2020, Thursday 28^th May I received an email; there was a Vietnam Airlines plane ready to take home remaining Kiwi tourists still in Vietnam.

The first problem was that this plane flew on Sunday the 31^st May and the second problem, I could scarcely afford to pay what they were asking.

Still languishing in central Vietnam, amid the peaceful beauty of Buon Ma Thuot, initially I was happy to dismiss the email; one Vietnam Airlines ticket from Ho Chi Minh City to Auckland was going to cost me in the vicinity of $1700 – more than the price of the return flight I had booked back in 2019.

A few hours later I received at follow-up message threatening that if I did not take this flight back to New Zealand, as Vietnamese Immigration authorities were all aware of my presence in Vietnam (along with lapsed Visa), there would be severe consequences.

Again, initially, I wasn’t perturbed.

It was the third email in as many hours from Vietnam Immigration that did it; they warned me that if I did not get myself home on the flight they were offering, on top of ‘consequences’, I would likely be stuck in Vietnam until sometime next year.

Before my New Zealand debit card had expired in March 2020 I had withdrawn over 30 million VND (approximately 2000NZD) to keep me going for the remainder of my stay; although that stay had been drastically lengthened I still had stashed in my bag a total of 16 million VND (just over 1000NZD), but knew that would be insufficient to get me through another six months in Vietnam.

My adoptive Vietnamese family were aware of my ongoing plight and had all been extremely supportive throughout; now, upon being notified of this updated version of my plight, the daughter (current student, future wife) ducked away to inform her mother. A moment later she returned, clasping a wad of 500 dong bills.

Shortly after that the mother drove a carload of my supporters and me to Buon Ma Thuot airport, in the hope of purchasing the ticket.

Alas the Vietnam Airlines desk at Buon Ma Thuot airport was unattended and, even after some urgent Vietnamese pleas, no assistance was forthcoming.

My Vietnamese contingent were undefeated; I had little idea at this point what was happening – I was mentally preparing to be in Vietnam until 2021.

We drove to another Vietnam Airlines office where, after much (seemingly heated) Vietnamese discussion along with the arrival (and presumed influence) of the father, I was presented with my itinerary.

From dismissing chances of going home to then suddenly being right there at BMT airport at the Vietnam Airlines counter; from then being led to believe there was no hope of going home in the near future to later showing up at a small inner-city travel counter where, boom, there it was.

I was befuddled, but it didn’t matter; all I knew for sure was that I had a ticket, I was going home in two days and, if not for the help of my Vietnamese family, none of this would have been possible.

 

I spent one last, wonderful but sombre, day with my Vietnamese family in Buon Ma Thuot before, at 9 p.m. Sunday 31^st May, they drove me to the bus station; destined for Tan Son Nhat airport, Ho Chi Minh City.

Monday morning, 5 a.m., the bus rolled into Mein Dong station. Even that early in the morning Saigon was bustling. I had no desire to do anything productive.

The first six hours I spent at a café, drinking ca phe and chatting with passing locals; for the remaining eight I simply shifted to another café.

Around 7 p.m. I turned up at Tan Son Nhat airport and walked inside; the place was empty.

I sat and waited for over an hour before noticing an information board light up. I checked it to find my flight was departing, as scheduled, at 22:35.

I checked in my bag and, with not another person in sight, strolled through to customs. There was someone waiting for me at a desk. I handed them my passport. He glanced at it. “Your Visa is expired,” he intoned.

“Yes,” I tried to keep sarcasm out of my voice, “so has the Visa of most of the people behind me.”

Another uniformed man approached the desk. “You come this way,” he waved his arm.

I walked in the direction he was indicating.

“You go in there,” he pointed to a doorway.

I went in and heard his voice behind me; “Sit down poleese…”

The phrase ‘sit down poleese’ has been the source of much humour between my Viet family and me, and when this man said it, I almost laughed aloud.

“…The commander will see you.”

