, a master form that had to be rechecked and signed, an amendment paper where I had to state that I went to University. I was on New Zealand’s dole seven years ago for two months and, get this, they wanted proof. It was almost a decade ago! I couldn’t think of a more infuriating system if I had tried.

I had to sign a declaration that I would hunt for jobs. No worries. And just like a convict on parole I had to check in to the office once a week and present a book with a list of things I’d done to get a job. This was ludicrous.

New Zealand suddenly feels like the land of plenty. People smile, some are even friendly. Walk into the WINZ office and you could get a cuppa for your troubles. When I chatted to WINZ, we joked around, and I talked to the strangers in the queue. They may have been hard done by, but they could still smile. But no, I had to jump ship and travel half way across the globe to arrive at civilisation.

Wimbledon

2007-07-09T10:41:00.000+01:00

The first thing people should know is that it’s not actually in Wimbledon. The tennis thing, that is. I took the tube on Saturday and was told to get out in Southfield. Like clockwork, five minutes after following the signs I was thoroughly and enjoyably lost within its leafy suburbia.

It was a summer’s day, and the walk to the common took me past rows of townhouses and BMW’s. I had run a half marathon earlier that morning, but was still feeling strangely buoyant. After almost an hour of wandering, I arrived at what seemed to be a set of barracks.

Security. Metal detectors and bag checks to rival any major airport. I was frisked so hard I felt like I was in a gay porn movie. Honestly, there was little left to the imagination, and I was straining not to push the guy away when he went for my inside thigh. After my bag went through the conveyor belt, I was taken aside for a ‘random’ baggage check. Every pocket was emptied, my books were leafed through, and my wallet opened and inspected. It was sheer invasion. I attempted small talk. “You do this often?” I asked the burly security lady. “Every fifth person.” She robotically replied. They’re not exactly paid to be friendly. She spied a bottle of Fanta in a pocket. Handing it to me, she instructed me to, “Sip this in front of me.” I knocked it back, earning another grunt from her. Even when searched in Harare I didn’t have it this bad. Somehow I don’t think I made a friend.

But eventually I did make it through to the village. And my goodness, what a sight. Thousands of spectators walking around, security and administration staff everywhere. Multi-tiered restaurants and of course the two imposing buildings: centre court and court #1. I watched the woman’s finals on the big screen on the lawn with thousands of fans. Afterwards, I wandered to court #3 to watch a mixed semi-finals match with Murray & Jankovic.

My dad plays tennis, and in our largely vacant family folklore, we’d grown up with the tale that he’d been taught by an ex-Wimbledon player. It means that for better or for worse, tennis is in our blood. Growing up, Wimbledon had always been a fixture, the ultimate tournament. Right now, in fact, my dad would be taping each game, driving my mum mad with frustration.

Back to Court #3. I was cattled into the standing room bays, and ended up standing a spitting distance from the players. This is where I met my happy clappy tennis friend.

He stood next to me, a strange man in his late thirties. Pencil-thin, he was perpetually biting his bottom lip while staring at the match. He wore a Wimbledon baseball cap about a dozen sizes too large for his head, and it had lopped backwards, balancing at forty-five degrees, eagerly waiting to tip over. The real magic was whenever the crowd applauded. He would shoot his arms near his face, holding his wrists against each other and clap his palms together like the jaws of a crocodile. It wasn’t just his form, but moreover the length of his applause. As the crowd died down, he would merrily clap away, oblivious to the silence around him. Then like releasing a coiled spring, his arms would shoot down to his sides. I liked him immediately.

Soon enough other spectators turned to give him dirty looks. If my happy clappy friend noticed any of this, he wasn’t paying them any attention. Gaily he would patter his hands together after each point, clapping louder and longer if the applause were sustained. The match was wonderful to watch, but my friend made it all the more entertaining.

I spent the day wandering between courts, watching the tail end of the championship. The veterans match was amusing, simply because of one player: a portly American, upholding the stereotype with his long stringy hair, balding, but geared with the trendiest threads. He would loudly chat to his team mate, holler at good points he’d won, and generally stomp around like he owned the place.

