Club Politique by Che Tibby

I have an xbox.

It seems that I exited New Zealand just in time to avoid the rampant homo-ism that's likely to overtake the country once that cub thingy I keep hearing about is introduced to the world. Good work there, Tibby.

Now, I don't know whose cub it is (I'm guessing it's the love child of a certain Mr. Hide), but once it grows into a bear I'm guessing it's going to have the time of its life. Mothers, lock up your sons. And maybe your daughters.

Maybe it's time therefore to expand the public consciousness a little and accommodate this new social development. So I'm asking Mikey Havoc over at bFM to do a public service and repeat an old gag I heard a few years back, where, realising that the Inuit had a bunch of words for 'snow', he got listeners to call in with the many, many words for 'pecker' or 'boobie'. It's my opinion that 'the people' will be better served with a better range of words to really label this new section of society. After all, great kiwi derisions like 'mayhey' deserve their place in the sun, don't they?

There's every chance that it's the smoke from that speaker fire that has me coming over all funny, because I also found Sandra Paterson's article a little offensive to even my strenuously assertive and undeniable heterosexuality. I mean, “Making Law a bigger ass”? Why not call the article “Making law wear a halter top and mince in some fine Italian pumps”?

Oh, and thanks for that by the way boys, you've now entered an entirely separate section of the 'gig hall of fame', that is, separate from the wanker who called Jack White a 'fucking poofer' when they played the Dogs Bollocks. Not to mention the White Stripes themselves, or that time I knocked my self out cold stage-diving at a Fugazi gig (my very first mention in a major newspaper? "some fool").

As I may have mentioned in a previous post, Sandra and I grew up in the same town, so I remember her, and her brother from many, many years ago. Oh, and by the way Sandra, you're still a looker. If all of this liberal defence of those pesky homo's hasn't discouraged you.... I'm no bear.

I'm a tiger, baby. grrrr.... tiger.

Anyhow, when I lived in Wellington I had this one flat, well, dive really, I shared with a few suitably 'het' blokes. Actually, no, that's a lie, one of the guys was a bouncer at a bar on Ghuznee or Dixon Street (I can't remember which), but he doesn't count. Snorting excessive amounts of 'Rush', and making statements like 'I could only be a bouncer at a gay bar' doesn't necessarily maketh the man.

This flat was up a huge number of stairs behind Victoria Hall, a studentey, hostelley-type place on the Terrace. As I was leaving the flat one day, I happened to look up at the halls to see a bloke taking a slash out a fourth floor window. Now, the years have clouded the event and my role in it, which in all likelihood means I've put too much of a gloss on my own virtue and my glory days, but I seem to recall the conversation that followed going something like this.

Me: Good sir, please cease and desist this extravagant display!

Him: Nah, go get 'stuffed' ya 'flaming' big 'enjoyer of self-entertainment'!

Me: Why I never! Such language will result in someone calling the constabulary!

Him: Let them call the pigs ya 'fellator'!

Me: My word! Shall I be forced to issue an invitation to a duel with you good sir?!

At which point a second voice issued from the window, and said, "That you Tibby?" Strangely, it turns out that the roommate of the urinator in question was none other than the aforementioned little brother of Ms. Paterson.

To be honest, I found this pretty convenient. I haven't ever kicked anybody's ass, and trying to do so while they tried to shower me from four floors up was always going to be difficult. Following Little Brother’s invitation, I found my way through to their room and accepted an invitation to soothe ruffled feathers over a beer at a bar in town.

Now, this is where the story gets a little weird.

The boys were convinced that the place to drink at this time of day was a bar on Willis Street called 'Legends', because it had cheap pints and this great decor of 1950s pop idol prints a-la 'Burger King'. Having heard about the place I was however dubious, and asked the guys if they were sure they wanted to drink there. Asserting that they did, I double-checked just to be sure, and off we ambled.

Seated in the bar I looked around and confirmed my suspicions of the place. Big Marilyn photos, lots of James Dean, and the occasional Elvis, i.e. cliché city. More importantly though, the clientele was exactly what I had expected.

I questioned the boys about this.

Me: "So, you guys like this place?"

