on paranoia

A Russian blogger, Dmitry Solovyov, was arrested yesterday, essentially for having criticised the police and security forces on LiveJournal. How did this become a crime?
The charges against him claim that the posts were made "with the aim of inciting hatred and hostility against a social group among an indefinite number of people" and that they undermine "the foundations of the constitutional system and the state's security," The matter has been turned into a criminal case as "Solovyov is suspected of actions aimed at inciting hatred or hostility and humiliating a group of people depending on their affiliation with certain social groups, such as Interior Ministry and FSB officers" claim more authorities. And now it seems they are trying to use technology to identify all the people who posted comments on the blog, I suppose to arrest them as well? If the authorities think this will make the problem go away, they are predictably wrong. I had never heard of this guy or his blog until he was arrested, but I shall be googling it now!

death in the UK

So the british press has spent the past week covering in depth the deaths of two country’s celebrities.

Natasha Richardson died in a freak ski accident on Wednesday. She was sort of my family’s favourite actress, or rather, various members of her family were. (my dad often preferred Vanessa, my mother always like Corin). My mother like Richardson best in the Parent Trap, my father I think would vote for her role in the White Countess, and I liked her best live, in Caberet. My mother once commented that both Richardson and her mother, Vanessa Redgrave, were in their very different ways so stereotypically English. That her death caused such an outpouring of sadness in so many circles in this country suggests my mother had a point.

Yet stereotypically English can apparently mean many things. Richardson had class and style, and she always seemed to carry herself with dignity and discretion in public. She spoke English with a posh accent and her French was fluent. Yet the over the top outpouring of grief over the death of Jade Goody suggests that is not necessarily the image all people in this country connect with.

There are few people on this planet seemingly less destined for stardom than Goody was, and how she turned herself into a multi-millionaire still rather perplexes me. But then, it seems she represented an image many people….respected? Stephan Fry called her a ‘Princess Di from the wrong side of the tracks’ one of the mourners outside her house called her ‘our Essex Princess.’ She notoriously shot to fame by wondering on camera what asparagus might be, and if ‘East Angular’ was abroad. Contrary to all traditional stereotypes of Britishness, she was loud, abrasive and crude, and the public loved it. Perhaps we should not be surprised. The stereotypes of British coolness is both antiquated and classist. Britain has far more Jade Goodys in it than Natasha Richardsons

the future

“Saca la cuenta, un tercio de las horas de tu vida se gastarán durmiendo, un tercio trasladándote de un lado para otro y cumpliendo rutinas, y el tercio más interesante se te irá trabajando, por eso es major hacerlo en algo que te guste.”



Excellent advice….but how to implement it?



Advice anyone?

networking

This week I had to attend a “networking” event for Russians in London (read “pianka”).
For reasons beyond my comprehension, this event was held on a boat. Every time another boat went by, ours would shake and bobble about, which as the evening wore on and people became progressively more intoxicated, proved to be a lethal combination.
The crowd was predictably scary. There were lots of business men in expensive suits, and lots of women who looked like they were….um…in a different sort of business.
It took me one quick survey of the scene to realise I was
the only non- Russian woman there
the shortest woman there
the darkest woman there
the worst dressed woman there
the ugliest woman there
the only, um, non for profit woman there.

My colleagues and I took over a leather sofa in the corner and studied these creatures (the men were not really worth studying)

and we drank

and obviously at some moment i had to go to the toilet. i got in ok, but after i flushed and attempted to leave the stall...something happened to the door and it JUST WOULD NOT OPEN!!
i shook it, i pulled at it....but nothing. finally a female voice shouted "pomoch?" whereupon i explained my predicament. to cut a long and pathetic story short, i was liberated from my toilet cell by three coke-snorting prostitutes. when the door swung open and i looked up at my 6 foot tall blonde liberators, i felt like a troll being released from an underground pit.

i might need to change jobs.

