Following the close of New Zealand’s so-called Fertility Week, I am left chewing on two notable points: Women’s fertility is at an all time low; Men’s sperm count has approximately halved over past decades.

Obviously, at least as I see it, this is nature’s way of regulating the planet’s burgeoning population – it makes perfect sense that human fertility should be dropping off at around the same time that Earth’s population is at risk of reaching an unsustainable level – yet the Medical Profession is using science to ensure that any person who does wish to procreate – big or small, young or old, clever or daft, attractive or ill-favoured – is able to do just this.

Forget ‘natural selection’ and ‘survival of the fittest’, as compassionate human beings we seem to uphold the belief that – irrespective of gene quality, physical aptitude, medical history or indeed, basic human goodness; even in this time where it is becoming apparent that the issue of ‘too many people’ is destined to be the downfall of mankind – breeding is still every person’s right..?

For years men’s sperm count has been not only dwindling, those sperm that do remain in existence are becoming progressively lethargic, meaning a swimmer’s chances of coming home to a protein-rich feed of egg are lower today than ever before; add to that, cases of endometriosis – a condition which will likely affect a woman’s ability to reproduce – are at an all time high (further evidence that Mother Nature is crying out for reprieve) yet Medical Science is doing everything in its power – then repeating this act as many times as is necessary – to ensure that every woman, even those clearly fated to never give birth, has the opportunity to make a baby or two.

Surely, as people of the Human Race we have noticed the massive increase in the number of homosexual couples across the world (that’s right folks, ‘homosexual’ denotes male and female), which surely leads us to deduce that the conventional (breeding) pair of man and woman, at least in the eyes of our increasingly conservative Mother Nature, is becoming less conducive to Her future survival; yet bizarrely we now have same-sex couples raising children, which mightn’t actually be so bad if they adopted – of course our selfish human nature won’t stand for that – but ridiculously the majority of modern same-sex couples are out there harvesting sperm and/or eggs then going out and making a brand spanking new, albeit largely artificial, baby.

Additionally confronting is the way that Political Correctness has become such a large part of human breeding; hundreds of years ago the weak or disabled among us were considered inferior, were given less opportunity at life thus were much less likely to procreate than the strong – hence natural selection. Thousands of years ago children born with disabilities or malformations, within a few years of life – sometimes immediately upon birth – were mercilessly sacrificed to the gods, which might also be considered an effective form of selective breeding.

Today, in the animal kingdom, if you are weak, simply, you will not survive. If you are a weak male, unequivocally, you will not breed. This perpetuates a premium lineage, breeding a strong gene-pool, ensuring optimal future success.

Today though we celebrate our lesser-able individuals; we ensure they have every opportunity at life, and of course we encourage breeding regardless of circumstance.

Today we have impoverished African nations where, despite having none of the wherewithal required to raise children, there are mothers who are compelled to continuously add to their brood, and who then despair because they cannot feed their youngest.

Today we have an industry dedicated to curing or mitigating the effects of disease; thus because there are no longer such high numbers succumbing to these terrible illnesses, many of the people who, twenty years ago, would be dead are not, meaning that global turnover – the birth/death ratio inherent to this world’s survival – has been thrown severely out of equilibrium.

Today we have criminals who, upon leaving prison, despite their violent/thieving/abusive/shitheaded histories, seem to have no trouble finding a nicely damaged woman willing to mother their child/ren thus prolonging this toxic gene-pool; as ‘people’ we put so much weight in ‘human rights’, ‘humane treatment of man’, ‘equal rights’ and such, it appears to be a truth that either we are genuinely overlooking or simply we refuse to see, but for some folk, breeding ought to be rendered a physical impossibility.

Today procreation is considered a right that we believe every person on Earth ought to be granted; I believe we ought to take a look around our planet and perhaps rethink that liberty.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Rick Lass Breiding

Photography by Will Callous Awl

The 2018 Pyeongchang Winter Olympics concluded Sunday night with a spectacular closing ceremony, exactly as one would expect from a finale.

According to resources, where ‘final’ is described simply as ‘coming at the end; last’, a ‘finale’ is said to be the ‘last part or piece of music, an entertainment, or a public event’…

Indeed a ‘finale’ ought to have something special about it; unlike a final, a finale is not just the last thing, it’s the last part.

…I had been lucky enough to catch coverage of the final figure-skating event earlier that night, a discipline I particularly enjoyed – as an avid fan of dance (but an even bigger fan of gorgeous female figures adorned in frilly skirts and spandex body-suits) I, admittedly, even found the men’s singles a breathtaking watch – where, following the competition, the skaters congregated once more for, what the commentator perfectly described as, ‘the finale’…

Coming annually, the final show of a television series should in no way be referred to as a ‘finale’, yet each year I am forced to cringe as I hear about how I ‘simply cannot miss the Shorty Street season finale’; prompting the thinking, ‘Seriously? Are they going to do something special this year? Are they actually doing something different from their B-Grade acting and predictable plotlines – something spectacular – like an actual finale?’

…Similar to a Broadway show (or I guess, to a lesser extent, an X Factor results show), on Sunday night I watched as the skating troupe put on one last, stunningly choreographed, visual delight for their audience; it was brilliant – it was a true finale…

No doubt most people believe that because the French-sounding version of the word ‘finale’ (which turns out to actually be Latin) appears more elegant thus intelligent to listening ears, this is obviously the preferable of the two; as if forgetting the fact that these are two different words for a reason and technically they have two different – albeit nuanced – meanings.

…I then watched as the Olympic Athletes from Russia played Germany in the final ice hockey match of the Olympic tournament. As my first ever viewing of a game of ice hockey the frantic pace, the transcendent skills and coordination; the impact of the collisions had me captivated right until the end – locked at 3-3 at the end of regular time (60 minutes divided into 3 20s) it took a monumental overtime effort by OAR to put away the winning goal thus take the gold medal – where the silver-medalling German’s then showed respect to their opposition of this tremendous final match on the final day of the Winter Olympics, on what was almost the final day of February.

Ultimately a ‘final’ is the last thing in a sequence; a ‘finale’ is the final piece of that sequence.

Not since 1992 and Anneliese Coburger’s brilliance on the slalom course has New Zealand won a medal at a Winter Olympics; now we have two more – as 16-year-old Kiwis go, Nico Porteous and Zoi Sadowski-Synnott, along with their respective bronzes, must be the most high-flying duo in the land.

Final note, primarily to producers of television series’ across New Zealand, unless the last one comes with a closing ceremony or other breathtaking spectacle, chances are, it’s just final.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Fie Nully

Photography by Noma Finn Nahly

 

 

Month and a half ago, New Years’ Eve 2017, I encountered the person who would unthinkingly, yet unequivocally, throw into disrepair my life of comparative simplicity.

31^st December 2017, the most pleasant of days, at around 3 p.m. I began, what was intended to be, my steady pilgrimage from rural Mid Canterbury into East Christchurch.

The plan had been to head to the Ferrymead Speights Alehouse, where I was excited to catch up with, and rock out to, the residue of the almighty Exponents, the Jordan Luck Band – with classics such as Who Loves Who the Most, Victoria, Why Does Love, and I’ll Say Goodbye, the Exponents had been a massive part of my younger years and call me nostalgic, I wanted to relive that – then, like a true middle-ager, I hoped to cruise back home shortly after midnight.

I stopped in at a Rolleston café, drank an iced coffee (good but not as good as Vietnam’s) but unimpressed by the town’s general lack of exuberance, I soon moved on. I stopped at Hornby, drank a coffee there too, was left in further disenchantment at the all-round lack of enthusiasm, and continued on my way…

At this point my ‘steady pilgrimage’ is playing out much quicker than I had hoped, thus it’s still before 4 p.m. when I pull into Bush Inn.

…Sauntering around the practically deserted outdoor Bush Inn complex the sad truth dawned on me – Christchurch is considered the ‘place to leave’ when it comes to New Years’ Eve.

I wandered into the Mall area and performed a timely dawdle of its perimeter, passing only a handful of stragglers in the process. I stepped into the Mall foyer and hesitated, gazing though the glass doors unto the scintillating afternoon that was being presented to Christchurch’s absentee population. As I continued forward something appeared in my right peripherals; at that very moment my heart felt as though it had leapt into my mouth where I was now being forced to choke it back down.

I walked on calmly, a peculiar sense of euphoria having enveloped me, as I stepped out the Bush Inn Mall entranceway and into the warm Christchurch air. I casually turned and looked back through the glass panelling I had just exited; the sun’s glare made it impossible to see anything. I wondered if anything inside could see me; I wondered if anything inside was even looking. I turned back and stared out across the parking area, my brain seeing nothing but myriad conflicting thoughts, notions and emotions; my mind having spontaneously come under attack from a torrid combination of compulsion cum indecision.

Something triggered inside my brain; suddenly I spun and strode back into the glass foyer. Through the doors I glanced to my left; seated elegantly, wearing a crocheted black dress and nothing on her feet, both hands at her lap and carrying a Smartphone, was the most uplifting sight I had seen that afternoon.

I stepped forward and gently sat beside her. “How we doin? … Tim,” I wasted no time in offering my hand.

She appeared startled, but a moment later clasped my hand.

“I apologise,” I continued, “it must seem a little odd, given that I just passed here a moment ago, then I’ve immediately turned and come back … I was compelled.”

She smiled; it was a big smile. “You were compelled..?” she asked with laughter in her voice.

“Yes and, well, fair to say, my compulsions ultimately dictate.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Oh it’s a hell of a ride.”

She smiled again.

“Hey, I have some time to kill, do you feel like grabbing a coffee and a chat – I’d love to get to know you..?”