The Boys: "Yup, great place! Cheap piss, friendly crowd, close to the halls (etc.)"

Me: "Oh. So you don't think there's anything 'funny' about it?"

The Boys: "Nah. Why?"

Me: "Oh, dunno, except maybe those two blokes over there holding hands."

I don't think I've ever seen two people finish their drinks and exit a place so quickly in my life.

Good het bloke that Little Brother. Must be the upbringing.

PS. grrrr... tiger.

The rundown so far is that I turned around from Auckland pretty much straight away and headed for the Mount. The car trip had been exhausting, but hanging out with some rellies and an amazing curry laksa later (in New Lynn of all places) I was a little drunk and well-relaxed. After dropping off the Avis relocation and catching a shuttle to the Bay of Plenty I was back in the home country.

My first impression? Kiwifruit. One of my first jobs was picking fruit, until I got too tall, and that smell of the vines has stayed with me ever since. In fact, I still find kiwifruit a little unpalatable, so driving into Katikati and 'vine-funk' was at first alarming. You'll be glad to know I recovered pretty quickly though.

The next impression was amazement at how far and fast the Tauranga area has grown. Amazement. There's estates and big shiny houses everywhere. Everywhere. It is, in fact, 'fountain lakes' on the Bay. Whatever happened to that sleepy little town I grew up in?

At least they still dramatically underpay their service workers. It's always good to see consistency in an industry. My brother is a Chef, and he's usually offered less per hour than I was working for as a dishpig in Melbourne. Seriously. The minimum wage over there for any service job is $A16 p/h. But hey, peanuts and monkeys.

Anyhow, other than family the highlight was a day trip to attend a Political Science conference in Hamilton. It's been interesting watching the regulars develop in skills and theoretical sophistication over the years, from the early days when I myself could barely talk in front of a seminar or lecture.

I presented the usual and obligatory paper on 'nation-building', which regular readers of Club Politique may be familiar with. Fortunately, I managed to have the involuntary freak-out meter only ratcheted to 'half piss-scared', and not 'gawping fish-mouth paralysis', and delivered most of the info I wanted to get across. I also drew some useful criticism, so thanks to the academic community for that.

Much to my surprise, and despite my ordinary delivery of the paper, I was invited to attend a caucus of academics involved in the study of media. An interesting group, I must say. Since writing Club Politique I've let the vanity of the leash a little and started calling myself a 'commentator', mostly because 'weblogger' draws blank stares in places like Tauranga, so with any kind of luck might be able to tap this group for comment on occasion. We'll see.

The remainder of the conference was, to my mind, characterised by what I saw as a bit of a positive movement away from 'older' methods of talking about and theorising politics in New Zealand. I should add that this is only really in my field, but the movement was fascinating all the same.

Although I only attended that one day of the conference, and missed an interesting discussion of constitutional reform in New Zealand, the papers I did see were a fascinating reappraisal of the means to understand Treaty politics and indigenous governance. I'm happy to be corrected on this impression, as I was concerning my comments about that student protest trip to Wellington, but I thought I noticed a pronounced movement towards an 'engagement' and 'negotiation' style of understanding the topic.

A few years ago, actually more than a few years ago, many papers I attended centred on concepts like 'social justice', 'rights', or a 'fair go' for indigenous people. The drive behind the things being discussed was always that Maori or other minorities were being short-changed, ripped off, or marginalized, and that something had to be done about it.

I'm forming the opinion though that New Zealand is moving past this, both academically and in practice. There's been sniffs of this development in the literature for years, and 'negotiation' seems to have been a mantra in Wellington for a fair while now. Again, this is mostly based on an impression from a mere five or six papers, but if conventional wisdom is actually moving towards this new model it is, in my most humble of opinions, a good thing.

The centre of this issue is the way people all too often perceive minorities as 'bitching' about their status. Much of the effort to 'close the gaps' on the part of the majority stems from an acknowledgement that minorities like Maori are or were clearly disadvantaged, and that something needed to be done. It was also because having a minority able to indicate that it's being hard done by is internationally embarrassing. The old mantra that 'our Maoris' are better off than 'their Aborigines' is proof of this.