I sat, stretched out, and felt a greater sense of calm than I had felt for a long time. I wasn’t worried. I knew these guys weren’t going to do anything to me. I think they were just bored and looking for a way to waste some precious time.

The ‘commander’ arrived who, the way he kept belching under his breath, I suspected had just eaten a large meal. If nothing else the man did provide a commanding presence.

He sat down. First thing he said to me: “Why do you have expired Visa?”

Seriously, I was of the impression that I was on a flight intended primarily for travellers stuck in Vietnam because COVID-19 had made it impossible for those travellers to return home at the scheduled time; I was of the impression they were expecting an influx of expired Visas.

I was in disbelief. Again, I repressed the compulsion to speak sarcastically, but this left me almost no words. “Ah … COVID…?”

He commander nodded, studying my passport.

I tried again. “I had a return flight planned with China Southern on March 26, they cancelled that flight … I had another organised on the 29^th, with Qantas, which was cancelled also.”

“I see,” the commander stood, “wait here.”

I watched as the broad-shouldered man photocopied pages of my passport then disappeared out a side door I hadn’t even noticed in the white room.

I don’t know exactly how long I waited there for the commander, I didn’t care, but it was at least 30 minutes.

When the large Viet returned, he had me repeat my story before asking, “You have friends in Vietnam?”

“I do,” I replied, “in Buon Ma Thuot.”

“You can ring?” he pointed at his phone.

“You want me to ring my friends?” I asked, confused.

He nodded; I suddenly saw that this could work to my favour.

I rang the first Viet number I saw on my phone and waited. “Tim!” came the response.

“Giang (‘Yang’), hey … Ah, some Immigration dude here wants to speak to you.”

I handed my phone to the commander and waited, listening. I didn’t understand many of his words, but I did notice Giang’s tone becoming increasingly shrill. I felt bad for her.

A few minutes later he handed back the phone then without a word left the room.

A minute after that my phone was receiving a call from Giang’s cousin, Dung (’Yhom’).

I answered it. Dung is the kind of assertive, strangely influential character, who, if you need something done in Vietnam, tell him and if he likes you, it will be done. This is much of the reason I hadn’t been worried about anything; between the influence of Giang’s father, Hung (‘Mr Hom’ to me,) of the Buon Ma Thuot Police, and her cousin, Dung, I felt as though I was fairly well represented.

I assured Dung there was no problem, that Customs had to have known there would be White folk coming through devoid of Visas, and that I was sure these Viet Customs dudes were just bored and looking for some way to kill the night. Dung wasn’t satisfied; his words, ‘I sort it out, Tim, don’t worry’.

Within moments, in the next room, I heard what must have been ten different phones, two at a time over the following five minutes, start ringing and vibrating until somebody picked them up.

Meantime, I sent Giang a text message telling her that everything was fine and not to worry; frustrated that I’d called her first rather than cousin Dung.

Seemingly Dung had finished with Vietnamese Customs; he was now calling me.

He explained ‘there is nothing to worry about anymore’ then instructed me, in his sometimes unintelligible Vietnamese accent, if there was any further trouble or if they tried to ‘make you pay money’, I should call him.

As I ended the call to Dung the commander meandered over to me, his expression no longer so intense. We went over everything again then insisted that I present evidence of my return ticket. Momentarily panicked, I then remembered how fastidious I am when it comes to deleting emails. Sure enough, with a rapidly depleting laptop battery and questionable Internet strength, I ran through old emails until I found the correct one from Helloworld.

The commander smiled and with his phone, took a picture of my laptop screen.

“You come with me now,” he said in a voice that didn’t match his face.

I gladly stood and followed him out the door. As we passed the threshold, he paused and carefully said to me, “There, ah, there will be no, ah, no money to pay.”

Where I had been over two hours early for my flight, there was now only 15 minutes until boarding. I was at risk of becoming anxious, until I saw the commander was going to accompany me through customs. He breezed me through baggage check in five minutes then, with a hearty handshake, left me at the boarding gate.