“Sure,” she said without hesitation, standing and walking alongside me out of the Mall.

“I love your choice of footwear,” I offered without irony, “I mean, a day like today, why would anyone bother with shoes?”

I witnessed her glance downwards as we walked, at my black leather boots, and appreciated the hypocrisy.

“Oh, I’m heading to a small concert later,” I quickly filled in the blanks, “sturdy footwear’s a basic requirement in seedy bars.”

We walked into a café where, honestly wondering if I could handle another coffee, I ordered two iced coffees.

Hitherto reserved, once this barefooted woman in black had some coffee and cream inside her stomach, she opened up tremendously.

She spoke about her family, she spoke about her history, she spoke about her dreams, her aspirations, her intentions and her goals; in fact conversing with this exquisite creature for as long as I did, hearing her speak with such wisdom, such conviction and clarity, such intelligence and soul, by the time we were (pleasantly) asked by the cafe manager to vacate our seats for closing time, I was utterly infatuated.

Then came the unsettling revelation…

Long black hair bordering a gorgeous face with the most captivating brown eyes I could recall, this young Maori woman seriously altered my perception of what ‘beautiful’ should look like.

…I had been able to appreciate that she was younger than I was, but not this much younger; I think it was still short of what some would consider ‘creepily younger’, although it turned out there was over a decade between us.

I honestly could not see – when two people relate so well and certainly, enjoy each other’s company as much as we did – that something so trivial as a couple of numbers were terribly important.

Evidently neither did she so, after offering her a token invitation to my impending concert – for which, after having over four hours to spare, thanks to the allure of this beautiful woman I was now at risk of being late – she gave me her number and headed home.

I drove to Ferrymead and eventually found the Speights Alehouse. I went inside and enjoyed a night of sobriety coupled with some fine musical nostalgia then, at around 1 a.m., I drove home.

The next day I was quickly reminded of the gorgeous woman I had met by chance in the day prior…

I mulled over the sequence of events leading up to and following our encounter; I thought about how, as previously planned, if I had lingered longer in Rolleston or Hornby, how this particular encounter might never have transpired. I remembered how, upon stepping outside the Mall foyer, how I’d had to wrestle with my compulsions, with the confounding sense of ambivalence that had plagued me but how, through it all, I had ended up meeting the most wondrous woman I could imagine. I thought about how easily our encounter, with a simple change in activity on her or my part, might have been missed; I drew the conclusion therefore, that for the first time in as long as I could recall, the Dictators of Fate were actually working in my favour – I felt that 2018 might just have been my year.

…Shortly before midday I sent this Paragon of Womanhood a text message, not really expecting to hear back until at least that evening.

That evening, having heard nothing via text, I gave her a ring. The phone rang eight times then I hung up.

The next day, around midday, I sent another message. I rang again that night.

I messaged her again the following day, with a phone call that evening; on the sixth ring she picked up. I stammered. I stumbled. I started blurting, mincing, and slurring my words…

Over the past days I’d been going insane. Given what she and I had experienced – the spectacular coming together of two minds, two souls; two people – I had not been able to understand what was going on, or why she’d been doing this to me. During our New Years’ Eve conversation we had spoken about most everything. I had learned that she had endured a horrific upbringing followed by an even more recent traumatic event; I had imparted my own truths about personal hardship, struggle, and trauma. It had been marvellous; I had felt that we had connected, that we understood each other. She was fiercely independent and couldn’t stand the idea of ever needing to rely on someone for anything; I shared my own views on solo living. She told me about her ongoing battle with social anxiety; I listened, nodded, understood, empathised and related to every word she said. We spoke about the modern world and primarily, about modern peoples’ treatment of each other. She was intrigued with my knowledge of world government and politics, as I was mesmerised by her perception of peace, harmony and spirituality.

…Finally my words composed themselves, “Hey … What’s been happening?”

“Nothing really.”

“Oh, thought you might have been busy.”

“Nah.”

“Alright, nice one … You feel like doing something tonight?”

“Sure.”

 

Our first night together played out like a wonderful dream; I made drinks, then we sat and we talked. We were two individuals having come together as if as one; she was pleasantly relaxed and even I was oddly calm. The night passed too quickly and before long she requested that I take her home.

Following another struggle for connection I eventually got hold of her again and organised another tryst. The weather was bleak as I picked her up and began the drive home. She didn’t talk much and I initially felt something might be wrong yet, as with the previous encounter, once we were home and she was set up with a drink, it didn’t take long for her to open up. Again the night passed with frustrating velocity, and soon I was driving her home again.

The third rendezvous I put on a barbecue for her and, while it turned out she didn’t much care for the whole ‘Kiwi BBQ’ theme – not a vegetarian per se but rather preferring the vegetarian dish I had cooked for her during our last night together – I still managed to devour a few fat-infused porterhouse steaks. We had drinks, we both just enjoyed the peace, serenity and comfort offered by each other’s company; then I took her home.

Our fourth ‘date’ was equally as wonderful; the weather was cold and rainy but this phenomenal woman – who had so easily transformed my life from dull and despairing to downright exciting – despite arriving at our pick up point almost an hour late on account of sloppy Christchurch public transport, was brilliant…

It should be noted at this point that, as a firm follower of the Buddhist faith, she wasn’t as overtly salacious as many modern men may have come to expect from their women. Given furthermore her recent hardship/trauma/assault, I wasn’t about to push anything on her; I knew anything that happened between this Paragon of Womanhood and me had to be entirely her choice. That was fine; I simply adored being in her company.

…For our fifth date the weather was warmer than it had been all summer; my house had become a veritable hotbox. I cooked us more (vegetarian) food, made us more drinks, and we did what we could to stay cool. Sometime later, to my immense chagrin, the night was over. I dropped her off and drove myself home…

At that time I recall being overcome with happiness; I recall thinking, ‘2018 is going to be my year’. The next day my car passed its Warrant of Fitness without incident; I recall thinking, ‘2018 is going to be my year’. I had organised another tryst the following day and I was excited to see her again; I recall thinking, ‘yeah man, 2018 is going to be my year’.

…I wasn’t surprised at her initial lack of response the next day, I never am. It was fine, I just needed to persevere.

I persevered for days and had nothing in return. I started to wonder if I had done, or said, something wrong. I started to worry, and that was the worst thing; while I knew her reasonably well, I didn’t know this woman well enough to be able to immediately presume her safety. I went through in my mind some of the stories she had told me about her earlier hardship, also the mental and physical mistreatment; I wondered if perhaps some of those factors might again be at play – I had no way of knowing..?

Ultimately I knew nothing. I had no way of knowing anything. My text messages were going nowhere and my phone calls were going straight to Voicemail; then being the impulsive male that I am, out of frustration at being ignored I had deleted her number as well as every last trace of her from my phone. Now I was sad.

All I had ever wanted was to see that gorgeous Maori girl smile – just wanted to see her happy – but now, one month to the day since I last saw her smile, since I last saw her happy, this is becoming increasingly unlikely.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tia Love

Photography by Te Reo Aroha

 

 

 

Twelve months have passed since Donald J Trump’s controversial rise to presidential glory and, in a hugely unexpected turn of events, the world has not fallen to nuclear oblivion.

That obstreperous fraternity of murderous Trump-haters who have been so vociferous across the USA – indeed across the entire world – must now be genuinely astonished to see that, while they might have stood in disbelief as Trump’s presidential inauguration played out and, yes, while they naturally assumed that the election of such a man into the world’s highest ranked position of power would plainly result in the ruination of basic civilisation, the world is actually still standing and furthermore, the United States of America is, as always, thriving…

Trump’s entry to the position of 45^th US President was heralded by a tempest of propaganda, a gale of hype and ultimately a whole lot more hot air; thus any rational person could surely see that – election promises aside – much of what the man was saying – and continues to say – were/are deliberately inflammatory statements intended to do nothing more than elicit a rise from world media and by implication, from the world as a whole.

…Of course the kinds of people who are naturally given to hysteria became simply fanatical about Trump’s rise to power, ranting feverishly about the ‘lack of democracy’ displayed by this democratic election result; even speculating wildly as to the ‘World War’ this would inevitably precipitate with the likes of North Korea…

I was in Vietnam shortly after the world had witnessed the US election result swing in favour of Donald J Trump and subsequently, as the address of ‘45^th President of the United States of America’ was bestowed upon him. I recall enduring a three hour bus trip from Ho Chi Minh City down to Mekong Delta, having my ears bashed by a horde of incensed young Australian travellers trying to convince me that having Donald Trump as Leader of the Free World was the most dangerous thing to happen to this apparent ‘Free World’ since World War Two and how the way he treated other world leaders – particularly Kim Jong Un – was undoubtedly going to result in a nuclear shit-storm hence World War Three; I recall trying to remain calm as, from all around me, came these shrill, nasally tones of indignation, spitting words at me as though I was ignorant, as though I was the stupid one for not realising the volatile plight that had suddenly stricken the planet.

…The truth is Donald J Trump is no more of a warmonger than 43^rd US President, George W Bush, the only difference is that, courtesy of a horrendous reality television series – in which, for the record, he coined his first famous quote – Trump makes himself so much easier to hate than Bush; he makes it so very easy to be hated, too, with his outrageous statements and his ridiculous, his juvenile tweets – yet ponder the query, which president was it who threatened Russia, who constantly riled China, who ridiculed the North Koreans, then beset war upon a few smaller Middle-Eastern nations (officially to punish and capture, unofficially to plunder their oil reserves), while pushing battalion after battalion of troops into Iraq – a war that he essentially started – for no tangible gain?…

On that bus ride to Mekong, joined by only one other Kiwi (who, like this team of wannabe-politically-insightful, outspoken, ear-bashing Aussie millennial, was rather younger than I was and turned out to have zero political focus anyway), it soon became clear that it was my duty to school these whippersnappers. I calmly awaited my moment then, speaking loudly and articulately, I essentially recited them the above paragraph. I then paused – still on the bus – before going on.