on reading 2

I have been devouring the world of ebooks.
It is amazing the volume of material out there: I have been rereading hemingway again, after over a decade. And Ernesto sabato. And enjoying Tzvetan Todorov for entirely personal and non-academic reasons! This is all pure escapism. Monday and Tuesday I found myself in a conference on the financial crisis. The banking sector is falling apart, and no one has any idea when the bottom will become visible. One of the major presenters at the conference (head of a large division at RBS) introduced himself saying “at RBS we do now sell postage stamps in addition to our other services.” I have heard the same comments over and over again the past few months. My brain is exhausted from the gloom and doom, mainly because I simply have no clue what to do about it all, other than to desperately try to remain employed, at least somewhere. I am at a loss for other solutions. So I sit back and enjoy fiction. And some of Bob Woodward’s books on the last Bush administration, which read like fiction, even if they are unfortunately more reality than not. My mind drifts over to japananese manga. Then on to Hungarian fiction. I giggle through a travelogue on Buenos aires. It is not that I am trying to ignore reality, I just don’t know what else to do with it, and I figure I might as well enjoy my time as best I can, until I come up with a more productive use of it.

building a glorious new future

In the aftermath of the revolution, the world had to be recreated anew, rejecting everything that could be possibly connected to the old. This creation had to take place in every sphere of life: in politics, education, the army, and not least, in visual culture. At the vanguard of visual reimaginings of the homeland were Aleksandr Rodchenko and Lyubov Popova. There work is currently on display at Tate Modern, and I had a wander through on Saturday. Construction art equated the artist with the engineer, as both were building the new society emerging around them. The rendering of the visual into the useful was the aim of Rodchenko and Popova, and they cultivated seriousness as a way of life. The exhibit features one of Rodchenko’s sculptures, which doubled as a Newspaper Kiosk, while Popova additionally designed patterns for the clothes of the workers. Yet my favourite part of the exhibit was the advertising section from the NEP era. Although such work was produced decades before my birht, it reminded me of my childhood. The style of production Rodchenko and Popova pioneered has lingered to the present. The theatre posters looked nearly identical to those on display outside Russian theatres today. The poster for Red October biscuits looked similar to some I used to have hanging in my room. I love the clean lines, the direct messages and the kitschy symbolism. And I was impressed that large numbers of non-Russians were showing up for this (not inexpensive) display of constructivism abroad.

reading

Using means I shall not reveal publically, I have managed to get entire collections of works by some of my favourite South American writers in pdf form on my laptop. This is important because it would be unprofessional to be seen in the office, or in an important conference, sitting and reading a book. Yet for some reason, it is absolutely normal to be sitting in those same places looking intensely at the computer. Furthermore, as these pdfs are in a language few in England speak, I think I can just about get away with it. Of course I am meant to be doing other things, but with the state of the world economy in freefall….i wouldn't get too far even if I exhausted myself trying.
So I started with Carlos Fuentes's Los anos con Laura Diaz. I love Fuentes, but this book leaves me cold. It is a sweeping 20th century epic, as Laura finds herself witness to every revolution and upheaval of the age. Yet while there are fascinating moments, the book reads more like an attempt to fictionalise a history text than a story, set in a historic setting. Too many of the characters are flat, more symbols of their era than believable personalities. So, when they die, I find myself not caring in the slightest.
So I go back and reread Aura, one of Fuentes' older works. It is really a novella, so I finish it in the afternoon. It is one of the creepiest stories I know. I first read it back when I was in school, and I marvel now that the teachers dared give such a work to a bunch of teenagers. I doubt they would today. Tomorrow, feeling an urge for some pop culture influence, I think I shall move on to Manuel Puig
Reading Los anos con Laura Diaz reminded me a bit too much in its aftertaste of a film I saw recently, Clint Eastwood's production Gran Torino. Like Fuentes' book, this film, should have been a real masterpiece. Yet…somehow too many of the characters remain flat, never really evolving into people I care about. So while you stay riveted to the plot just to see how it will all end, the feeling isn't there somehow.
Yet such was not the case with Revolutionary Road, which I saw after arriving jet lagged back in London. Possibly one of the best films I have seen in the past year, every character here is grimly believable. It is not an easy film to watch, but it was certainly worth it, and I recommend it to anyone looking for a good film.
And if anyone has any nice thick books in pdf to recommend me, I shall be more than grateful.