I wondered exactly what Dung had said to him.

The plane was under half full, so most people were able to claim their own bench seat, stretch out and sleep for the nine-hour, direct flight.

Auckland airport, much like Tan Son Nhat in Ho Chi Minh City, was deserted; the passengers were rounded up and escorted through the facility before being loaded onto a bus, then taken to the Pullman hotel.

My room is wonderful, the meals are superb, and my window faces east to a vista of the rising sun over Auckland harbour; I should be ecstatic, but I’m not.

I don’t miss Saigon but, fair to say, I do miss Vietnam; miss my Vietnamese family who were so good to me.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Donna Miss Saigon

Photography by Miss B M Thuot

 

 

 

 

 

Enduring question: why do so many males travelling to Southeast Asia presently become sex-crazed maniacs?

Indeed, there are theories, about the heat, about the excitement, about the aromas, about the fantasy, about the women; indeed, all are good theories.

Having been stuck amid the heat, excitement, aromas, fantasy, and the women of Vietnam now for almost five months – waiting here while New Zealand deals with the aftermath of its Coronavirus/Novel Coronavirus/COVID-19 outbreak – fair to say, yes, these factors do add to a male’s sexual appetite; yet many places in the world are warm, exciting, aromatic, fantastical and sexually inviting, so what makes places like Vietnam, Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, or Philippines different?

A Western tourist entering Southeast Asia will likely find themselves besieged by a plethora of biting insects; these insects penetrate the skin, usually on the hunt for blood, leaving behind irritation, hypersensitivity, and mild toxicity.

When any kind of toxification enters our body, the liver must work to purify the blood by filtering from our bloodstream the inimical agent.

This overactivity in liver function stimulates the body into a kind of hyperdrive rendering it less inhibited while making it more receptive to desire and creating greater sensual responsivity; thus, we have a temporary aphrodisiac effect.

Bloodstream toxification caused by any number of factors will generate a similar effect.

Toxification caused by alcohol – aphrodisiac?

Toxification caused by cannabis – aphrodisiac?

Toxification caused by illness – aphrodisiac?

Toxification caused by too many bug bites – aphrodisiac.

Therefore, couple bug-bite induced toxification with these other potential aphrodisiacs of Southeast Asia – heat, excitement, aromas, fantasy, the women – and a man is left feeling extremely vulnerable to sexual advances from exquisite Southeast Asian women.

Imagine my frustration then; having been in a relationship for past months with a typically beautiful Vietnamese woman who ‘wants to wait’.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Wey Tang

Photography by Stackin Pairer Dais

Consider the impending aftermath of COVID-19; the outcome once Novel Coronavirus has lost popularity and people come to realise that we allowed the world’s functionality to be largely devastated by an illness less deadly than influenza.

Here in Buon Ma Thuot, Vietnam, an isolated region practically unaffected by Coronavirus, other than most businesses being forced to close as a Government-imposed two-week lockdown requires people to stay indoors although anybody choosing to go outdoors must wear a mask as most Viet folk would have done anyway, not much has changed.

Once the world economy recovers and things start to return to a state of normalcy, we will likely discover that, due to prolonged periods of personal isolation, not only has this much-hyped COVID-19 been (mostly) expunged from the human race, so too will have most other airborne contagions.

Vietnam, with its highly concentrated population of almost 100 million, still has just 245 confirmed cases of COVID, with no related deaths.

With a shortage of human vessels to transmit its existence I cannot imagine the common cold will be nearly as prevalent as it once was; add to that the sudden caution with which most/all of us were forced to treat our health/wellbeing, I wouldn’t be altogether surprised to find that cold, influenza, along with airborne stomach viruses, are no longer a scourge on human health.

New Zealand, with its comparatively sparse populous of around 5 million, have surpassed 1000 confirmed cases and have suffered 1 related death (also a plethora of ridiculous radio advertisements where an uninspiring female voice lists ‘activities to help with boredom’, or similarly pathetic topics, during the lockdown).