…You see, when George Bush Junior came to power in, I believe 2000, much of the US were in disbelief; this man, their new president was a lunatic Neanderthal; he did, and my God, he said some funky shit in his first term as President, too, and there was a massive sense of relief when his four year term came to a close – ‘whew’, they would’ve been thinking, ‘we survived that redneck Republican onslaught, now we can go get ourselves a decent bloody president’ – so that next US election came and went, the results come in and, shock horror, who would’ve guessed it, they’ve voted back into power that same bloody redneck!

George W Bush, loathed by many as he was, completed a full two terms in the US presidency, so clearly, he had supporters; Trump has supporters too, and they are the most impassioned, ardent and dedicated group of followers one could imagine.

Republican Donald J Trump is very much the same leader the USA experienced a few Presidents ago in George W Bush; the difference here is that – probably due to a lack of personal knowledge of the man – where Bush haters weren’t all that outwardly vocal – thanks to most every person in the world feeling as though they know him personally – Donald Trump haters are downright vociferous.

Realistically the man has, as yet, caused no genuine harm and, providing this Fake News (second famous quote) story doesn’t get out I wouldn’t surprised if Trump, like his buddy Bush, did serve a full two terms at the US helm.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Lane A Tuck

Photography by Holmes Mann

 

 

 

I, only minutes ago, ended a phone call terminating an over six year relationship with energy providers, Genesis.

Having been slave to at least two different utility companies for the majority of my adult life, I shall now be a slave to just one…

Since first hearing about it a few months’ ago, as a fearsome advocator of efficiency, the concept of allowing one provider to take care of all my utility needs appealed greatly to my yearning for utmost simplicity.

…I contacted Slingshot a month ago and invited them to take over my power, broadband, and – in fact as all I ever seem to receive nowadays in the way of phone calls on my landline are surveys and scams – I saw no need to continue paying for use of a landline telephone.

Slingshot were good; while they could not quite match Genesis on electricity rates – understandable, given that I’d always found Genesis to be brilliant electricity providers – I would now finally be rid of that awful, deceitful, unscrupulous, duplicitous, loathsome (and, as it turns out, Australian-owned anyway) company, Spark…

Spark had years ago used the allure and outright duress of a sweet-voiced Indian woman to effectively trick me into taking on a new contracted ‘Smartphone’ which, when it turned up, as well as not having even one tenth of the cleverness, features, or abilities it was promised to have, I was then charged a (previously undisclosed) ‘one time, up-front fee’ for this infernal, piece-of-crap  Alcatel; a phone which, despite once feeling trapped by its contractual obligations, thanks to Slingshot’s cheaper and indeed superior mobile phone plan (adding to this was my ‘accidental’ destruction-by-flattening of the stupidest Smartphone I’d ever known), as well as the rapid delivery of a Slingshot SIM card (to install in my recently purchased Nokia, admitted, Simple-phone), I am now free from the Spark-related scourge.

…Slingshot took care of everything in that regard; they made the awkward termination calls and, while I was recommended by Slingshot to give my old providers a call just to ensure they had indeed ceased ‘providing’ (which in fact a few days later I did do, and imagine Spark’s ‘surprise’ to learn that the broadband they were ‘providing’ to my house – also for which they were still very much charging – was now being provided by another company) so ultimately Slingshot did their best to take care of the entire changeover.

Having already received the Slingshot SIM for my mobile, and seamlessly completed that transition, as well as conformation from Slingshot that my broadband was now up and running, I then received my last bill from Genesis; imagine my surprise to see that my usual allocation of approximately 100 day and 150 night units ordinarily totalling around $50, this time was costing me $200.

Then I saw it: cancellation fee – $150.

I was immediately hit with a surge of fury. I knew there was no way I was still under any sort of contract; I wasn’t sure for exactly how long I had been a Genesis customer but I knew it was far more than three years.

I picked up my new Slingshot mobile and gave them a call. Apparently Genesis considers 23^rd December a public holiday. I wasn’t feeling terribly festive.

I went away for Christmas. Families came together, gifts were given, gifts were received; it was swell. The morning of the 27^th, over breakfast, I gave Genesis a call.

“Good morning,” I began pleasantly, “my name is Tim Walker … I am a long-time customer of Genesis but have recently switched to Slingshot … This call is regarding my final Genesis bill.”

“Alright Sir, yes, I see you are owing one hundred ninety-five dollars, seventy-six cents…”

I felt the beginnings of an eruption inside me.

“…Would you like to pay now, sir?”

“No,” I fought my rage, “thank you, I would not … In fact I vow never to pay that bill, for that bill is incorrect.”

“I’m sorry sir, what do you mean – incorrect in what way?”

“That one hundred and fifty dollars, that cancellation fee, given I have been with Genesis for… In fact how long exactly have I been with Genesis?”

“Ah, you joined us in … May twenty-eleven.”

“Right, that’s over six years – so what the hell are you people doing charging me a cancellation fee?”

“Hmm, it looks like, sir, it looks like you re-signed with us in May twenty-sixteen – your new contact will expire in May twenty-eighteen..”

“What? Bullshit! … I haven’t seen any Genesis employee since the day that funny little Irish street-fighter knocked on my door and signed me up years ago – apparently in twenty-eleven..?”

“No, sir, it’s a verbal contract – we record them all.”

“Are you serious? You are trying to tell me, that in twenty sixteen, I signed a verbal contract with Genesis, extending my prospective loyalty for another two years? That’s ridiculous, why would I do that – why would anyone do that?”

“I don’t know, sir, but we have them all on file.”

“Alright then, play it for me – I want to hear this so-called verbal contract that I signed for no reason.”

“Ah, that will take seven to ten working days to organise, sir.”

“Yeah, and by then you duplicitous wankers will have debited my account … In fact, no, you know what, no, you guys are so into your verbal contracts, well this is me, stating, that I refuse your right to take your so-called cancellation fee from my account … I am demanding, that if you pricks take from my account any more than last month’s electricity bill – if Genesis charges my account that one hundred and fifty dollar cancellation fee, as per this verbal agreement, it is you who are committing a crime…”

“Sir, I am not authorised to give assurance of that agreement.”

“You’re ‘not authorised to give assurance’..? Well I can assure you that what you are doing is extortion … You can’t just go fabricating verbal contracts, claiming that people have made promises when they haven’t … I know for a fact that I have not spoken to Genesis in well over three years, yet you’re claiming that I ‘signed a verbal contract with you in twenty-sixteen’..?

“That’s what our records say, sir.”

“Bullshit! My God, what you’re doing is criminal … You know, I used to like Genesis – Genesis used to be good, but it turns out they’re just another unscrupulous utility … I realise you can’t give assurances, but I can assure you, if you take from my account any more than this last power bill, if you don’t waive that fucking cancellation fee, I am going to have your company up on corporate extortion charges – this is shit!”

“As I said sir, I am not authorised…”

“Well for fuck’s sake let me speak to someone who is then.”

 

At this point I am trembling so much I actually fumble the phone and watch as it drops to the floor. I curse my lack of self control, my inability to suppress rage. I think maybe I have gone too far, perhaps ruined any chance I had of halting these unjust charges. I glance at the tiny phone at my feet and am relieved to hear ‘hold’ music drifting out of its earpiece. I retrieve it. A few minutes later the operator comes back on the line.

 

“Hello sir.”

“Hello.”

“My manager has agreed to waiver the cancellation fee, sir.”

“Right” – I didn’t feel relief, I didn’t feel vindication; at that point I felt only confusion – “can you tell me why?”

“Why, what, sir?”

“Why, after claiming that someone has ‘signed’ a ‘verbal’ contract, why you would then waive it, simply because they refuse to pay it?”

“Ah, you have been with Genesis for over six years, sir.”

“I have been, yes, but you maintained that I ‘extended’ my contract with you, in twenty sixteen..?”

“Yes.”

“So why are you releasing me from a contract without charging me an early cancellation fee?”

(Silence.)

“If I might, I will tell you why … You are releasing me from your fabricated ‘verbal’ contract, because I queried its legitimacy … I am aware there is no way that I entered into a two year verbal contract with you in twenty-sixteen, as you are aware furthermore of how ridiculous that would be … I am now aware that Genesis is as deceitful, as unscrupulous as every other utility in New Zealand, but that your crooked strategy is to hit any departing client, whether or not they are breaking their contract, with an early cancellation fee.”

“No sir, we are waivering your fee, sir.”

“You’re damn right you’re waiving my cancellation fee – if I see any more than a month’s electricity charges go out of my account I will scold your arse with a corporate extortion lawsuit – but what about all the others … What about all the other poor suckers who don’t stand up for themselves, who allowed unscrupulous utilities like you to take them for hundreds of dollars of unjust charges?”

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Manny Han Garry

Photography by U Tully-Tee

 

 

For almost three months Jacinda Ardern’s reign has been flowing throughout New Zealand’s parliamentary badlands, and voters are understandably anxious to witness the results of this democratic deluge.