KL

I like big, modern Asian cities. In particular, I like their anonymous height. My hotel room is on the 30th floor of a huge modern sky scraper. I am sure my father (who hates such things) would say it was ‘characterless,’ but I quite like things that way. It is modern and comfortable. I have a huge bed, and a remote control that does everything from monitor the temperature, to control all the light switches. If I am in bed and I want it warmer, I just press the plus button and everything is taken care of. And then there is the view. I love standing at my window and watching the traffic below. I love staring at the other skyscrapers, none of which are quite close enough for me to see in or for anyone to see me. I could stand totally naked at my window (not that I have) and no one would see me. But I can see the first trains, monorails, go by in the early morning, and watch the men on their scooters racing off to work. I can watch the sun turn funny colours as it falls quickly in the west, and the bright lights of the space age buildings in front of me switch on.

Malaysia

This country is culinary heaven. I have always travelled on my stomach, but rarely do I fine countries where the hungry beast of my innards if truly satisfied. This is partly my fault. I am, after all, a vegetarian (by allergy, not by choice) and this makes it harder. India remains my all time food favourite, but I think Malaysia will join Thailand close to the top of my food list. Part of the reason I like it is the huge variety: as the advert has been telling us for the past decade, Malaysia is truly Asia. There is a real mix of the continent here, with large Malay, Chinese and Indian populations. Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism and Confucianism all exist side by side. Culturally, the mix is fascinating. From the culinary perspective, it is divine. One thing I love about Asia is that it is one of the only places where hotels serve a breakfast I actually want to eat. I hate the continental breakfasts that most hotels in Europe and the Americas serve, so I was delighted to go downstairs this morning to find the European stuff on one side, and the rice, soup, eggs and vegetables on the other. I attacked gleefully. The prices also help. I had a delicious lunch in a small restaurant in Chinatown for under 1 pound, so I splurged for dinner- I spent 2 pounds and had a feast!! Everything was so fresh and tasteful, I was in heaven. My biggest dilemma has been- is it acceptable to have something you KNOW you like again, for the pleasure of it, or should you force yourself to try something new? I seem to consistently end up doing both.

sydney

When travelling, I always enjoy being able to catch up with old acquaintances, not just because they are people I like, but also because they can add so much to the experience in a place through their insights. So I was delighted to have the opportunity to sit down in a bar with my old work colleague from Paris. We left Paris within a month of each other, as I went on to London for the PhD and she decided to return home. I think we both had got fed up with France, for similar reasons. After catching up on the past 3.5 years of our lives, I took advantage of Johanna’s native Sydney/Australian status to quiz her about some matters that had been on my mind. Since returning to Sydney, she has done well in the local theatre scene, of which I had heard many good things. She described it as “small by intense” which I suppose is enough to keep one stimulated. She confirmed and complained about the beer scene, claiming she and her friends avoid the city centre and certain other areas on weekend evenings. According to her, there just isn’t that much to do in Sydney in the evening if you have no personal or cultural interests (such as the theatre, or cinema). So, guys get blasted and get in their convertibles and drive around the city in circles, honking at women and mates whom they happen to encounter. They then move on to pubs where they get even more hammered. I had gathered this myself, based on the strange signs I kept seeing on pubs saying things like “entry and reentry forbidden between 2 and 6am.” Next I asked about the Chinese. There are really a lot of them in Sydney. Walking around with my father and his friends, we often found ourselves the only white people in the area. At one point Bob (one of our travelling companions) asked if there was anyone left in China, at which point I reminded him that there are after all 1.3 billion of them. Yet when I asked Johanna what the draw of Australia was for Chinese, she looked uncomfortable and whispered it wasn’t PC to talk about such things. She then went on to say that most were not tourists, but often students living and studying in Sydney. I personally found the Asian presence in Sydney fascinating. I wandered into one bookshop in the centre and found myself surrounded by more manga than I had ever even imagined existed. One half of the shop was in Chinese, the other half in Japanese. If I lived in this part of the world, I would totally make the effort to learn one of those two, it seems like such a great opportunity, especially as you could clearly actually use the languages. I asked Johanna if Australians went to Asia much. It seems Fiji is a popular destination, although I have difficulty imagining why given that Australia’s own beaches are lovely. Hong Kong is a major destination as well. Some of her friends had gone to Tokyo, but she bucked the trend and recently went to New Caledonia instead, wanting to hear some French again. Through our conversation, I think I gained some better insight into Sydney, and I am grateful for having such connections in odd places to allow for that. I can see the appeal of living here. The living standard is much higher than, for example, in Britain. The flats are MUCH better built, the transport system is better (not a big achievement there though) and there are fresher and cheaper fruits and vegetables than we get in most of Europe. The climate is certainly better, and the people look much healthier. They have an excellent sports infrastructure, and athletics is something they take very seriously. The nature is beautiful naturally, but also beautifully maintained. There were exquisite botanic gardens in every Kiwi and Aussie town I visited, and they were all being actively enjoyed by the locals. The beaches are gorgeous and, like in Brazil, they belong to everyone- there are no private beaches, so the rich cant try to hog the best of nature. Furthermore, it is in many ways an egalitarian society, which I also like. I couldn’t imagine living in New Zealand (too end of the earth) but I could see Sydney….for a year or two. Yet I don’t know if I could ever live in a place like this permanently. Is it perhaps too close to perfection, like Canada? Too sterilized? I really don’t know.