And the day wore on. By eight, the temperature had dropped, leaving me shivering slightly in my shorts and t-shirt. It was time to head back to reality. My fourteen pound general admission ticket had served me well for the past five hours. While I didn’t see the big names, I was more than content to leave, knowing that I’d finally done it: I’d made it to Wimbledon.

Hitch yourself up

2007-07-04T22:37:00.000+01:00

Simon doesn't like having attention thrown his way, which is mostly why I'm doing this. I mean, what are friends for, if not for personal abuse?

He's in Auckland now, while I'm in London. Less than a year ago we were drinking Pinot Noir in front of the fireplace with the rest of the flatties in Melrose. Rhys is now in Dunedin, Mikey's moving to New York. Chris moved out to tie the knot, and Murray seems to be following suit. Schmik's the only trooper left, but if things go well his number will be up shortly. Life just seems to take you to unexpected places.

The movie was taken by Si from his hitching trip from Wanaka to Wellington two years back. I lent him my camera and an empty memory card and he promised to fill it before he returned it. It's taken me two years to find the time to compile his trip into a narrative. Two years have passed like a breath.

How to (not) open an English Bank account. Done.

2007-07-02T12:16:00.000+01:00

I should have posted this well over a week ago. Within days of applying for bank accounts, I now have two: one with Lloyds TSB, and one with Barclays.

Lloyds were first off the mark, with a debit card and cheque book in the post, while Barclays arrived four days later. The lesson? Well, aside from feeling all chocolaty inside, I suppose there’s the obvious: 1^st Contact may do a good service, but your options aren’t limited. If you don’t mind the wait, save yourselves the thirty pounds and you’ll have no problems getting your account the old fashioned way: for free.

Camera shy

2007-07-02T12:01:00.001+01:00

You’ve probably all heard about the car bombs discovered in central London. Tiger Tiger, (for the uninitiated, the club one of the cars were parked by) is well on the beaten track, just off Piccadilly Circus. It’s a bizarre feeling, to see photos in newspapers of a place you tramped past two days ago. This just doesn’t happen in NZ.

The papers on the tubes were awash the following day with hasty speculation. The primary suspects of course are Al Qaeda, as if there were only one group with sufficient reason to hate the West and the moxy to pull something off. Much hot air was also passed trying to analyze the situation with the present scant evidence. Typical journo stuff.

But being London they’ll soon have evidence-a-plenty. Almost every patch of public space seems to be under the ever-present gaze of CCTV. An army of police were reportedly analysing the footage to track the vehicle to its source.

England doesn’t appear to be camera-shy. It owns up to having 4.2 million CCTV cameras in operation (a whopping 15 million according to Andrew Marr’s doco on Britain that screened recently, but none of my Google ‘research’ could verify that number). However, crunch even the most conservative figures and you’ll find that it’s almost a hundred days of CCTV footage filmed every second. If each second is recorded, then each day would accrue 360 billion seconds of camera footage. That’s eleven thousand years of footage a day.

London is one of the most camera-friendly spots on the planet. The Home Office reportedly spent three quarters of its budget for crime prevention on CCTV cameras in the late 90’s. With such a staggering amount of cameras, the capability exists for surveillance crews to monitor an individual’s progress through London from camera to camera.

Walk anywhere in London and you’ll see hundreds – hundreds of cameras. The underground is a popular spot, but only because they’re visible. Cameras have been installed on busses, on intersections, on the motorway (interestingly, they tag cars by automatically reading the license plates as they enter the city). Of course they’re also in many public areas. It’s enough to make you spooked.

It’s a regular surveillance society round these parts, which conjures the stereotypical imagery of 1984 and the like, but let’s briefly zoom back to last weekend. I was sitting in a train on the Piccadilly line, shooting northward the day after the attempted bombing. It was eleven at night, and the carriages were packed. As we passed by Piccadilly Circus, I had a surreal moment where it occurred to me how venerable I was. Sitting there, nowhere to move, I couldn’t figure out what I’d do in an emergency. And for just a moment, a few scant seconds, there was something reassuring about someone watching your back.

They’re here to protect you. The irony, however, was that they didn’t do jack in this situation. The car bomb was accidentally discovered by fire fighters. Crime figures have dropped significantly since 1995, but many people are questioning whether the saturation of cameras were the cause of this drop. Where they will be useful is identifying and tracing the suspects; detective work at the click of a button.