With the incumbent New Zealand Government having since solidified its position, thereby allowing parliament to return to its efficient best, there are a number of pressing questions that Kiwi voters deserve to have answered: ‘Is Jacinda really going to do everything that she said she would do?’ ‘Has this change in leadership been as momentous, as revolutionary as promised?’ ‘Is this new Government going to be as beneficial to the people of the nation as she promised?’ ‘When are things actually going to start changing for the better?’ Or perhaps the most pointed and indeed, the most contentious query: ‘In this time of strongly practised and fiercely defended democratic rights, how the hell did New Zealand end up with a government composed of the election’s three losing parties?’

Incidentally, across today’s voting populous, statistically, National is still New Zealand’s favoured political party; curiously NZ First is polling lower than it was before the election.

New Zealand’s current (Labour) Government, before the election, was a strong advocator of the ‘build more houses’ to ‘get people into their first homes’ initiative, and only recently admitted that the so-called housing crisis was, ‘actually a lot worse than first thought’ which, although this was a revelation Ms Ardern shamelessly blamed on the former (National) Government, most level-headed Kiwis understand that it was really just another way of saying, ‘Yeah, sorry about that guys, I think what happened, you know, what with all the hype and that, I think I actually got a little over-excited by that election build-up thing and I think, yeah, the housing crisis, yeah, it looks like it’s actually not gonna be a quick fix after all’.

Much talk of ‘democracy’ has filtered across my ears of late and – whether it’s regarding the US election result, the NZ election result, or world leadership in general – more often than not I’m noticing that behind this talk of ‘no democracy’ (or sometimes ‘democracy’ is traded for ‘sovereignty’; both terms of which the user’s comprehension appears minimal) are the same variety of person (malcontent) who you just know is fresh off a ‘save the whales march’, a ‘TPP protest’, a ‘housing hikoi’, a ‘supermarket lock-in’, or some other form of organised (but misguided) uproar, and who likely, regardless of outcome, regardless of circumstance, simply, are not going to be placated.

A major talking point of the last election – an area many Kiwis felt had been neglected by New Zealand’s past Government – was education, because as sensible folk understand, if we properly educate our youth on fundamental aspects of life such as reading and writing, nutrition and food preparation, budgeting and financing, our adults will surely be equipped with that same skill-set…

Typically people who go on about ‘election results not demonstrating democracy’, are losers; these are the people who are in the minority therefore are the people who have lost. This is democracy.

…My mother is a Special Needs teacher, focused primarily on teaching the skill of reading to children with learning difficulties. Over past years the New Zealand (National) Government has progressively cut school funding in this area, seemingly deeming it to be ‘an unproductive use of taxpayer money’. Last year Mum’s allocation of Government funding was down to just three hours per day; she would usually do more, but was paid for only three. Like many I heard Jacinda in the election build-up, raving about the importance of education. Then once I’d seen her piece together her famed coalition of losers, I thought of the aforementioned education rant and mused, ‘Well, maybe there will be an upside to this after all – maybe Mum’ll get more hours now’…

Generally speaking winners celebrate democracy while losers bemoan it because, generally speaking, if your views are in the minority, simply, you are not destined to prevail in a democratic society.

…The new Labour Government has cut Mum’s funding to one hour per day.

This is New Zealand’s version of democracy.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by B Moon

Photography by D Muchra-Cee

New Zealand’s newest government – effectively a composition of political losers – is, if nothing else, ambitious.

Jacinda’s ‘war on child poverty’ is on schedule to be properly waged by the end of the year and, in fact the way she’s talking, her side will have declared victory before the end of the following year.

Of course with the ‘massive cash surplus’ left behind by the outgoing National party – money prudently set aside for unforeseen circumstances such as a relapse of the Global Financial Crisis which, given the current instability of the US, might just be closer than many of us would ever dare imagine – just like the former, Helen Clark led Labour Government, Jacinda Ardern’s Labour Government appear to have plans to spend money freely and indeed frivolously; thus after Labour’s three year term, as with the last Helen Clark led Labour Government, the country might well again be bankrupt.

One billion trees are to be planted by around this time in 2027, creating jobs for the men (and evidently the women) employed to plant the (approximately 274,000 daily) saplings while also, reportedly, going some way to driving New Zealand’s response on climate change…

Classic idealistic Jacinda: while planting trees, increasing oxygen and decreasing carbon dioxide does all sound wonderful, in theory, I just wonder if the likes of Canada, who in fact fell and replant over twice that number of trees every year, consider their actions to be anything remarkable; of course I am in support of Labour’s intentions to boost this and reduce that, yet from the perspective of a miniscule slice of land almost drowning in the South Pacific and containing fewer people than the combination of the aggregate populous of its surrounding island nations, short of setting an example, I wouldn’t have thought New Zealand’s ‘planting trees’ would have any real effect on the rest of the world or, perhaps more specifically, be the best use of Government resources at this time.

…Nevertheless that’s one third of Prime Minister Ardern’s loser coalition placated (now all James Shaw and his Green party need is some way to ensure that more of New Zealand’s pristine ‘polluted’ waterways are gushing their trillions of cubic metres of invaluable ‘undrinkable’ water into the ocean so it too can be no good to anyone – as opposed to being distributed over the land where it has the potential to benefit everything New Zealand – least of all the rising level of the world’s oceans), but now how is she supposed to deal with that cigarette smoking, whiskey swilling, other third – particularly after the inexperienced young leader has already sycophantically given opposing leaders conflicting assurances in order to garner support and indeed, to placate them? …

As a political leader it is good to be ambitious but – seemingly this is wisdom that an MP only learns over time and with political experience – one should never promise too much. As a politician your voting public will expect you to maintain the majority of your election promises, or if not that, at least have a viable explanation for why you are reneging on those promises; to simply become a turncoat – as Miss Ardern obviously needed to do in order to lure other loser parties to help build her coalition – in politics (or in fact in life in general), is very dangerous ground on which to base any kind of foundation.

…Jacinda Ardern’s Labour Government plan to recruit 1800 new police officers over the coming three years which, although this initiative does sound splendid, given that fewer than 20 in every 100 applicants are ever successful in completing the rigorous New Zealand Police training course, that’s somewhere close to 180,000 police recruits Labour needs to find in a few short political years…

‘Winston Peters, Deputy Prime Minister’ – perhaps this is how she placated him.

…US President Donald J Trump reportedly made a call to, and had an amiable discussion with, New Zealand’s Prime Minister Elect, Jacinda Ardern; makes me wonder what kind of obsequious platitudes the famously misogynistic Trump had for this apparent leader of a democratic state..?

Firm right-wing supporter I may be, even so I am interested (if not mildly amused) to see where this (more or less) left-wing government will lead the country.

If MMP is democracy at its finest, why is it only the losers that made it into government?

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Lucy R Clition

Photography by A Bomber Trump

 

 

From Halong Bay we bussed back to Hanoi, and checked back in to our inner city hotel.

While the majority of the group were soon to be heading home or moving on to another area of Southeast Asia, I was booked into that hotel for yet another night…

I was shattered which, as I considered it, did make a lot of sense. Nevertheless I felt good. I felt as though my intention had been fulfilled; I had gone into this excursion with the intention of experiencing the real Vietnam and I reckon I had done just that.

…Despite my fatigue, the sense of liberty, the excitement I felt at finally being alone in this God-forsaken land flooded over me like a surge of ocean tranquillity. While the Intrepid trip had been wonderfully organised and brilliantly put together, I could finally stop feeling like I was having to perform with a certain level of decorum; I could finally stop with the acting…

I’m guessing that for those of you fine folk who have been taking the time to peruse each ‘Vietnam’ instalment it might come as a surprise to hear that my actions, until this point, have been in the least inhibited by thoughts of ‘decorum’ but, believe or don’t, this ‘Vietnam’ series has been an example of me on (close to) my best behaviour; the fact that I have entered into potentially dangerous situations, the fact that I have come so close at times to utter calamity, chaos, or worse, is simply the result of my irrepressibly inquisitive nature and, indeed I am certain, had I been content just to be a ‘tourist’, along with the rest of my tour group, my Vietnam excursion would have resulted in nothing untoward befalling me; but how dull would that have been? I’d have turned around and gone home having learned nothing about the ways of Socialist Vietnam, and that, in my opinion, would have been an entirely wasted trip. Alright, back on task: the time has just passed 11 a.m., therefore I now have half a day and one night before I am scheduled to be taxied to Noibai Airport, Hanoi.

…First order of business, I went back up to my room, locked the door behind me, went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth…

I was fortunate that most hotels in Vietnam provide a daily supply of single-use toothbrushes because, while I had been sure to bring my fully charged electric toothbrush, after ‘losing’ my bag in Ho Chi Minh City only to have it returned to me some days later, having been clearly repacked in the meantime, I found that in the course of those bag-snatchers’ unruly repacking, my toiletries bag – once positioned carefully in the end of my luggage bag so as not to squash the contents – had been completely squashed thereby activating the switch on my electric toothbrush, meaning that its fully charged battery – which I had hoped, in Vietnam’s warm conditions, would provide around 35 half-arsed brushes – must have been buzzing away for at least an hour before the battery ran out then, lo and behold, but as I suspected would be the case, Vietnamese power sockets do not take Western plugs.

…I rinsed under the sink faucet – then swigged a few more gulps of the smelly liquid – the overpowering chlorination ultimately forcing me away, before walking back into the main room, turning the air condition down to 14 degrees, and collapsing on the bed…

When I woke my skin was chilled. I checked my watch; it was almost 4 p.m. Nice one. I stood and grabbed one of the two bottles of water which had mysteriously appeared on the sideboard during the past few hours.