Unlike Aboriginal people though, Maori are slowly escaping the poverty trap and the gap between minority-majority is closing. Which, to my mind, leaves us as a society with the question of on what grounds preferential treatment of Maori by Government or educational institutions (for example) can continue? As I said, the old argument was essentially, 'give Maori a fair go', so now that they have a fair go, what's the basis for their difference itself? There's nothing to bitch about, so lets all get on with the business of being New Zealanders then.

Why engagement and negotiation seems to me to be important is that it acknowledges the continuing reality of 'Maori' as an identity distinction from 'New Zealander'. Look, if you're the sort of person who'd like to see a single identity dominate New Zealand, you're either a dreamer or a fool. Even back in the bad ol' days of the hard-core assimilation policy a separate Maori identity continued to survive, and the warm-fuzzy social justice days have only reinforced this difference.

And the conference reinforced my impression that the upcoming generation is thinking new, and ways are being devised, fleshed out and argued to make New Zealand work as an authentic and ongoing relationship between two peoples, and not the scene of a gradual decline of the minority. As I may have said before, maybe one day New Zealand might turn into a single people, but it will be because it happened cooperatively, and not because Maori were dissolved into the mainstream.

Anyhow, made it to Auckland again the day before yesterday, and enjoying the sights and sounds of the extremely picturesque Mt. Eden. Back in Melbourne on Monday, which with any luck will be thirty-five degrees, and I'll probably be wearing my new Tino Rangatiratanga t-shirt. Only ten bucks from a shop on Dominion Road. TEN BUCKS! Excellent.

One of the things I really enjoy is driving. Despite the gammy knee and the bad back I genuinely like forcing myself to sit behind the wheel of a car for hours at a time and daydream between bouts of concentration on traffic.

For this reason, I’ve always loved travelling here in New Zealand, the roads themselves are always interesting. This is of course because they have not to be overrated things like curves and stuff to look at. By way of contrast, the two biggest drives I’ve ever been on were from Melbourne to the Alice (four days one way), and LA to christknowswhere Mississippi (five days one way), and mostly involved desert roads that were straight for hundreds of kilometres. So you can imagine my comparative boredom on the longest single trip, which was Dallas, Texas to Phoenix, Arizona. Twenty-two hours with only pitstops and a trip to the Alien museum in Roswell, New Mexico. Was a little tired after that one, but had to get the car back to LAX.

Both these two big road-trips were amazing, but the parochial kiwi in me has to argue that they’re nothing like that trip straight up the centre through the slowly transforming landscape of the North Island. If you’ve never really ever driven Te Ika o Maui, or the Mainland for that matter, I’m going to have to ask what in the hell have you done with all your time? The North Island is simply some of the best scenery anywhere.

Now, I realise that scenery is one of those relative things. No matter where you are the landscape you’re looking at is always fantastic, it’s just one of those things about landscape. But after fifteen years of hitching and driving all over the place in every season, the majesty of Ruapehu summoning clouds to court its snowy peak, and the barren tussock of the Desert Road remains one of my favourite sights.

As a quick aside, in 96 a few of us took a chance for a free trip to Wellington from Auckland on a student protest. It was ridiculous, we went during Easter when there were no pollies to harass. Note to whomever organised that cock-up, you are a munter. I digress. A few of us were in a minivan and about to get to the aforementioned Desert Road, and we had a particular Queenslander I’ll call M. Tiberius with us. Being Aussie he was keen to see this mythic Desert.

His comment? “Desit! That ain’t a desit! You could put 50,000 head of sheep on that!”.

Regardless of the misnomer, I can always favourably compare that sight to walking the cliffs of the Grand Canyon, and feeling like I’m in a virtual IMAX theatre, or walking the base of Uluru, with tens of thousands of years of myth written into its walls (only suckers climb to the top for a view of sand), or waking in a tent to minus 15 degrees and a red dawn over the blood red mesas of the Monument Valley, or drinking iced tea under Spanish-moss drenched magnolias outside civil war mansions in the Deep South.