Frankly, I still don’t like ‘em. The real world isn’t a conspiracy-bound thriller, I realise. But if the cost of personal freedom is having some people with the power to covertly watch me as I stumble around the city, then the price ain’t right, and it’s more than just a little freaky.

MyTube

2007-06-22T10:55:00.001+01:00

Your best friend in London will be a tube map. Guaranteed. Designed in 1933 by draughtsman Harry Beck, it is was revolution in spatial design. Of course as with anything fresh, and innovative, it was instantly rejected by officials. Ol’ Harry must have known that he was onto something good though, because he sat on it for a year before resubmitting the identical design. This time it was adopted, so much so that it grew wings and soared, not only in London, but it took off in New York and Sydney, where his designs were plagiarised and still used today.

Other maps have been produced. The Heritage and Transportation webring has a great history of tube maps as they’ve developed in the past century. For contemporary use, you can purchase walking maps, which show connections between stations which are a short walk apart. While Beck’s schematic map is simple enough even for American tourists to navigate through, it obviously doesn’t give a true representation of the geography. For that, you need to check out the alternative tube map, a scale overlay of the tube’s colour-coded design. You could even opt for the ultra-pedantic Way Out map, a design which shows every station exit, and even tells the traveller which carriage will bring them closest to the exit.

There’s more, much more. For the lunatics, you can visit Animals on the Underground, where you can buy, well animals made from the schematic. I really don’t want to go on; it’s as inane as it sounds.

But by far the most fantastic layout I’ve seen to date is the Google Map-esq layout, from nyclondon (who, since I read the page properly, covers many of the links above). It’s a high-res satellite photo of London with tube lines overlaid. I could knock it a little and point out that the Jubilee line gets muddied into the background, and the DLR is all but non-existent, but it will do little to sally what is essentially a work of art.

Personal pain and embarrassment

2007-06-21T14:38:00.001+01:00

Regret is something you perform over a past act. By the time you’re reading this, it will most likely be the emotion I’ll be most inclined to be wallowing in.

Its cause is imbecilic. After toying with my new UK drivers license, a childish thought invaded my mind. “Goodness,” I thought to myself, “wouldn’t it be funny if I placed all my photo ID’s side by side to compare?”

I don’t know what name psychologists give to a mental affliction that takes pleasure in cruelty to self, but I think I have it.

How (not) to open an English bank account. Almost done.

2007-06-21T14:30:00.000+01:00

It’s almost over, and victory is certainly in the air.

In my possession is now a small piece of plastic labelled rather unimaginatively, ‘DRIVING LICENCE’. It doesn’t have to be much more. It bears my name, my face, and my address. Clutching it and my passport, a visit to the bank was necessary.

“Are you currently employed?” The assistant at Barclays asked. It was like déjà vu.

I responded in the negative, and asked “What does it matter?” I told her about our previous conversation and whipped out my UK drivers license, all with a stupid lottery winning smile. She gave me a look that either meant pity, or that she wished I could be set upon with a soldering iron.

“It’s just that we can’t give you a current account until you are employed, yeah.”

Nyeah. I explained to her what a catch-22 was, and to apply it in this present scenario, meant that I effectively couldn’t get a job until I had an account an employer could pay money into. After an awkward silence, she went away to “see what I can do.” Returning a few minutes later, she advised that current accounts were off limits, but a savings account could be managed. I booked an appointment with a consultant for 2pm so I could argue the matter further.

I walked out of Barclays and wondered whether other banks adopted a similar policy. Down the road to Lloyds TSB. I asked the lady over the counter about their policy for opening accounts. “Do you have two forms of ID?” She asked. I showed them, and she handed me a form. There was the typical hullabaloo on the form about employment and expenses, but after I returned it for inspection, there was little fanfare. “You’ll receive your notice in five to seven working days.” Perhaps this was the British method of avoiding conflict, but it was far more successful than my Barclays endeavour.

2pm, and off to Barclays. I met with a friendly consultant, who, upon discovering that I had arrived from New Zealand, couldn’t imagine why I had set foot on English soil. “But why would you leave?” She asked, not just once, but several times throughout our conversation. After a while I was thinking to myself the same. Why did I leave?