…I maintain I am typically a light sleeper, I just think Vietnamese folk move like the wind. It didn’t matter anyway; I’d taken to sleeping in Vietnam with valuables under my pillow. I slid a hand under my pillow and checked my wallet. I was down to my last 2 million dong. I decided to top up for one last time before leaving this land. I headed back down the stairs (most people take the lifts in hotels but I have found that unless you’re transporting a lot of baggage, after waiting for it to arrive then waiting for it to depart, before then waiting for it to move up or down the one or two levels, it’s more efficient just to take the stairs two at a time) and into the hotel foyer…

As well as clandestine water deliveries, over the past few hours my, once peaceful, hotel lobby had become packed with sweating, stinking (as it would turn out, European) youth. My initial assessment: the boys were wearing too many clothes while the girls, even by my liberal standards, were barely wearing enough; tiny European butts hung out of even tinier European cut-offs, while the boys maintained their impeccably fashionable looks with the latest designer sweatshirts and jackets.

…I approached the front desk, saw that my ordinarily friendly, affable and otherwise very accommodating Vietnamese receptionist was, between doing his best to rapidly translate French, Spanish, and Portuguese to Vietnamese while also distributing room-keys to those European folk who insisted that their needs took precedence over all others, looking beyond flustered…

I took a seat next to a pair of frightfully skinny legs that just didn’t seem to stop going up (I stopped tracking their length even before I reached whatever she was wearing around her hips, on account of my own feeling of awkwardness), and waited. Ten minutes later I stood and, pushing my way through the sweaty and stinky European horde, left the hotel.

…Out on the late-afternoon street, buoyed by my newfound sense of freedom, I turned and walked. My new boots felt like gloves on my feet – it was just fortunate the temperature had come down as the only pants I had to go with those boots were a pair of heavy, black denim jeans – my T-shirt read ‘Good Morning Vietnam’, my face was shaven, my glasses were smudged and as was becoming a habit, my Fedora had swung itself around backwards…

I strode around the corner, found a nice alcove which served food and drink, and rested on some children’s furniture. While waiting for my food I struck up a conversation with a well-dressed Vietnamese man who spoke perfect English and, as I was to learn (among other things) in the course of our conversation, he happened to hold a particularly lofty position with the Vietnamese Government. This piece of information thrilled me more than anything happening around me at the time (until just after this), and he appeared happy to indulge my inquisitive nature, ostensibly without fear of consequence. This being so, elated at the opportunity, I forcibly dredged my brain of all the Viet/Politic related questions I could locate, while making a further concerted effort to ingrain in my memory-bank each piece of new information he imparted upon me. (Despite storing every shred of Vietnamese political information he recounted – which shall be documented in a future ‘Tim Walker’s Communism’ piece – I do forget this man’s name.) My food came, I lost focus and when I looked up again the man had disappeared; the evening began to set in. I was enjoying my meal of ‘egg and bread’ when I glanced up to my left, and saw the most gorgeous young lady I’d seen (since, well, the day before). She turned and caught my eye also. In a flagrant act of impulsiveness I called out and made a few nonsensical hand gestures, attempting to wave her down. To my immense surprise she stopped, and turned. Minutes later she and I were sharing a bag of Vietnamese doughnuts – offered by a, conveniently located, passing street vendor – and chatting freely.

…Whatever the nature of my appearance it seemed to appeal to the stunning Taiwanese lass (who, in fairness, had caught my attention primarily because she was so much taller, also broader, than the Asian women I was accustomed to seeing), who, although she spoke with even more of an American/Asian twang than any other I’d encountered, spoke wonderful English and in fact showed herself to be quite the literary scholar. We chatted about everything from Taiwanese food to US politics. Over an hour later we stood and made our way back to my hotel…

She wasn’t a big Trump fan and, as much as I tried to help her to see that Donald J Trump is just a man who is in fact no bigger of a war-monger and antagoniser of North Korean Dictators than George Bush Junior was, she was immovable on her anti-Trump prejudice.

…Just after midnight I bid farewell to the wondrous Taiwanese woman and just like that – as she coined it – our ‘once in a lifetime encounter’ had passed. Watching her walk proudly down the footpath, exuding more self confidence/esteem than any Asian woman I’d met, I considered going to bed; there was, after all, supposedly a taxi coming to collect me a 9 a.m. tomorrow but on the other hand, I mused, why start dialling it back before you absolutely have to? I stepped back out into the Vietnamese street, wondering what else this city had in store for me – wondering what it was going to try and do to me – before morning…

As I swaggered down the street and in the direction of some bright lights, I had a bottle of water in one hand and several million dong in my pocket.

…The next morning I was showered, dressed and downstairs in the lobby, ready to go by 8:45 a.m. The taxi arrived shortly thereafter. I clarified with the driver that he was here for me by name, clarified furthermore that the ride was with Intrepid and that it was paid in advance (I had only 30.000 dong to my name at this point anyway), threw my bags in the car and headed for Noibai Airport…

Things I saw that night, people I met; the antics in which I partook shall never be recounted (and while this decision may indeed be frustrating to some, believe me, if you’d been there, you would understand). In this respect nothing carnal was indulged, but be assured, if you do happen to come to Vietnam and do decide you want your mind comprehensively blown, all you really need do, is be open to it; amazing what can happen if you just allow it.

…The taxi driver was an ebullient Vietnamese man who made constant attempts to fill the car with conversation; conversely I was weary, wary, and constantly on the lookout for anything unexpected. I sat in more or less silence throughout the journey, just waiting, in a state of perpetual readiness, almost expecting something undesirable to happen…

During the drive to Noibai Airport my driver appeared to, much of the time, be away in his own world and – despite travelling on a two-lane road at over 100kph and at times passing groups of slow-moving traffic at four or even five abreast – seemed more concerned with befriending his passenger than ensuring that passenger’s safe passage to the airport.

…As it turned out we made it to the airport, on time and without incident. I disembarked and, although the driver had dropped multiple jubilant hints throughout the ride (actually indicating toward the stack of money left by his last passengers, and praising their goodwill), I left no tip. I hauled my luggage out of the car, thinking to myself dryly: ‘You want a tip, you take it up with your buddies who charge tourists ten times the recommended fare’…

Sitting in the departure lounge of this Vietnamese airport, waiting for the gate to open, unbelievably, I heard a familiar voice. It was my buddy from the flight over, Zac, who, regarding the missing of our Vietnam transfer flight in Malaysia, had made the indignant remark about the airline paying for our lunch.

…I was approached while at Noibai Airport by a pretty young Vietnamese woman who was apparently writing a university thesis – as it turned out, in Seoul, South Korea, where she had in fact won a scholarship – on ‘Tourism in Vietnam’; she handed me a short questionnaire to fill out and said she would return to collect in ten minutes. Ten minutes later she sat down beside me and looked over my answers. She nodded appreciatively, concluding, “Yes, this is the same kind of thing most people said about Vietnam.”

I felt a tinge of guilt, knowing how brutally honest I had been thus how degradingly my answers might be perceived by a local person.

She then turned to me with a solemn expression and a tone of utter humility, and asked, “What do you think Vietnam should do to improve peoples’ perception of our country?”

I almost choked. This woman was brilliant. I turned to her with a disbelieving smile, looked into her deep brown eyes, took a moment, took a breath then said, “Your country is generally wonderful, but there is a large portion of your population who have adopted the culture that Westerners are nothing but walking money-bags to be cheated and swindled … These people need to learn that the best way to make money from tourists is not to cheat them out of it, but to treat them well … For example, I recall kicking up a big fuss when a Ho Chi Minh street vendor tried to dupe me out of eighty dong, then a few days’ later gave a two hundred dong tip to a Hoi An shop-owner who treated me well.”

“Hmm,” she looked thoughtful, “I understand, thank you … Is there anything else you think Vietnam people can do to improve tourism in Vietnam?”

“In fact,” I took another moment, “there is … By far the most stunning ‘tourism’ spot in your country, is Halong Bay, but it’s just so filthy, as though you don’t care about the state of its cleanliness … The same can be said for many of your cities though – I mean, I witnessed Vietnamese people in Hue urinating in the streets, and in Ho Chi Minh City they throw their garbage in the streets – I’m sorry, what was your name?”

“My name is Deborah, I am from Mekong.”

“Hello Deborah, nice to meet you – and you’re from Mekong, Vietnam’s southernmost city.”

A large smile came over her face, “Oh, did you go there?”

“We did, yes, on the tour’s second day.”

“Oh, what did you think – did you like it?”

“Ah, honestly, the smell was ghastly, the water was brown, but yeah, it was a great place … That’s what I mean though, your people, your Government needs to amend the Vietnamese culture, firstly about the way your people treat tourists and secondly, about the way they care for their land … I mean, Vietnam is tourism, right, and the only way your people can ensure that tourism remains a big part of the Vietnamese economy, is if you start operating responsibly, resourcefully and, more importantly, sustainably.”

“Yes, I have heard people say this before … It’s not good.”

I took an additional moment. “I could be good though, Deborah, your people just need to change the way they think – take Mekong, for example … Mekong – in fact in the islands of Nha Trang as well – the primary source of income is the ocean – the fisheries, yes?

She nodded.

“Well I can’t speak for Mekong because I didn’t swim there, but Nha Trang, and more-so in Halong Bay, the oceans are just full of flotsam – you can actually see the debris, rubbish, and tiny pieces of plastic floating in the water in front of your eyes – how are your fisheries going to survive when your oceans are so full of plastic? I mean the fish breath that water, therefore they are forced to breath plastic … I already knew China’s waters were like that, but if Vietnam’s not careful it’s going to go the same way.”

Deborah nodded, ashamedly.