Therefore, once those radio ads go off the air and the world reverts to its boastful self, I’m going to be excited to live amid a time where cold, flu, and other viral contagions (for example, COVID-19), are virtually non-existent.

Here’s to good health.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by O V Reaction

Photography by Vera S Nussabad

 

How was I to know, December 2019, peacefully languishing in New Zealand, preparing for a three-month stint in Vietnam as an English teacher, that whispers I had been hearing of an unknown virus in China, were to presently become vociferous pleas from governments around the world?

The pandemic that began as Coronavirus, affectionately known by unaffected Viets as ‘Koh-roe-nah’ murmured amid hushed snickers whenever someone was heard coughing, sniffing, or sneezing (Vietnamese never seemed to take the outbreak seriously), would soon evolve into the more inimical COVID-19 or, for those of us who detest flashy acronyms, Novel Coronavirus.

My first month, late December to mid-January, was spent in Go Vap, Saigon, where, surrounded by primarily White faces, I learned how to best teach English to supple Vietnamese minds. While the entire class struggled to keep up with the gargantuan workload and ultimately, to complete the course – ordinarily four weeks of studies condensed into a rapidly deteriorating three-week headache, in order to be finished in time for Vietnam’s Tet holiday, Lunar New Year – I think, we all did, albeit eventually (one extra week was given to submit written assignments), complete the course.

Nobody, do I recall, throughout the course and up to our estrangement, so much as mentioned Coronavirus.

Fatigued and relieved, upon assuagement of the aforementioned headache, all teachers largely went our separate ways. Many (freshly TESOL authenticated) of the group stayed on in Saigon, entranced as they likely had been by stories of ‘bright lights and good times in Ho Chi Minh City’ while some travelled to other Vietnam cities to ply their trade and a few travelled abroad; yet I, advantaged by my previous knowledge of the country, its customs and indeed, its latent underbelly, promptly boarded a bus for a nine hour excursion to the only place in Vietnam that has not (has yet to…?) screwed me over.

Nobody, do I recall, throughout the course and up to our estrangement, so much as mentioned Coronavirus.

Tet holiday amid the delightful rural backdrop of Buon Ma Thuot city, staying at the Phuong Anh hotel on Y Nue (‘Enway’) street; wonderful accommodation, mind-blowing experience. These guys, the locals, they get up, they drink beer, they eat spicy food, they smoke cigarettes, they drink more beer and they smoke more cigarettes, they sing karaoke; then it’s lunchtime. Here they eat more food, drink more beer and smoke more cigarettes, along with more karaoke; then they sleep for a while, and I make my escape (and my God, for someone who doesn’t drink beer, I sure drank a lot of beer).

The Vietnamese love their karaoke; every house has a massive sound system, for karaoke. Just for karaoke. They love it, can’t get enough of it and, most of them, do sing remarkably well, so it’s not all bad.

Imagine my surprise to wake up one day and find that Coronavirus had grown to epidemic proportions; admittedly, it’s difficult to accurately keep track of what’s going on in the world when you’re either drunk or sleeping off too much Vietnamese salami and garlic cloves.

Following Tet holiday, in order to limit the spread of this, apparently pervasive, seemingly ubiquitous, ostensibly nefarious, evidently contagious virus, English centres around Vietnam, including my chosen location, Buon Ma Thuot, did not reopen.

It occurred to me that, given I had come to Vietnam to work, I needed to start making money. During Tet I had established many relationships with the, disarmingly warm and unabashedly friendly, people and families of Buon Ma Thuot where, upon hearing my introduction, ‘…Tim Walker from New Zealand, in Vietnam for three months teaching English…’ (‘…Den doy la, Tim, den bang la zee … Doy vo, New Zealand … Bar gap, Vietnam, doy, yow vien…’), their eyes would light up; at the present time with no other means of helping their child/ren learn English, seemingly, I came as necessary relief.