hair and clothes

During the past few weeks, especially aboard the ship, I had to attend several formal dinners. The ship’s instructions always specify “cocktail dress for women, tuxedos for men.” Last year, my mother telephoned me in Chile to warn me about this detail, and I ended up going shopping last minute in Santiago. My father always gets away with just a jacket, shirt and tie, but I decided to go for the different this time around. Since we were in an appropriate part of the world, I asked my mother to send me her old prom dress. My mother went to secondary school in the mid 60s, in the South Pacific, and she has a few interesting outfits to prove it, none of which she ever wears. so I decided to appropriate the mumu and use it for my formal evenings. This had the strange result of turning me into an Asian Lady Magnet. Asian ladies, both crew and guests kept coming over to admire my outfit, and were particularly amazed when I told them it was my mothers, and over a decade older than I am. I guess seeing a white person dressed in Polynesian traditional clothing is strange, but imagining that one did so 40 years ago must be mind boggling.
My father approved of the mumu, but not of my hair. Working 7 days a week in London for the past 8 months meant that some things just didnt get done, and cutting my hair was one of those. Pulled down straight, it was rapidly approaching my waist, and in the humidity of Auckland or Sydney, it was a bit frightening. So my father hauled me off to the hairdressers and ordered them to cut off what they saw fit. I guess he didn’t realise that in Australia they would have their own way of dealing with hair. Not only did 10 inches get chopped off, but I got a special treatment, which seemed to consist largely of salt, that is guaranteed to make my hair look like I just got back from the beach. Walking about Sydney, it looks pretty cool, I have to confess. But I am starting to wonder- what will it look like in the grey of a Northern European winter?

melbourne

I think I managed to explode every stereotype of Melbourne in my first 10 minutes. Before I set out on my journey, all the Australians I met warned me the weather could be really crap, at any time of the year. I was told to bring a jumper and prepare for “four seasons in one day.”
But when I stepped of the ship I knew it was hot, really really hot. By midday, the temperature had reached 45.3 degrees. I was delighted, of course, as this is my absolute ideal temperature, but I was clearly in the minority. Despite all stereotypes of Australia being a hot country, the city proved utterly incapable of dealing with such heat. By early afternoon, the transport system had essentially ceased to function and a major power outage had forced many offices to close.
Those same Australians had described Melbourne as the “cultural capital” with “good shopping” and slightly more sophisticated people. Again, I must have a talent. I had three vulgar sex jokes before my tram arrived, and literally the first sign I saw in the city featured a huge map of Australia, with “fuck off, we’re full” written in the middle. The two kiwis with me were by this time nearly dying with peals of laughter, citing their former Prime Minister’s oft quoted statement that the large migration of Kiwis to Australia “raises the IQ of both countries.”
Oh, and the shopping was quite provincial and, well, rubbish.
Despite all of this, however, Melbourne did have its benefits. The flats, especially those near the harbour, were absolutely stunning, with a great combination of glass and local wood to create a feeling of endless openness, but without roasting in the heat. The downtown is incredibly clean and liveable with huge parks everywhere. The next day the temperature went back down to a cool 38 and the shops were all open again. Furthermore, the public transport was FREE, because the authorities wished to APOLOGIZE for their poor performance the day before. Hearing that, I thought I might faint. The local explaining it to me was very earnest, feeling that this was only right. And of course she was perfectly correct, but I doubt many other transport systems around the globe would be similarly moved in such conditions.