Yeah, I just love driving to places. Flying is all good, but obviously Quantas can’t stop in five or six different pubs along the same highway in South Australia and the Northern Territory for you to find that some crafty salesman has provided every one of them with exactly the same ‘Singing Fish’ wall trophy (or that every one of them wants to show it off. You push a button and the fish sings. The first two were funny, the rest, bizarre). American Airlines can’t provide you with exactly the same ‘shortstack with bacon and percolator coffee’ in every roadside diner from LA to Dallas (in Louisiana I had gumbo instead). And Air NZ can’t provide you with an entire pub full of people in Tokumaru Bay singing ‘Alice, Alice, who the…’.

You might have gathered from this that I finally left Wellington after only snooping up limited information for you. Best Goss? A cousin tells me that ‘Maori Party’ is a synonym for ‘Student Politicians’. Now there’s a surprise. Hopefully a term in Parliament will season any successful candidates.

After spending something like eleven hours on the X-Box Thursday, the whole time with my mode switched to ‘Holiday’, and not ‘Job-Seeker’ or ‘Researcher’, I piled into an Avis car relocation ($20 plus gas!) and drove up to Auckland on Friday. Two things struck me on the trip. Well, actually three things, but I’ve already gushed about the scenery.

No. Actually there’s four things. Did I mention you can’t buy Bacon and Egg pies in Victoria? If anyone asks ‘who ate all the pies?’ Che. I’m loading up on those things, having eaten about half dozen since arriving from Melbourne. And all this before I have to keep turning down gristle and cabbage stalk passed off as “steak mince”. The Great Australian Four and Twenty Pie? It might really be blackbird in there.

Anyhow, the first drama on the trip was the roadworks. Every fifty kilometres, fat blokes with shiny vests and lollipops. Sure, it’s good that they’re fixing every pothole between Wellington and Hamilton before the budget expires, but… Plus, its worse when I actually get to Auckland. Eight hours driving very slowly and then sitting in traffic on the Motorway? You can damn well keep that shit.

I reckon it’s about time you all woke up to the reality of public transport. You know, that way of getting to work where you get to sit next to the fat lady with BO? Or you end up talking to the hairy crazy guy who’s convinced he has the best conspiracy theory every? For instance that “Iraq is to harden up the Marines for invading Tehran”. But PT isn’t all that bad people.

Again, I LOVE driving. But that sitting in traffic bullshit is pointless.

OK, that second thing is the Police. In fifteen years I have never, ever seen so many patrol cars. Never. Haven’t these people got something better to do? Like maybe stop crime? Or rescue damsels in distress?

But before I get too carried away, let me tell you a little story about a mate in Melbourne who calls himself Wogfulla. Wogfulla is the most law-abiding citizen I’ve ever known. He gets pissed off at me for not indicating when sitting at a left turn only sign for example. Even when he’s in another car and watching me from two lanes away. Wogfulla, I’m in a left turn only lane, if the car behind me is wondering where I’m going then I’m wondering where they learned to drive.

So one time a few of us are in Portsea, a down the coast from Melbourne, and my car leaves earlier than his to head back to the city. We’re waiting around for Wogfulla at his place and when he hasn’t turned up after a fair while his girlfriend is getting a little worried. When he does finally get to the house he can’t stop smiling. Naturally, we ask him what the go is.

It seems that on his way home he was pulled over by two officers in a patrol car. An officer approaches Wogfulla’s car, and asks him politely if he knew the speed he was travelling. Wogfulla dutifully replies, “oh, 95 or 97 kmph?”. The officer then asks him to confirm his speed, and then states that he was indeed travelling at 97kmph, and asks for Wogfulla’s drivers licence.

Seeing that the officer seems to be writing him a ticket, Wogfulla asks what the problem is. Well, says the officer, the speed limit here is, of course, 70kmph. Wogfulla, a little confused, says, ummm, no, it’s actually a hundred. The officer denies this, but when Wogfulla insists, wanders back to his patrol car. After conferring briefly with the other officer, the first officer walks back to Wogfulla and asks, are you sure?

At this point, Wogfulla is asked to take the officer up the highway, onto an overbridge, back down the highway, and then back onto the highway again a few kilometres back. Driving along, Wogfulla points to a sign saying “100”. Then, a second sign saying “100”, and then, drops the officer back at his patrol car.