Nevertheless, she was a bastion of information, so I stuck on my journalist hat and asked some questions. Let’s get cracking:

It is virtually impossible to open a bank account on your own.

Bollocks. It wasn’t exactly the word she used, but it’s close enough. Opening an account is easy, she told me, as long as you can prove your identity and your address. It doesn’t even have to be all UK stuff. A New Zealand passport, a New Zealand bank statement. The trick is to gather this stuff before you leave so when you enter the UK you won’t be caught out. She told me that even proof of a New Zealand address would be sufficient, but I was so surprised I don’t want to quote that as fact just yet.

You must be employed before banks will let you have an account.

The much-fabled catch-22, and thank goodness, wrong. Granted, many accounts will be inaccessible to you as a job-seeker in the UK, however banks can still issue basic accounts to you (no overdraft, no chequebook, no debit card features). In my case, I was offered a Cash Card Account, which I gladly accepted.

It’s a complex and lengthy process

If you count the two weeks to obtain a UK drivers license, and the week it will take to process my license application form, then three weeks is your turnaround to open a bank account manually. If you can’t wait that long, then by all means head to 1^st Contact. It’s also a good idea to arrange a meeting with your chosen bank’s staff, rather than rely on the generic assistants. I guess you could add that once I have a job I’ll need to apply for a current account to get more benefits. I’ll cross that hurdle when it comes.

I guess the point is that no, it’s not impossible. It’s not even amazingly frustrating or difficult. You need to be prepared with some official documents, to prove (once again) your identity and your address. As for using a middle-man, go ahead and spend the 35 pounds if you want peace of mind. You pay money for convenience, but they won’t be taking mine.

The cherry is not yet on the cake, but the icing’s laid out. My applications are being processed, and I’ll be grinning like a fool before the month’s out.

How (not) to open an English bank account. Part two.

2007-06-19T11:16:00.000+01:00

It’s a fortnight since I decided to forgo the smart option and attempt to open a bank account without commercial assistance. Oh have I learnt plenty since.

After my blog, an email appeared from my brother to the effect of “don’t be an idiot.” He’s right, of course. 1^st Contact does take away the fuss. My point, however, was to wonder whether there was actually much fuss to begin with. My visa still works, as does my Westpac debit card (just look for the Maestro signs). What this means is that I’m not exactly put out when it comes to accessing my (dwindling) financial resources. I will concede that it does become important when you gain employment, employers after all need a UK account in which to deposit your pay. But honestly, who finds a job within a fortnight?

I did a little homework. Actually, I emailed 1^st Contact, and enquired after their turnaround. A lady named Kelly emailed me back a few hours later with marketing guff. “It is virtually impossible to open a bank account on your own . That is why 1^st Contact created the...” It drones on, the long and short of it being that she neglected to answer my question. Of note was a request at the end of the email, asking readers to “Please consider the environment before printing this email.” I reached to my keyboard and hit ‘delete’.

My Kiwi friends Dave and Maz have been in London for over a year now. When I caught up with them I asked them about their strategy. I suppose it wasn’t fair. Dave used to live in England, and already had an NHS number, which he promptly renewed. For him at least, opening an account couldn’t have been easier. His NHS number, and his passport guaranteed him a smooth ride. What was more sobering was his warnings on the perils of credit. His credit limits are constantly extended, a ploy by banks to entice overspending. One subject at a time though, Dave.

What I hope you’ll notice by now is that the process does not appear to be as catch-22 as marketers make it out to be. Let me demonstrate. On Barkley’s website, they offer this advice: “To open an account we need confirmation of who you are and where you live, according to government regulations. We need two original documents (emphasis added) ...”

You can read the rest yourself. Your two original documents are: a passport or something that confirms your identity, and a utility bill or something that confirms your address. Please note the bold. Identity. Address.

I’ve read it a few times now. I even wonder what the catch is. Identity. Address. I have a passport, thankfully a UK one, and I will be receiving my UK drivers license shortly, which for kiwis is simply a matter of filling in a form, parting with some money and relinquishing your NZ license to the good people at the post office. The process takes about two weeks.