another stanley

There is something about towns named Stanley. Every one I have been to has had an end of the world feel. The last Stanley I found myself in was the capital of the Falkland islands. So I got a bit nervous when I saw street signs in Northwest Tasmania directing me to yet another Stanley.
Stanley, Tasmania does indeed feel like the end of the world, but at least it is a beautiful end. It is on a peninsula, with clean blue water visible all around from most places. There is a hill in the middle, and we took a ski lift up to the top to get a complete view of the area. Below, you could see kids playing on the white sands of the beaches below. Above, it was scorching- at least 40 degrees, not that I have ever minded the heat.
Later we followed an aboriginal to their territory (returned to the community some years back by the government). Their territory is immense, but you have to wonder how people survive. It must have been a brutal existence at best. Yet the aboriginals lived there for 40,000 years (and maybe longer) before the arrival of whites. And their way of life changed very little in this time, so clearly their techniques worked some how.
Our guide Never Never (so named, as apparently he was never never to be found be sought…aboriginals often get their names after a few years of life, we were told) showed us where and how they caught fish, and where they lived during the different seasons. He explained the sharp division that exists between “women’s business” and “men’s business” and how the two cannot be blurred. He told us that until 1968, aboriginals were not classified as citizens in Australia, and when they died, their deaths were reported to the flora and fauna department, as though a tree had been knocked over. He described how he had stopped going to school when he was young because the white kids called him nigger and anyway, it was more exciting to be out in the bush with his grandfather, Pop Jiggles, learning how to hunt down mutton birds (you have to grab them in their hole, keeping your arm low so as not to be bitten by a snake, of which there are many, but they need to get their heads up in the air at least 6 inches in order to bite). He bemoaned the numerous social ills that plague the aboriginal communities- alcoholism, wife beating and teen pregnancy. A hardened man, but an interesting one to talk to. We got up to leave an he said with dead seriousness “thank you for respecting my culture.”

Milford Sound

As much as I love photography, I realise there are some images too stunning to be captured on film, just as there are some places so phenomenal that nothing I write here will do them justice. Take the fjordland of New Zealand. It is everything trite you get on a postcard- misty jagged peaks, glaciers, pristine lakes, and waterfalls at every turn. The area is New Zealand at its most raw, and it is amazing. Having realised that my pictures and future words would only do the area an injustice, I sat on the bow of the ship and just watched as we sailed into the sound. Although the area is one of the rainiest in the world, getting an average of 3 metres of rain per year, we had nothing but clear blue skies. The captain said he hadn’t seen weather so nice in over a year. Just as we passed to the right of a spectacular glacier, a group of about 15 dolphins decided to join us. They came up alongside the boat, jumping up in the air and doing all kinds of strange flips and turns as the hopped out of the water. We all sat and stared in amazement. Even the captain said that never in his life had he seen something so….magically weird.

On Gambling

To my great surprise, my father has got semi addicted to the casinos on our ship. I find this incredible, as he is normally very tight with money- I mean, he was born in Glasgow after all, and a Scot and his cash are separated only with the greatest difficulty. At least so goes the stereotype. But something about the randomness of mindless gambling seems to entertain him. I cant understand it really. He gave me 5 dollars to play with on the slot machines, but to be honest, I was bored by the time I had spent 3. I find it hard to get excited by something that requires nothing but luck, especially as I am not particularly lucky. My father did slightly better. With his first 5 pounds, he won 44 dollars, and decided he could use that money to keep going, although he would not allow himself to invest more. While he played away, I watched the other players, which I found far more interesting than playing myself. Some of them were clearly in a zombie stage of addiction, with glazed eyes glued to the screens as their fingers mechanically pressed the same combination of buttons time after time. Others were filled with the excitement of the relatively new player who, like my father, has had a little bit of success and hopes for more. I am convinced the house will always win, which is part of the reason I don’t enjoy playing. But some even have theories about that. One elderly lady assures me it is all rigged from the start- you can only win big on the first two nights of the ship’s voyage. That way, everyone else on the ship will quickly hear the stories of those who did win, and become convinced that they too could win big….but they cant, as they winnings have been already dished out, and the next round is only in a different lifetime….