The officer says, umm, under the present circumstances, we will let you off this time. But, please don’t speed in future(!). Oh, and we’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone.

Wogfulla told everyone he knew.

The first mistake was to accept that last-minute and late plea to cover a shift at the bistro I used to dishpig for. But the boss was desperate and prepared to offer $A20 per hour. $20p/h, free meal and a few drinks after work with the old crew? You bet. But, it seems that I forgot what standing on my feet for six and a half hours was like. That, combined with being up to my armpits in kitchen filth was something I must have blanked from my mind in the last six months. Note to self, get real job or chefs will continue to call you a 'cat' (if you get my drift).

This meant that although the flight was early evening, and the money is holding me in good stead, having to get up early and sort out last minute stuff saw me a little short on sleep by the time I got to the airport for my impending trip to New Zealand. In turn, by the time I was making my way through customs on Thursday night I was already jet-lagged as all hell, having caught Air 'Inconsolable Child' across the Tasman and arrived near nid-night. A few Scotch's and a yarn later, some sleep on a couch. I love travel, last night must have been the first consistent five hours I've gotten since Wednesday.

Oh, and if you work for Air 'Inconsolable'? Your food is crap and the wine tastes watered down. Next time I'm flying Emirates or Singapore Airlines.

Whinging done.

My first impression of being back in Wellington is wonder at how much the place has come along since my first trip here in what must have been 1985. All I remember from those days is 'grey' and 'brown', but on a trip through Courtney Place on Friday night the place is humming. People smiling and eating al fresco, bright lights, and that feeling of something happening.

Then there's good old Cuba Street, my haunt from the early 90s. Still a few run-down old buildings to keep the character of the place, but the upturn down the Manners Mall end is a little staggering. That only-loved-by-true-locals bucket fountain is almost completely obscured by all the stuff happening around it!

I took a couple of days over the weekend to drive up to the Hawkes Bay for a Twenty-First and hitched back this morning. Second note to self. Twenty-Firsts were a long, long time ago, and you're not the party animal you used to be. Still, Kitty was a surprisingly good housemate in Melbourne, and the party coincided nicely with a conference in Hamilton next week (Yup, the word is 'junket'). What's more, a couple of mates from Melbourne close to my own age were across (i.e. a social buffer), and her oldies put on a great spread. Best damn catering I've seen in years, I must have gorged and watered myself non-stop for the whole two days, with nothing but tales of Melbourne to pay for my room and board.

If there's one thing I've forgotten about in Melbourne it’s hills. In fact, you can put mountains in there too. The drive up through the Wairarapa was amazing. So, so much green after years of brown and tan. I think one thing all Kiwis take for granted is just how great the scenery is in this place. Being able to stop and look at the majesty of the Rimutakas and the Ruahines was, at the risk of sounding campy, delightful.

But walking up the Terrace to pay an outstanding bill at the Waitangi Tribunal? You can keep it. Pesky damn hills. I say level the buggers.

Anyhow, today I'm drinking good(ish) coffee at a place called Fidels near the corner of Cuba and Abel Smith Streets. There's a Real Groovy on the Corner I'm checking out when I finish lunch, which just arrived. It's a chicken curry laksa and its..... really good.

Even better, the bloke who owns Fidels also runs a place just round the corner (next to Havana Coffee) with decent kiwi beer and yet another good vibe. Seeing so many people with tribal tattoos was kinda cool, having forgotten was New Zealand was really like, but Absolutely Positively Wellington? Yup. A Friday night with good people, no wankers and great sounds. I think the real trick will be to not bankrupt myself on food and nights out over the next two weeks.

I'll keep this post short, as that bargain bin at Real Groovy is calling to me, but I will hint that I might be able to schmooze up some good info about the 'too-ings' and 'fro-ings' here in the Capital for you all over the next few days. We'll see.

And god forbid I should find any work while I'm here, after selling myself to RB as 'Melbourne Correspondent', 'Wellington Correspondent' doesn't quite carry the same cache. Although being referred to as 'the famous weblogger' by some old mates here in town did appeal to my vanity. Cheeky bastards.