I suppose if you don’t have two weeks, then 1^st contact will be perfect, if they can assure you a faster turnaround. Perhaps I’m not being fair on them, after all, I only asked them once.

Most likely this whole account nonsense will nip me at the posts, but for now I am envisioning myself on the podium, rakishly smiling at my triumph over advertisers who market on fear, while clutching my precious Barclays account in my hands. Victory will be sweet.

Orwellian Nightmares

2007-06-15T14:23:00.000+01:00

A number of years ago, back in New Zealand, I was blissfully going about my business and stumbled upon an ad for this funny thing called ‘Big Brother’. I had heard it bandied around here and there for about a year, but had never really thought to ask about it. My flat didn’t have a telly so I never floated through life wondering which insurgents had captured Gaza, or what level the Department of Homeland Security had arbitrarily set its threat indicator to. In other words, life was good.

So when I asked, I think it was a cashier, I was greeted with a raised eyebrow or two. I must have appeared primeval. The thing to do would be to watch an evening of telly, and see what the fuss was over this Big Brother malarkey.

It was like the world had gone on speed. Reality TV, shaky cameras, cheap programming. Even the serial blockbusters appeared to have been filmed on handy-cam. And of course then there was the main event, ripped from the pages of Orwell’s masterpiece, whittled to attract an audience with an IQ of eighty.

Zoom to the present, and I find I can’t escape this beast. I go on the tubes and the newspapers are telling me why Zoië (or whoever), should just, like, go or something, yeah. You can flick your TV to the Big Brother channel (a twenty-four hour voyeur live feed), or wait for the weekly live eviction episodes. Even writing this, I know I’m behind on the times; this has been happening for several years now. It suddenly makes me feel, well, old.

And here’s my gripe. I don’t care. In fact, I could go even further and wish that I could erase any memory of ever knowing about the program. But it’s unavoidable. Every paper I’ve picked up has some trashy column dedicated to this nonsense. Someone in the halls of power has decided that This Is Still Important. And it strikes me: this isn’t Orwell, it’s Huxley. It’s no brave new world, but rather one catered for idiots.

Hastings

2007-06-13T13:24:00.000+01:00

To pique your memory of British history, in a field outside of Hastings a French king and his army took on a bunch of Anglo-Saxons and after some fracas, earned himself some land. It was the last time Britain was successfully invaded, and it all happened circa 1066AD.

Less medieval, but also significant, is that my grandma now lives there. A marvel of longevity, she’s battled through two world wars, and an emigration to Rhodesia. Gran is ninety-three, lives by herself in a one bedroom apartment, and refuses to be placed in a home. Vociferous, and Geordie by birth, she has more spirit than most I’ve met.

I took the train to Hastings, which I was advised by National Rail, would take about two hours. Evidently time must be relative, because by my reckoning, it took a tad longer. Allow me to demonstrate:

Kentish Town – St Leonards Warrior Square (Hastings)
Official time for journey:2.5 hours
Actual time:7 hours

To be fair, at one stage I boarded the wrong train (but it was on the right platform, at the right time!). I also had to sidetrack through the underground to Charing Cross on a Saturday lunchtime. But on the South Eastern to Hastings, it took us two hours just to get out of London. The convenience trolley was wheeled around the carriages, and the poor man was handing out free food and drink to keep punters happy. “I had a wedding to go to today,” one annoyed lady told the man. “It was two hours ago. They’re married now.”

I pitied the man, but when the trolley finally reached me, he’d ran dry. He trundled his empty trolley away as I burned holes into his back with my eyes.

The driver kept hailing the passengers on the intercom. First we were going to be half an hour late, then we were going to backtrack to find another way around some broken points. Next, he had organised a bus. Everyone got off the train at the prescribed station to board the bus, but were advised to re-board after some confusion and much groaning. We shuttled back and forth and back and forth. Finally the driver turned on the intercom: “Look. We’ve had a long day. I’ve been working since early this morning and frankly my shift should have finished hours ago. What I’m trying to say is that I understand your frustration.”

A few hours wasn’t going to change much. I made it to my gran’s flat, after a fifteen year absence. Time is a conjurer. She had shrunk, I had grown, and we both stared at each other in disbelief. “Ya durnt look enything like how I remember ya. Ya sure ya me grandson?”