Dunedin

Dunedin claims to be the most Scottish city outside of Scotland. Actually, the name means “Edinburgh” in Gaelic. The funny thing about the Scots is that they seem to always choose the place abroad that most resembles home when looking to settle. I suppose this is normal for any emigrating group, but you would think human nature would encourage a bit more of a desire for progress. Thus, not surprisingly, it appears Dunedin has some of the worst weather in New Zealand. We arrived in the morning and the whole town was shrouded by fog, so you could barely make out the surrounding mountains. Everything else in the town is a bit of a replica of the motherland as well (lots of stone and Presbyterian churches). It was a bit eerie. My father seemed quite content, especially after he realised he could haggle in the antique shops, and we saw all of them in Dunedin as a consequence. Even I ended up buying myself a wood chest….how I will get it home is an entirely separate issue however. One of the major features of the town is its spectacular train station….although no passenger trains have passed by since 2001. There are weatherboard houses of varying size and hilltop views overlooking the harbour. J and j invited us to their house, so we could see (again) how “real Kiwis” live. I had to wonder if this was not a bit taking the piss, but it couldn’t have been- they couldn’t have known that every other private home we had seen had been equally amazing. So their house is on a hill, with a view over the harbour. It has 6 bedrooms and the same number of bathrooms. It is high Victorian, and has been beautifully restored. It is filled with (too many in my view) antiques they have spent decades collecting. And because j’s parents are ailing and struggle with the numerous staircases, it is currently on the market for 500,000 New Zealand dollars. You might be able to get a one bedroom for that price on the outskirts of London, but that would take some luck…which makes me wonder yet again, what the point is?

the guessing game

Travel allows for odd encounters, especially when there is dead time to fill: waiting in an airport or sailing across the Tasman Sea, you find yourself talking to people you wouldn’t ordinarily notice. Sometimes these random encounters are with locals, especially in countries (Chile comes to mind) where being foreign attracts curiosity. While other times, you end up talking to other foreigners. (I never met more Israelis than in India!) And for some reason, I am one of those people random strangers likes to talk to. I always have been and I have never understood why.
I also like observing people from afar, and then trying to establish if my presumptions were indeed correct. I think it is based on a weird game my mother, aunt and I used to play when I was little in cafes in Paris. We would stake out a café in an area likely to attract a mix of people and try to imagine their backgrounds. This was probably all invented to keep me still and quiet long enough for them to enjoy their coffee and cakes, but the habit somehow stuck with me. But I still make egregious errors in my assumptions. The other day I saw a man who looked like me image of the stereotypical American monster. Potbellied, dressed all in denim (with those horrid, huge white trainers they only sell in the US), and wearing a baseball cap in public. I couldn’t resist, I walked over and started a conversation. Sure enough, he was from Texas (no surprise there) but when I asked about (the now thankfully out of power) Bush, I got a surprise. “That bastard was the biggest embarrassment the state ever suffered.” A long speech on Bush’s (many) failures followed. I was a bit taken aback- I had got the location, but totally misjudged the man.
Other times, I am more accurate. Sitting down in the breakfast room, I looked over to see a fellow who immediately triggered a bell in my head indicating ‘Australian for sure, probably from the Gold Coast.’ As it turned out, I was spot on. When the fellow got up to leave (after telling us loudly about surfers’ paradise and the time he got caught coming out of the wrong bedroom, oops, end of that marriage), the rather quiet Kiwi who had been (literally) sitting in his shadow asked me why God had not been born in Australia. “Why?” I asked, as required. “because they couldn’t find three wise men or a virgin.” Ouch. I supposed even in this globalised age, stereotypes are still alive and well.
And then there is D. D exudes quiet confidence. When he speaks (quietly, never raising his voice), everyone stops to listen. Whenever a leader is needed to represent others, people just automatically look to him. When he sits down to gamble, he wins 1,000 dollars the first move, and quits. His suits are of the highest quality, his wife is immaculate (in her 70s) and even after several chats with them, I have no clue what he did when he was working. Looking at him, he could be any nationality, and although he is clearly an older gentleman, he could be 65 or 85, you really cant tell. Now there is my idol- a true man of mystery.