The malady known as Coronavirus had since been renamed; Novel Coronavirus, or COVID-19, exemplified viral evolution and was supposedly much worse than the predecessor.

People around the world were now in hysterics; a pandemic had arisen unlike anything anybody in this modern human race had experienced and, while realistically it was little more severe than a heavy chest cold or pneumonia, the fact that it was a never-before-seen virus, thus there was no one-shot cure from our friends at the Almighty Medical Profession, had most people panicking terribly.

Half a world away from my family in New Zealand, languishing in Buon Ma Thuot, Vietnam – a country with similar landmass but close to twenty times the populous of New Zealand I observed the respective rates of COVID-19 increase at similar speeds – with livestream radio broadcasting almost constantly through my laptop (students were unflustered by my New Zealand Rock radio playing quietly behind their PowerPoint displayed English tutorial), through regular news updates I readily kept up with goings on at home.

There was talk at this point of countries closing borders to tourism, and some airlines, particularly in China, from where this bedlam had started, were now grounding flights; an unsurprising transpiration, therefore, was the cancellation of my return flight with China Southern airlines.

My Helloworld travel agent assured my he would find another flight, which he did, scheduled for just three days after the first.

Three days later I left the peaceful serenity of Buon Ma Thuot for the anarchy of Saigon, in preparation to catch my new flight home.

Nine hours later, Ho Chi Minh City Disrict 1, I checked into the most squalid hotel I had ever seen; few hours after that my latest flight was cancelled.

No reason to stay amid the filth and disease of Saigon, packing my hand sanitiser and face mask, I boarded another bus back to Buon Ma Thuot.

Nine hours after that, checked back into the luxury of the Tram Anh hotel on Nguyen Cong Tru (Wen Com Chu), Buon Ma Thuot, paying almost half what those Saigon cretins charged for their grotty little hovel in Ho Chi Minh City District 1, I am again at (relative) peace.

Jut now hoping to secure a temporary Visa to legitimise my stay, yet another electricity failure cuts power to lights, air conditioning, fans and of course, Vietnam’s blessed WIFI.

Cut Rock radio to increase laptop battery life and now, only the sounds of rattling generators and sparse Vietnamese traffic can be heard outside my hotel.

So, how long to I intend to be here?

How long does COVID-19 intend to be here?

I don’t intend to be here at all.

I am just here while everyone else is there.

Making the most of the situation I now face.

I plan to resume private tutorials in the coming days.

Let’s see what Corona has to say about that.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tam Purare

Photography by Vy Nam Yee

 

 

 

The issue of Teenage Suicide in New Zealand is frightening.

While suicide undoubtedly stems from the insidious scourge that is Depression, the bigger issue, I think, is: why is Mental Illness so widespread among New Zealand’s youth population?

The answer, I believe, is largely the answer to another question: what is currently the biggest, most influential entity on the planet?

Ponder that query while reading the following.

Today’s youth face countless battles but, while the youth of twenty years ago also faced challenges, as I have seen it, the battles/struggles/challenges of today’s youth are dissimilar to those of two decades ago, incidentally, when I was a teenager.

First Scenario, 1999: twenty years ago, as a sixteen-year-old rapscallion who had begun his drinking and smoking careers at age fourteen and who would begin his vocational career before age seventeen, my biggest concern was neither how I acted nor how I was perceived by others.

Admittedly, the perspective of a rural schoolboy is going to be somewhat removed from that of most urban teens yet assuredly, this is still very much a relevant comparison; besides, Teenage Suicide is a prevalent issue in the countryside, too.

Second Scenario, 2019: today, such is the weight of anxiety coupled with compounding pressure from peers to own the latest devices, to look a certain way and to dress in a style that, while it may be agreeable to others it probably won’t leave her feeling so good about herself, a sixteen-year-old student struggles to pull herself out of bed in the morning.