We talk, which means she talks for the next two days. About the war; about moving to Rhodesia; and later, the trip back to England. She tells me about the friends they made in Africa and a holiday to Mozambique. She reaches to the past, recalling memories of yester-decades, but she struggles to remember the present. “I just need ta find me glasses. Have ya seen where I put me glasses?”

She continues, “I tell ya, the world’s going ta end. Everything’s bacome crazy. All people do is shop and drink, shop and drink.” I tell her that I hope the world will hold off for a few more decades, and she turns to me, “Don’t get married. Stay young and enjoy yourself.” I didn’t know whether to laugh, so I laughed.

She takes me on a walk along the beach, proving for all time that the only word to do justice to British beaches is ‘ugly’. Even in summer the beach is stony and a dull grey. A dull grey promenade runs along it, while the beach itself is made of is dull grey stones, separated by dull grey concrete walls, all washed by limp dull grey waves.

We take a cable car atop a hill where William of Normandy built his first staging post for his invasion. I’m relieved to find open fields and green grass, so we settle for a few hours. A ruin sits on the hill, but with a three-pound-something fee, I’m not encouraged to enter.

Gran stares out at the ocean. “I’d move here if there were shops around.” It is a world of chimneys, fields, and sky. Perhaps it’s more her world up here, before televisions and crowds.

Two days were never enough, but they pass quickly and soon I find myself walking with her to the train station. Gran is going to the dentist. “I’m having me teeth cleaned. They’ll be gone for four days!” I’m just happy that she didn’t whip them out for me to see.

A promise to return, and a hug, then she shoves a ten pound note into my hand. For the train journey. She looks embarrassed. “I don’t need the money - If I won the lottery I’d give it ewey, every penny.”

The journey back took two and a half hours.

Sign me up

2007-06-12T17:19:00.000+01:00

1. Go to London.
2. Ignore the tourist-traps. Take photos of signs.
3. Post online.

In a South African department store. At least Kobus looks happy. Oh. Wait.

Found in Putney -- check out the fumes from the turd.

They're called 'tides'. Hastings, where more than the beach is dull

The mysterious empty yellow triangle is alluring, but tar deposits?

How (not) to open an English bank account. Part one.

2007-06-05T15:57:00.000+01:00

Kiwi’s are told that is a frustrating task to open an English bank account. Let’s see about that.

If you are planning to make it to the misty shores for more than a cup of Earl Grey and a tour round London, your best bet would be to go online to 1^st contact or inlondon, established firms which perform some of the trickier aspects of immigration on your behalf. Basically, you pays your money, you gives your details, and you gets your account. They have grim forecasts for any person who doesn’t go through their scheme, warning that it’s best to sort it out before you touch down in Heathrow.

Obviously I didn’t, so my options are limited. I pop into the local Barclays in North Finchley, skip the queue to the tellers and ask the lady in the information desk what I need in order to open account. I stress that, despite my accent, I am British and even held an account with them a number of years ago.

“How long ago?”

“A few years.”

“Like five?”

“Closer to fifteen.”

She runs away to fetch a wad of paper entitled ‘dormant account form’. She hands it to me, and I smile through my teeth. I wonder whether the two pounds or so I had in the account would be worth the hours of work to fill this form. My account was most likely closed years ago by my parents anyway. I continue, and press this girl for new account information.

She asks whether I’m living in London.

“Yes.”

She asks whether I have a job.

“No.”

She asks what I’m doing in London.

“Looking for a job.”

She stutters an “oh.” and trails off.

I do have an essential item: a UK passport. This little book was a double-edged sword in Africa. It got me through the continent, but cost me anywhere between US$40 – US$55 in port entry fees. I’m hoping that it will redeem itself while I’m in England, so I point it out to the girl.

It helps, but it’s only the start. I need to provide proof of my address in London. “Like what?” “A utility bill, or council tax bill. Something official with your name and address on it.”

Shit.

It’s a catch-22. I’ve just moved into a place. How am I supposed to pay bills without a UK bank account? From my New Zealand account? With my visa? It’s an established flat, which means people are already doing this stuff. I ask whether there’s another way.