“Look, it’s not even really the peoples’ fault, it’s the fact they’ve had this tourism boom effectively thrust upon them and are basically unprepared for the sudden influxes of everything that comes with that.”

She looked up and smiled. “So, what kind of thing do you think I should write in my thesis?”

“I think you should write that, Vietnam, for the most part, is beautiful … Write that the people, for the most part, are wonderful … Write that Vietnam is potentially the world’s greatest tourist destination … Write that, in order to realise this tourism potential, your people just need to work on developing a culture of ecology, sustainability, and decency … In New Zealand we go to great lengths to keep our waterways clean (I spoke these words on the 27^th July 2017 and at that time, I thought little about them), it just takes the combined effort of a nation’s Government and population … New Zealand’s population is around five million and you’re what – about ninety..? – your country’s culture just needs to change, that’s all … Hoi An is without a doubt your greatest city, they’ve already nailed it – so let Hoi An be the template for the rest of Vietnam.”

“Okay, thank you,” she said with a hopeful smile.

“Good luck with your thesis, Deborah, it was nice to meet you.”

“Thank you very much for your help, Tim, I hope you have a good trip back to New Zealand,” she said before standing, shaking my hand and walking away.

 

My first words to Zac, therefore, referring to an instance now three weeks prior: “Oh hey bud … Did you get any lunch out of Malaysian Air after all that?”

“Oh, yeah man,” he said, sitting down, positively beaming, “couldn’t believe it eh, they gave us all McDonald’s vouchers, so nah, it was good, eh … What about you?”

“Lunch..? Dude, I had a lie down, then had to exchange some of my hard earned dong to pay for some bloody ‘authentic Malaysian cuisine’, airport food.”

“Ah, bugger, man – hey, do you like my teeth?” he smiled a toothy grin, displaying an oral vista more akin to a movie star.

“Nice, man – I don’t recall them being quite so white on the way over..?”

“Nah they weren’t eh, that’s pretty much why I came to Vietnam – had about five grand’s worth of dental work done in Vietnam, cheap as!”

“Huh, nice one – how cheap’s ‘cheap as’?”

“I dunno, few million dong, maybe.”

“You serious? Dude, that is unbelievable.”

“Yeah man, dentists are expensive as shit in New Zealand,” he added with a smirk.

“Yeah, they are, and evidently cheap as fuck in Vietnam … So you spent, what, about a thousand on flights to and from Southeast Asia, then a few hundred more on dental work that would have set you back multiple thousands at home..?”

“Oh, yeah, and also, we had our family reunion there.”

“A family of New Zealanders had their family reunion in Vietnam..?”

“Yeah man, Vietnam’s cheap as!”

“Huh, I suppose you’re right, and once you get past the shit, it’s not a bad country either.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know, hardly went outside – oh, except to get a massage.”

 

I didn’t see Zac again until Auckland and – who on account of his reckless spending in Vietnam (despite it being ‘cheap as’) had blown every last NZD he had – bought him a coffee and a muffin from a New Zealand vendor.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ima Dunn

Photography by Tull Nix Yare

 

 

 

With more changes of leadership in recent times than New Zealand politics has ever seen, the 2017 election was never going to be without undulations.

Around 12 months ago Prime Minister John Key abdicated his reign meaning, in a sight not seen since – in fact the year of my debut vote – 2002, hitherto finance minister and deputy Prime Minister, Bill English took on the leadership role for National but not only that, MP Bill English then became New Zealand’s PM.

This shake-up came sometime after Greens leader Russell Norman had stepped down as head of his failing party to make way for deputy, Metiria Turei; a leadership which collapsed shortly thereafter following revelations of fraudulent benefit practices. This laid the foundation for the emergence of James Shaw who, well, he’s doing his best with what he was given.

Think back to prior to the election before today’s one; in an effort to boost party popularity, ostensibly personable Labour candidate Phil Goff had become leader of the Labour party. Push came to shove and he subsequently stepped aside for up-and-comer David Shearer, who was consequently forced out of way to make room for the almighty David Cunliff who, after steering Labour to its grandest election defeat in history, gracefully left the party. This left an opening for newcomer Andrew Little who, in fairness, I don’t think ever sat truly comfortably in his role as leader of the Opposition; thus it was little surprise when this man, more recently, relinquished control to allow his deputy to take the reins…

I never imagined that a woman who so alarmingly resembles a young Helen Clark could ever be considered ‘attractive’ but (this was an opinion formed by a large portion of Labour supporters so I don’t know how much belief one ought to place that assessment), the much-hyped ‘Jacinda Effect’ came next.

…That is a terrible lot of turmoil for any political party to endure, then just when the Opposition support seemed all but lost, suddenly Labour, who has been well behind in the polls for the better part of a decade, came from behind to again be a genuine contender in this current political race…

No one can deny it; Jacinda Ardern has the best interests of New Zealand at heart. The issue many right-wing supporters are taking with her, is the fact that Jacinda is an idealistic dreamer (I believe ‘hopey-dreamy’ is the accepted political term), with no leadership experience thus no real political wisdom.

…Nobody can be quite sure, but the theory is that this so-called Jacinda Effect has less to do with government policy and more to do with aesthetics; a hypothesis boosted by the consensus that ‘Bill English is too dull’…

Yes, this makes a lot of sense; if there is one area of international governance that is repeatedly being called into question, it’s a lack of exuberance shown by our countries’ respective leaders, and yes, obviously Jacinda’s unshakeable grin and unflappable optimism have the potential to remedy this New Zealand Government shortcoming.

…I just worry, if our nation’s team of resident malcontents do happen to effect a shift in governance, leaving Labour – thus Jacinda – in charge, what might happen when New Zealand starts facing some genuinely difficult issues, things that actually matter and which can’t be remedied with a broad grin, some firm hand gestures and a snappy catchphrase or two…

This is the main issue that I take with saying, ‘Every person who is of a voting age needs to vote.’, because while it may be difficult for us impassioned poliphiles to grasp, many people who are of a voting age, simply, don’t give a damn about politics and if they were to vote, would likely end up making some asinine voting selection based on member attractiveness or charm (which, I assume is why the last election saw Kim Dotcom’s Internet party do so well), and not at all related to government policies, which in the long term, might seriously contribute towards the disruption of a nation’s prosperity.

…Typical of bandwagon jumping Kiwis though, and in fact an exemplary illustration of the fickle nature of people in general, when Jacinda first emerged on the political scene – never mind that she is effectively a succession of Andrew Little and everything for which this man once stood – her novelty factor raised Labour’s popularity by around double. A few weeks’ on, once the voting population have accepted that, while the ‘flavour of the month’ is indeed a superb taste to have in your mouth – for about a month – for the next three years and while running your country..?

Poverty, Health, Law and Order, and Housing are some of the major issues facing New Zealand today; both leading parties are quick to point out the other’s shortcomings on these matters, but any voter who believes that any one of our ‘major issues’ can be remedied simply with a shift in government is, as a political analyst might coin it, ‘a touch hopey dreamy’.

Sadly, this is an example of – as has been thoroughly documented in fine publications such as ‘Tim Walker’s Concern’ – a country with so very little to concern it that it struggles to understand the concept of ‘genuine hardship’. New Zealand’s ‘major issues’, when compared to some of the rest of the world, are almost triviality; our waterways might appear polluted, but that’s because a team of eco-warriors took a camera around New Zealand and photographed whatever dirty, stagnant bodies of water they could find. New Zealand’s ‘starving children’, by world standards, are not ‘starving’, they’re hungry – they’re hungry because their parents don’t prioritise their spending and in likelihood, should never have been allowed to procreate at all. Our hospitals are full because many people panic when they see blood and don’t seem to know how to apply a sticking plaster, or bandage a scraped elbow. Petty crime is rife largely because our Police Force is enfeebled after too many mothers-who-never-should-have-been-allowed-to-procreate procreated thereby raising a generation of (gang related, drug dealing, ultimately good for nothing) delinquents, which is largely the fault of the solo-breeding incentive offered by New Zealand’s DPB (but I don’t see any political party with plans to abolish that, do I?). Houses in Auckland are high because of an under-supply of basic housing in the area caused by an over-population of people in the area, leading to a shortage of land on which to build, in the area. Again, that’s more people than Government.

On the topic of ‘a nation’s genuine concern’, Winston Peters who, after honourably stepping back from politics some years ago only to bumptiously force his way back in to NZ First’s leadership some years later, as always seems to be the case, is reported to be this election’s potential ‘king-maker’; ‘king-maker’ of course being the political term for a party that lacks the ability to garner any real bulk of voter support, but which earns just enough to make them impossible to avoid, and in an MMP system of government, ‘impossible to avoid’ essentially translates to ‘problematic’.

(The following was to be this article’s leading paragraph; alas it kept having paragraphs written on top of it until) Paddy Gower called it ‘the most exciting election build-up in New Zealand history’, but then, he’s a little odd too so, in this election, I still don’t know who to trust.

Vote responsibly, New Zealand.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by E Luck-Shinn

Photography by Bill Dip

 

 

I have never understood why I did what I did next, but perhaps storming out of my room, wallet clenched in one hand, head down, wearing nothing but tight black underwear; striding down to the ATM on the corner to replenish my funds with an additional three million dong, made me feel somehow less naked.