“It’s just hard cos you gotta be like what everyone wants you to be, like, and if you just wanna be yourself and look how you wanna look, you know, everyone gives you shit for it – specially the boys.”

Twenty years ago, I went to school, I played sport, I went out with my buddies and honestly, I didn’t feel as though there was room amid my busy 16-year-old existence for a girlfriend; as long as my guy-friends were cool with me, I wasn’t too fussed.

Being a teenager in the ‘90s was a more straightforward existence than today’s world, for today’s youth; less social pressure meant that the only real concern was performing as a student, and that was only as difficult as one made it on oneself.

Today, while the bulk of New Zealand’s youth populous seem to feel, also act, as though they already are grownups, it appears they are not embarking on sexual activities any/much earlier than teenagers were  a couple of decades ago; fair to say though (presumably as a result of the last twenty years’ normalisation of Internet Pornography), it is the nature of these activities, along with pressure to engage in said activities – lest an unwilling participant earn themselves a scurrilous reputation which may irreparably ruin their social status thus render their life ‘not worth living’ – which will potentially contribute to teenage anxiety.

“I just wish boys would realise that just because a girl’s dressed like a hot bitch, like, cos that’s how everyone expects you to look, it doesn’t mean she wants to fuck everyone – you know, like, just cos they want to fuck you, it doesn’t mean you wanna fuck them.”

Twenty years ago, sixteen-year-old me acquired a cell phone. I could put twenty dollars’ credit on that thickset old Nokia and, at twenty cents a text, that was like, a hundred texts; just as long as no one rang and left a message because then I’d have to pay a dollar-twenty a minute to listen to it.

Teens must have more to say to each other today than they did twenty years ago though because, as a sixteen-year-old living in the late ‘90s, one hundred text messages a month was quite ample.

Today, almost every sixteen-year-old will own a Smartphone and through this device, along with the complimentary allocation of data/texts/minutes likely included in the phone’s plan, the aforementioned teen can ensure they are never without someone or something to keep their mind, and  importantly their life, occupied.

“Yeah, I’m always texting, like, from soon as I wake up to when I go to sleep … S’pose it’d be like, I dunno, couple a hundred texts a day – cos Facebook’s free, so, you know, it doesn’t matter.”

Back in ’99, every spare moment I had it seemed, sixteen-year-old me was put to work; it’d been that way all my teenage life, if I wasn’t out helping with jobs around the farm, I’d probably be indoors peeling spuds and preparing other vegetables for tea that night – as I recall it, there wasn’t a great deal of time for anything else.

Basic Internet was introduced to the world in the early ‘90s, with this original ‘Dial-up’ platform soon evolving into ‘Broadband’ which, to this day, seems continually trying to outdo itself.

The Dial-up Internet of the ‘90s produced the first efficient Electronic Mail system (with basic email systems having been around since the late ‘60s) then early 2000s the game was figuratively blown apart by Broadband Internet. Skype came along in 2003, bringing the mind-blowing ability to make video-calls; then 2004 saw a veritable revolution in online communication.

“What did people do before Facebook? It must’ve so boring, like, I dunno, how did you even do anything? … Facebook can be pretty bad though, you know, like, cos stuff you post, like, even when you realise straight away it was a bad idea to put it up and take it down straight away, if someone shares it before you take it down, you know, it can be there forever.”

In the old days most things somebody did, or said, only lasted for as long as people’s memories; or if an action was caught on camera, then one, two, or maybe three people could have that memory for life.

Digital cameras, and the ability to download shots to a computer, revolutionised photography and the way memories could be saved; although these technological wonders were about throughout the ‘90s, it really wasn’t until the advent of Smartphone cameras that instant photography became readily available to everyone.

Twenty years on, nowadays, given the prevalence of cellular technology, every notable happening can be snapped, posted, then shared, in a matter of seconds; today’s camera operators are merciless, too. It doesn’t seem to matter how unwelcome or undesirable a photo opportunity, when that opportunity presents itself – often younger people committing regrettable or forgettable acts – doing things that will later hurt their social status and subsequently devastate the youth responsible – that moment will likely become forever etched in the 21^st century’s memory.