“You could get a provisional drivers license from the post office.” She waves her arm vaguely to the left. I take it to mean that the post office is vaguely in the direction of her hand. I thank her and leave.

This time I can’t avoid queuing. It’s lunchtime, so the series of bodies waiting in the post office snakes through a series of cordons, erected to pacify us. Flat screen TV’s entertain the queue-folk with advertising and trivia. I read a dozen times that Istanbul is the only city in the world bridging two continents. How true.

I reach a teller and ask to apply for a provisional drivers license. I expect three things. A form. A fee. A delay. Bingo: a booklet, a £45 ‘administration’ fee, and a two week turnaround. I also receive another booklet explaining how the first booklet works. When I return home to fill in the form, the second booklet tells me that I can go online to a further booklet to clarify the booklet that explains the booklet.

For a kiwi, the deal is that you hand over your driver’s license and they replace it with a UK license. From what I could tell, and frankly it’s confusing enough, there are two catches: you need to hand your passport over to them so they can check it over that two week period. You also need to provide a photo with sufficient proof that you are the face on the picture. ‘Sufficient’ basically means having it signed by someone respectable in England who has known you for more than two years and is not a relative. It’s not the friendliest of methods.

But I have a British passport! It’s a newfangled one, which just gets scanned and proofed on the spot. Hallelujah, for once I get a break. I sign where it tells me to ‘WITHIN THE ALLOTTED BORDER’, and head back to the post office.

The guy ahead of me in the queue is having difficulties. He signed his form, but a bit of his signature scraped the border. It’s being rejected, and he’s asked to rewrite his form. Rightly, he’s angry and complaining, and like a wimp, the teller runs away, “to check it out with the manager.” She returns a few minutes later armed with confidence. The poor man is worked up, and shows the teller where his penmanship scraped the border, just brushed it. He struggles like a fish out of water. He’s spitting while he complains, and wipes his mouth with his hand, but the teller stays put. She knows that she stands safely behind the weight of bureaucracy. He continues arguing, but knows his number’s up. He glances up at me, then tucks his t-shirt into his tracksuit. For a brief moment our eyes lock, and a world of thought passes between us. He knows he’s morally right. He also knows he’s lost, but with pride he continues his fight against inevitability.

My turn. I feel diminished. I pay my money, hand over my details, and embrace the system.

Back to Kabwe

2007-06-01T16:03:00.000+01:00

This isn't strictly about London. England plays Brazil in a friendly today at Wembley. I was swimming upstream a sea of red shirts at Kings Cross, and think it's best I stay away from that part of town tonight. The photo? The best footie match I've seen, in Kabwe at sunset, shadows and dust trailing behind these eight-year-old stars.

The past few days have settled into a routine of waking, altering my CV, applying for jobs, applying for jobs, applying for jobs, then heading to town to explore.

While working in the British Library, Charlie from a recruitment agency called. Upbeat, she told me about an urgent six month contract for a technical writer. Interviews to occur within twentyfour hours, and the successful applicant starts immediately. Lavishing me with praise, she asked whether I could be interviewed the following day. Of course, I responded, I sound perfect for the job. And that was that. She'd be in touch the following morning.

I woke at six today with a thumping heart. My hands reached to my phone to check for messages. It was too early, but I checked anyway, hope being a funny thing. I woke at six thirty, then at seven. After a while I was rousing with my phone in my hand. At nine I was in my formals, and heading to town.

When the clock hit midday I called Charlie. A man answered. She was busy, but would be happy to be in contact me at her earliest convenience. Half past one in the library, my phone rings.

"Hi, it's Charlie. I'm just making a curtesy call...."

Disappointment is hope unfulfilled.

London calling!

2007-05-31T20:49:00.000+01:00

Welcome to the old world, and a new blog.

As it was so perceptively pointed, Into Afrika doesn't quite do it for someone who's making a start in sunny London. So voila, an empty canvass, a new header, and a different brush.

This won't be travel; it will be a different space. It won't be politics, or anything to do with ranting or vexing my hypocritical self-righteousness. Of course it will never be about how the weather is overcast today, and the cat is scratching the corner of the sofa. You can guarantee that I'll never sink that low. Anyway, I don't own a cat. With so much known about what I will not write, only two things are certain. I don't know what this space will be filled with.