christchurch

The strange thing about New Zealand is that I find the smaller towns much nicer than the cities, which is quite strange as I normally detest any place with a population below the million mark. Christchurch is infinitely nicer and than Wellington, however, despite being smaller (and not the capital). It too has a truly stunning and enormous botanical garden, but its centre is more cute and pleasant. I am amazed by the fact that is seems every town, regardless of size, has a massive public garden. This is clearly something that is central to the kiwi way of life. Even so, the botanic garden in Christchurch was over the top. It is the third largest public garden in the world, apparently, after Hyde Park and Central Park. It was filled with incredible plants even my father (who actually knows about these things) could not identify. I climbed some of the trees that were so massive that my father couldn’t get the whole width of the trunk into a photograph. Later, after several hours in the gardens, we moved on to investigate the town, which was pleasant and user friendly. I am reaching the conclusion that the South Island is much prettier than the North, and that, contrary to the seeming logic of geography, it is warmer as well. I am not sure how this is possible, but so far the evidence indicates it is!

picton

I used to think that one had to always behave very properly and correctly in front of old people, to the point of hypocrisy. I suppose I thought that after some undefined age, people stopped being fun and having lives and turned into boring and conservative monsters. However, since I started travelling with older people I have understood how totally wrong I was. Take alcohol for example.
Old people can drink, and they have no inhibitions about when and where they choose to get totally plastered. They have no problems taking me off to a vineyard for wine testing at 10am and proceeding to drink excessively before lunch. “what the fuck do I care?” asked Suzanne (age 85) “I can get drunk, eat loads, and if I fall asleep, everyone will just think it is because I am old!” Suzanne is amazing. She qualified as a medical doctor at a time when few women were going to university at all, and has an incredibly sharp tongue. The other morning I asked her how she was doing and she answered “terrible, I am old and decrepit, how the fuck do you think I feel?” It is refreshing to get honest answers to routine questions.
But back to the vineyard, we went through all the steps of seeing how wine is made, and then moved on to the sampling. Four glasses later, they brought out huge quantities of food, so we could see how the wine went with different tastes, although my mouth had already lost all sensitivity to nuance. But I sat there and still tried to behave correctly. Suzanne through her glass in the air and smashed it against a wall. Another old man got up to dance. None of them gave a toss about what anyone thought. I suppose this is the privilege of being old.

wellington

As we sail, the nature around us is stunning. It seems in every direction, there are mountains partly covered by low-lying clouds, or mist rising mysteriously up from the incredibly clear water. It was the last piece of land of any significance to be inhabited by people, who arrived from Polynesia only 700 years ago. Until that point, the place was filled by just the plants and animals, with no natural predators anywhere on the island. The only mammals were bats. As a result, there are loads of weird birds here found only in New Zealand, and the place maintains an empty feel that seems to constantly remind one that until relatively recently, we weren’t here at all.

Thus not surprisingly, the most interesting part of Wellington is the Botanical gardens, which are truly stunning and enormous. Yet Wellington itself, like Auckland, offers little in the way of urban charm. Again, the architecture is a strange mix of glass boxes and older buildings. The natural backdrop is immense, but not enough has been done to integrate the urban planning with the setting. As capitals go, Wellington makes even Ottawa look positively cosmopolitan and sophisticated, it is a provincial (albeit pleasant) backwater. Yet again, the standard of living is high, and many are clearly content with their lot. We had tea next to a couple who confessed to have never travelled to the South Island a few hours away, and who didn’t find this strange (they had been to Melbourne though- twice!). In some ways New Zealand appears to represent what Britain once was, or what some claim it once was: a prosperous and somewhat puritanical country of polite if rather parochial people. People here have easy access to private property. The dream of having a detached home on owned land is within the reach of most, nutrition is good and everything everywhere is user friendly. I ask my father if this is what Britain was like in the 50s and he says in many ways yes, but that Britain was not so prosperous, it was after all the austerity period then, with rationing continuing well into the decade. Hardly a wonder so many left at that time to come here.