Maybe it somehow mitigated the sense of violation I was currently experiencing by accepting last night’s loss as ‘just one of those things that happens to tourists’, thereby enabling me push the memory from the fore of my mind – where it was currently beating at the inside of my skull, screaming at me about something to do with ‘…call yourself a light sleeper..?!’ – to somewhere nearer the long-term recollection bank, thus allowing me to move past the entire ordeal…

Alternatively, this surreptitious act of ‘refinancing’ likely aided in the delusion I was quickly fabricating to reassure myself that no, there had not been a man or men last night with the audacity to let themselves into my room before turning on the light and going through my belongings then helping themselves to my carefully managed remaining funds while probably laughing at the idiot Westerner lying comatose on his mattress thus oblivious to whatever level of deceit Vietnam wishes to effect upon him; no, that preposterous turn of events could have in no way happened – I must have lost all my money some other way and just forgotten about it – so I should now forget this outrageous notion of ‘duplicity in Vietnam’ and simply continue to ‘enjoy’ all that this ‘wonderful’ country has to offer.

…From Nha Trang we took some more overnight trains, allowing me to become witness to further criminal acts – where my silently rolling over and, from my bottom bunk bed, ‘unintentionally’ kicking one of these men in the leg, as he attempted to plunder the pillow in the bed above me, I like to think prevented one such act from being perpetrated – to end up in the city of Hoi An…

Having endured and left behind Ho Chi Minh City, Nha Trang, also the ghastly (but admittedly, highly convenient) overnight trains that folk are forced to use to go between these destinations, I can honestly not say a bad word about Hoi An.

…The city is lovely and – having reportedly some years back fallen under the leadership of a man who abhorred thievery, treachery, and in general anything lawless, leading to the unequivocal and immediate incarceration of any character seen to be practising these acts – ultimately Hoi An is Vietnam’s (clean, friendly, honest and law-abiding,) marketplace.

While it is indeed true that much of Vietnam’s tourism sector hinges on commerce, Hoi An brings something different; Hoi An is like the origin of the marketplace or the beginning of Vietnamese trade – delightfully quaint and always bustling, Hoi An to Vietnam is what, I imagine, Venice (undoubtedly the world’s greatest city marketplace) must be to Italy.

Hoi An was to be the group’s longest time in one city, which by all accounts, suited us fine; we stayed at the Sala Hotel – without a doubt the finest hotel we had, or in fact would, experience in Vietnam – with amazing rooms, wonderful staff, stunning facilities, and the most brilliant swimming pool out front.

The group, having separated into our ‘sub-groups’, for the next few days walked the streets of Hoi An with confidence, with wonder, and with intrigue…

Hoi An’s beach, which we were shown initially as a group on pushbike, while glorious, illustrated an alarming example of – perhaps rising sea levels, or maybe it was other factors resulting in – a clear change in ocean and tidal habits; much of Hoi An’s beautiful, golden-sand beach was being slowly devoured by the ocean. Reportedly it was not an uncommon sight around Vietnam to see beaches being taken back by, or returning to, the almighty ocean; this of course, in the process, was devastating to nearby buildings and/or infrastructure. (Perhaps even more interestingly, when our tour reached Vietnam’s northern Halong Bay, we would see an example of exactly the opposite phenomenon at play.)

…A number of women in the group were quick to take advantage of Hoi An’s many fabric/clothing and shoe/leather distributors/tailors. For a woman I supposed it was quite an honour to have a dress/dresses personally crafted/tailored by Vietnamese designers/seamstresses, and even I elected to have a pair of leather boots hand-designed (primarily by me) then handmade (entirely by a professional) for the princely sum of 1.400.000 dong (1.4 million VND is the approximate equivalent of 85NZD, while the boots themselves, I believe could retail in somewhere like Leather Direct NZ for around $300).

Over the coming days I felt as though I developed relationships with most every shop owner along Tran Hung Dao Street (this was the street on which the Sala Hotel was situated, making it the group’s most traversed Hoi An street), and by day four I knew most of these affable characters by name. Wandering along that street, for example, recognising a happy Vietnamese face and calling out, “Bao, sin chow!” The usual response, in that horrendous (but now permanently ingrained) American/Viet timbre, would be, “Tim, hello!”

The afternoon that I excitedly walked back down to ‘Oceans’ (this shop’s name is additionally mingled with some Viet text I shan’t bother to include) to pick up my handmade boots – having been especially crafted in the past 24 hours – it was a little before four p.m. I was halfway to this particular leather-goods shop when I encountered a deluge (which, given the time of year, so I was told, this wasn’t out of the ordinary). I noted how it took only minutes after rain had begun to fall for the streets to become awash with – yes, water, but indeed more notably – plastic-poncho salespeople. Despite having zero inclination to adorn my body in one such flimsy monstrosity – particularly when my body hence shirt was already moist with perspiration and the falling rain more or less matched my body temperature, meaning I barely felt it falling on my bare skin, anyway – I did enjoy haggling with the salespeople as they continuously badgered me with offers of these tawdry ponchos; as with most Vietnamese commerce, a vendor can usually be knocked back by 20 – 30 percent, which, when referring to a piece of plastic that they’re pushing for ‘50’ (50.000VND – under 2NZD), it inspires the question, ‘How the hell do they make this crap so cheaply?’…

As I had by then come to realise though, locally made products are typically cheap while imported products are typically less cheap (but still rather cheap).

…I made it to Oceans a few minutes before 4, saw my boots and almost had a joy-gasm – they looked, smelled (and probably tasted), glorious. I was in the process of showering the shop owner in gratitude when I discovered that, despite being 4 p.m., she had not yet eaten lunch. I had a brilliant idea: “Alright, Ngoc, let me buy you lunch … That can be my tip – for making such a wonderful job of my boots.”

She eventually agreed (despite her first putting up unexpected refusal), wrote down exactly what she wanted (in Vietnamese script), told me it would cost ‘180’ – I believed a perfect sized tip – and directed me where to go. I walked, in a direction perpendicular to the street, for some ten minutes into the depths of the market district, through shady, dirty, smelly, water-logged alleyways, alongside dilapidated corrugated iron fences (where if I were anywhere else but Hoi An, I might have been worried) and past apparently deserted, derelict properties. I eventually found the desired ‘restaurant’ and approached the man who, despite his diminutive appearance, seemed to be in charge.

I showed him the piece of paper Ngoc had given me, then showed him the 180.000 dong. He looked up at me with fury in his eyes. “Who give you?” he demanded.

Taken aback, I pointed in the direction of the street, responding, “The woman who works in Oceans, ah, Ngoc.”

The emaciated Viet’s eyes became, if possible, even more enraged. “You,” he pointed at me, shaking his head wildly, “you no come here!”

I looked around, taking in the frantic activity – the food preparation, the exchange of money, the bustling Vietnamese people – realising, this was not a Vietnamese tourist market; this was where Vietnamese folk came to eat.

The furious little man took the offered cash with a grunt and relayed some Viet gibberish to his cook. He then turned back to me, still with madness in his eyes. “You wait, there,” he pointed to a place against the wall. “You get food, you go,” he said forcefully, “you never come back here.”

Ten minutes later I received my order. The food turned out to be enough to feed a family; there was around five times what I would have expected for 180.000 dong.

I returned to Oceans, shaken and confused. Ngoc appeared relieved to see me; she appeared relieved that I had made I back. I suspect she knew the kind of hostile reception I would encounter at that place…

Given that around 60 years’ ago Vietnam was under total Communist rule, they didn’t have a lot of contact with the rest of the world and, of course, they had far less – if any – international trade. To clarify: Vietnam is technically ‘Socialist’, which is to the right of ‘Communist’ (North Korea), but still not as far right as ‘Capitalist’ (NZ’s National Party), which is still a shade left of ‘Republican’ (Donald Trump, say no more). I came to learn also, in a single, mind-blowing, realisation, that ‘Communism’ is in fact not the filthy word that many believe it to be. ‘Communism’ is effectively the act of a nation exerting its individuality, but to the extreme; it’s like saying, ‘We are us and we don’t need you because we can survive on our own’. The truly mind-blowing aspect of it all though, was this: providing a nation’s people are content with who they are, providing they are content with where they are, providing they are happy to do what they are doing but moreover – and this is the keystone of the operation – provided that nobody yearns to get ahead of anybody else, in fact Communism Can Work; indeed, done properly, Communism is a harmonious existence.

…Vietnam is remarkable in the sense that it produces everything which, as a nation, it needs to get by. From essentials like food and fresh water, clothing and houseware; to recreational products such as cigarettes and alcohol, it’s all ‘Made in Vietnam’, and it’s all dirt cheap for tourists, but it’s even cheaper – as I experienced firsthand – for locals…

The classic, and indeed widespread, belief about Communism is that, ‘There is no incentive to work because every person is paid the same regardless of what they do’, and yes, if the Western world were to suddenly abandon Democracy and embrace Communism, there is no question, it would fail terribly; however, we must bear in mind that this is a people immediately descended from one of the world’s oldest races, where the process of working as one to achieve one basic goal, and in turn being provided with the wherewithal to propagate a basic existence (I guarantee New Zealand’s Polynesian population would be into it) is their culture.

…Sure they cheat, sure they lie; sure, many of the Socialist/Commies I encountered were filthy rotten shit-bags, but they are happy. They are peaceful. They live for the day. They live for the moment; they live for excitement. Vietnamese folk live devoid of worry because they know they are no worse off than the next Socialist/Commie…

We were sad to leave the Sala, having met such wonderful people in and around Hoi An. Nevertheless we travelled northward by bus a comparatively short distance, to end up in the city of Hue (pronounced more like ‘Whey’). While our newest environs were lovely, bordered on one side by the ominous stone walls of Hue’s famous ‘Forbidden City’ (which, as much intrigue as the name engendered and indeed, as excited as many of us were to discover just why it was considered ‘forbidden’, upon entering, while it was definitely a spectacular sight, alas I felt little foreboding, let alone forbidding), and although this hotel did have a pool as well, after the wonder of Hoi An, the group was experiencing a collective sense of let-down.