But there's plenty of junk around. So I'm sure I'll find something interesting.

Welcome to London

2007-05-29T19:21:00.000+01:00

I’ve been playing Monopoly for the past few days, bouncing through Waterloo, Bond, and Piccadilly.

Before leaving, I asked my brother for some advice. He laughed. “You have no clue what you’re getting yourself into.” Too right. Gumtree is what he offered. Hey, to be fair, he did throw me more tit-bits, and laughed some more, but gumtree was the important thing. It’s the trademe of London. And so with little fanfare, off I went.

The red-eye from Cape Town left me dehydrated and sleep-deprived. What better way to enter one of the greatest cities in the world. I had disappointingly converted my Rand to Pounds before I left, and when I arrived, I disappointingly converted my remaining US dollars. I had left the Kwacha, and Shillings alone, they wouldn’t even touch that in South Africa. I didn’t even think about my Zim dollars.

Let’s get the basics over with. London. Eight million or so, drab, cold, wet, concrete, grey, thanks for asking. Just add ‘home’ to that list for a while. I took the tube from Terminal four to Paddington station, amazed at how subterranean the developed world had become. It wasn’t difficult to get to my backpackers, the Mapesbury Hostel, and with a simple transfer or two, I was staring at my new home for the week. A four-bunk room, empty juice cartons on the floor, and an assortment of clothes thrown around like a bomb; it was like being nineteen all over again. With my thirty kilos of worldly possessions thrown into a corner, I was light-footed and eager to explore.

If you had to be proportional about your London experience, you would talk mostly about the tubes. Perhaps you’d begin animatedly, and mention the intercom system, the ease of jumping on and off the stations, the escalators which go on forever, and the stairs you always seem to be climbing when you’re off. It takes about an hour to get over it, by which time you’ll realise that these musty and sweaty sardine tins will be your life for the next few years. It’s also about then you’ll notice that London thrives on that other social phenomenon: queues.

The pinnacle of human development is the queue. Millennia’s of civilisation produces a person who can stand directly behind another to gaze vacantly, and step forward unconsciously onto the footprints of their predecessor. This is performed in spirit-quashing silence. If you live in the city, this will be referred as ‘normal’. Depressingly so.

I went to Piccadilly Circus to explore. I bought a coke for £1.99, which on my coke scale makes it the most expensive coke I’ve drank. Let’s quickly remind ourselves:

New Zealand - NZ$2 (US$1.45)
South Africa - R5 (US$0.70)
Zambia - Kwa2000 (US$0.50)
Zimbabwe - Z$5,000 (US$0.25 at time of purchase. It’s probably quadruple that by now)
Tanzania - Tsh1,000 (US$0.80 )

And now add:

London - £1,99 (US$3.94)

And everything here costs crazy amounts. My handy rough guide is keen to point out that this is one of the most expensive cities in the world. Hoo-bloody-ray. Stalls outside were selling half-price tickets to the West End. Stomp, Chicago, Mary Poppins, Lion King. It’ll set me back a cool £30, cash I should be saving for important stuff, but let’s face it, I’m not going to resist for long. Queues stretch away in every direction. There are a dozen stalls offering cut-price tickets with dozens of people neatly lined up, suffering in silence under the rain.

I continue to wander, and find myself blinking often. I don’t think much of it and continue walking, drinking in the visual. Then the migraine begins. My eyes feel hollow so I stop to close them for a second. Down went the eyelids, and immediately I am sucked into the oblivion. I opened them with a start. My body had been complaining, and was finally turning the screws. I return to Leicester square, and join a queue at the Odeon. It’s for the latest Pirates movie, not that it matters. Taking my seat, the house-lights already dim, I quickly lose focus. The feature begins, as I sink into the darkness.

Jack Sparrow wakes me with a bang, and my head clears. I control my body and take stock, remembering in an instant my past month. Amidst high seas and whirlpools, I am taken through dusty roads in Kabwe and to the reef around Zanzibar. I zoom through Pretoria and Cape Town as cutlasses clash in front.

I am in one of the largest cities in the world. I am homeless and unemployed, a minnow in an ocean, and I need to begin swimming soon. The clock is ticking.