… I recall my last night in Ho Chi Minh City, I was outside the hotel drinking Jimbean with the Aston crowd, at about 4 a.m. Suddenly there was a power failure. The entire street went dark. Almost immediately a simultaneous cheer went up. I had no idea what was going on. I think I was expecting bedlam to ensue. Fine grabbed me and led me closer to the street for a better look. I peered up and down; I could see no lights anywhere. Aside from the odd scooter headlight traffic was nonexistent. Then the sound of a siren could be heard. The street became packed full of cheering Vietnamese folk, all laughing and having a great time. The siren became progressively loud and discordant until it was utterly deafening. While I had ducked away to protect my ears I saw a pathway clear in the street, as a fire-truck rolled ominously by. It stopped at the next intersection, with locals milling around, screaming, yelling and, still, having a grand old time. It used its ladder to reach some overhead cables, did something then moved on, to do the same thing at the next intersection down, before disappearing around a bend. A moment later electricity was restored but the faces, those little Vietnamese faces, they were positively oozing joyfulness – they were alive.

While swimming did not appear a popular choice among the group (in fact the whole time we were in Hue I saw not one other person use the pool), I spent my spare time walking the streets – eating street food and drinking iced coffee – and swimming in this older, less glamorous but still wet hence refreshing, hotel swimming pool.

We left Hue on the overnight train, headed north and bound for the nation’s capital, Hanoi. (That particular trip onboard the train yielded a sequence of unspeakable moments, of which I shall never speak.) I have never been happier to hear the sound of shrieking locomotive brakes, than I was coming into the station at Hanoi that morning.

As a group we saw some amazing sights in and around Hanoi then the next day, we took a bus to the very top of Vietnam, Halong (‘Descending Dragon’) Bay.

We boarded a small, but wonderfully ornate, cruise liner (this boat would have been 15 metres long with a similar number of berths) and, along with myriad other vessels all with seemingly the same intention, made our steady way out one of the famous island beaches within Halong Bay…

Cruising through the water on the way to this particular island the view was breathtaking; also it was somehow familiar. I then realised, I had seen it before; the tiny island formations, the vibrant greenery, the rocky structures emerging from the water, I could have been in Fiordland. The difference was, where Fiordland’s landscape has largely to do with tectonic movement and volcanic activity from beneath the ground, as our guide would later explain, Halong Bay’s natural (it turned out, limestone) landscapes are the result of aeons of water-borne erosion from above.

…The golden-sand beach on which we docked, we were informed, had been created entirely by man, for man. Halong Bay, on account of its unique formation, is currently rather shallow (whereas a few thousand millennia ago it was supposedly very deep) and had had, presumably, thousands of tons of sand laid atop a naturally formed limestone plateau in order to create a, world famous tourist destination, beach…

From what this layman understood of it, many millions of years ago, over another many millions of years, the eastern Vietnamese ocean beat itself against a limestone cliff at the north of the land, eventually finding an area that was more pliable than the rest, thus gradually forging a path into the stone. Over the millions of years that followed this small indent/path/channel was augmented by the thrashing ocean, thereby creating an inlet, slowly eroding the softer limestone while leaving the harder areas to stand like pedestals amid this majestic harbour.

…A well-maintained staircase carried a large number of the group – at some points almost vertically – to the top of this particular island (although by the end of this climb the numbers had fallen back to just one other woman – who for the record barely broke a sweat, while I had sweat literally dripping – and me), from where we were able to look out across the harbour and take in the entire transcendent view.

That night, back on our cruise liner, after our meal the group congregated on the top deck; it was a marvellous feeling, lying on the loungers, under the stars. As a group, we chatted, we drank and basically we were at ease. One of the younger guys had some music going that, despite not being ‘90s grunge rock, surprised me in its decency. Like this we bonded until before too late we decided to turn in for the night. (As usual I had been allocated a double room to myself and, by myself, I was quite happy to utilise every portion of that bed; after a day at the beach under the northern Vietnamese sun, I was exhausted.) As I carefully slid down the steps to the boat’s main floor, I had left three people still on the top deck.

I walked through the boat’s main dining area, thanking the three Vietnamese men (all staring at me with unnerving intensity) who had provided us service that night, stumbling slightly as the water under the boat (or the alcohol in my veins) shifted. I had just walked past the bar (also the disconcertingly fixated eyeballs) when I stopped, turned and came back. “Shit,” I said, “I need to pay my tab, don’t I?”

The man who had slid in behind the bar looked at me with confusion.

“My bill..?” I began to remove my wallet. “Ah, lahm urn..?”

“Ah,” the man understood, riffling through a stack of papers under the bar. He brought up a selection of four possible accounts and placed them on the bar. Glancing at the others’ bills, having been drinking the insanely cheap local beer, I saw they owed up to 200.000 dong each; I sighed at the sight of my bill, having been going between Ballantynes, Johnny Walker Red and (I couldn’t believe they had) Johnny Walker Black Label, to see that I was liable for just under 1 million dong.

I grudgingly indicated which was my bill then opened my wallet to remove two 500 dong notes, aware, as always, of all eyes fixed on my stash of cash.

The bill settled I made my way to the end of the corridor, to my room. I could still feel those Viet men looking. Putting my key in the lock and turning, I was reminded of the frustration of the last four occasions I had used this infernal door: key goes in, key turns freely to the right, stops dead. Key turns all the way back to the left, stops dead. Key turns again to the right, key contacts resistance, latch can heard moving. Door still appears locked. Shoulder is applied, door opens.

Before going in I turned and gave my three onlookers a wink. Once inside the room, as always, I turned and locked the door. I then took of my hat and glasses, and unloaded my pockets on the chest of drawers at the back of the room. I then hung my damp shirt (or in this case, singlet) over the stool provided, and laid my shorts on top of it.

I stepped into the tiny bathroom, brushed my teeth, wiped my face, and climbed into the bed. I was exhausted, I was tired and yet, I was not sleepy. Of course, they’d had no ginger ale so I’d been mixing my scotch with Coke; that’ll do it. After what felt like hours of mind games I had just felt myself drifting off, when I heard a key being thrust noisily into a door. I couldn’t avoid noticing how close it sounded – the timber panelling on the boat’s interior must readily transmit sound waves – it almost sounded like my door. A moment later I heard the door opening then the quiet audio of the occupant going about their routine.

A little after that I was torn into full consciousness again, as another key was pushed into another lock; the sound travelled so crisply, again, I couldn’t believe how close it sounded. I then heard that door open, I heard a voice, or voices; I had no idea how late it was by now but I just wanted to sleep.

Finally I hear the key in the third lock. I really cannot believe how close it sounds; I would swear that key is in the lock in my door. Oh well, I think through my sleep/alcohol fug, at least this occupant is being more considerate; not just jamming in the key with no regard to how sound travels throughout these sleeping quarters. I think of the three faces I had left out on top deck, and of their names, their nationalities. Of the thirteen person group there were two Kiwis, seven Aussies, two Brits, and two Scots; I had left out on the top deck two Aussies and one Scot…

Shit. Lying on my right side with my back to the door, suddenly I am wide awake.

…Those two Aussies are together; they’re sharing a room. I silently roll to my left side. That key has been working that lock, with almost increasing noiselessness, for quite some time now. Still with eyes closed I recollect the sequence of audio I’ve heard from the lock; key went in, key went one way, key went the other way, key went the first way again – I now hear the latch slide across…

My mind was working furiously: after witnessing me stumble out there those Viet crewmembers likely assume I am very drunk. Add to that is my typical drunken tone, also my typically drunken demeanour, and they must think I’m well past it. Additionally, I know they know I’m carrying a good deal of cash on me. They’d be fools not to try and help themselves.

…My right eyelid flashes open. The room is dark, but not in total blackness. With my right eye I can just make out the outline of the door handle. Is it moving? Surely not. I blink my right eye. I would have sworn I saw that door handle jiggle…

I thought of Nha Trang, such a lovely place, such wonderful people; there was no way I was going to let the slimy pricks do it a second time.

…I hear the key do another rotation, hear the latch silently slot back into place, then hear the key being withdrawn…

My entire body was trembling. My right eye was aching from maintaining a wink for so long. I shifted position in the bed and closed my eyes. I tried to be calm.

…I hear a key slowly, silently, being pushed into a lock. I know it’s my lock. I hear it rotate once. I hear it rotate twice. I realise I am holding my breath as I hear the key perform number three rotation. As expected, I hear the latch slide slowly across. From my left side I open my right eye. Can I hear whispering? Is the handle moving? What are they doing? Are they playing some sort of game with me – have I become the target of every Vietnamese swindler in this God-forsaken nation? …

My mind felt clear, as though the adrenalin had evaporated the whisky fug. I found myself willing the filthy seamen to come, willing them to try it; willing them to try and take anything of mine. I was amped. I wanted them to try; I wanted them to see how far they’d get.

…I hear the door creak. I know they’re leaning on it. I’m waiting for it to pop open. I’m waiting for them to step into the room and quickly check they haven’t woken me. They won’t have; I’ll have closed both eyes again by then. I’ll hear them shuffle towards the drawers at the back and I’ll open my right eye again. I’ll see the dirty little pricks going through my belongings and I’ll smile. Their backs will be to me as I’ll slide out of bed and descend upon them, wrapping my arms around filthy little throats…

I realise at this point that whoever was at my door has gone.

A few hours’ later I’m out of bed and up on top deck to catch the sunrise.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by D Sending-Dragon

Photography by E Onza-Go