“Yeah, guys are always trying to get you to do weird stuff just so they can get it on their phone and put it on Facebook, like, stuff you don’t wanna do – specially when you’re drunk, too – and like, it can be real hard to tell them not to, you know.”

Social Media, Facebook, along with its psychotically clever methods of drawing in users, unequivocally, is the cause of much of the world’s Teenage Anxiety.

Whether it be the pressure of quickly responding to a pop-up reminder, a hotly-indicated message, alert or notification, or perhaps it’s the mental discomfort of having to live with the knowledge that one of your most humiliating/degrading/personal moments is perpetually circulating the Facebook feeds of people you’ve never met but who wanted to be your ‘friend’ so you allowed it, in my opinion, Facebook, and all the ‘social benefits’ that Facebook offers young folk, is largely responsible for the Anxiety, the Depression and all to often, the Suicide of our youth.

Perhaps the ugliest thing about this situation though, is that despite precocious teenage maturity and despite their prevailing common-sense, through Facebook’s ability to incite competition between youthful users to look and to appear better than their peers; through its encouragement to post one’s most personal information, and through its inviting blue forum (blue being the colour of calm), these teens are compelled to upload (or to have uploaded) pictures/thoughts/information about themselves that will ultimately be damaging to them – now or in later life.

Facebook is an addiction pervaded and perpetuated by some of the most astute minds of the Tech world with the presumed intention of drawing in and effectively controlling users, forcing them to become obsessed by their own sense of vanity; making their Facebook profile bigger, brighter, better, superior, transcendent to the next one.

Doubtful? Ask yourself, of all the Facebook or other Social Media profile shots of younger people you have seen, how many have been bad? Between the brilliant lighting of Smartphone cameras then Facebook’s (or other Social Media’s) editing and filtering technology, it is always possible to make a Facebook (or other Social Media) photograph brilliant.

Obvious to some yet not so much to others, the only thing that is going to relieve the pressure that Social Media is placing/has placed on teens, is to make them understand that, realistically, it doesn’t matter; the truth is, in New Zealand, anyone can do, think, or say whatever the hell they like and basically, it doesn’t matter a shit.

Furthermore, if an online situation becomes so horrible that it seems inescapable or that it seems it really does matter, here’s what you do: go offline.

Once Facebook’s warm blue undertones have disappeared, one will again find themselves in the Real World.

Awful as that world may seem at times, its real; Facebook/Social Media is not.

Nothing about Facebook is guaranteed real, remember that; not the faces nor any of the people behind the faces need to be real.

Facebook is the world’s biggest farce yet, farcically, this Social Media behemoth has the world’s biggest subscription.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tina Edge

Photography by Sue E Sade

 

Here’s a phrase I have heard too many times to count – “Yeah but, what is normal?”

That line takes me back to the days when, although I was clearly not ‘normal’ – in appearance, speech, manner and, well, just about every other facet of humanness (and although spellcheck is not, I am definitely questioning the validity of that word) – at those times when a frequently occurring bought of despondency had me low enough that I could be heard slurring utterances regarding my desire to be ‘normal’ again (similarly, I guess, to the way that Pinocchio used to crap on about wanting to be a ‘real boy’, and look how that worked out for him), that, the aforementioned sentence, in between laughter, boozing, shenanigans, and other aspects of youthful frivolity from my peers, is what I would usually hear.

Realistically, ‘normalcy’ is the portrayal of what the majority of folk would consider normal (and although, in my perception, ‘normalcy’ is somewhat nuanced from ‘normality’, in the sense that, where ‘normalcy’ is the basic act of being normal, ‘normality’ relates to an atypical situation having since reverted to normal; yet, no. Apparently, I am wrong. I must have invented that in my sleep or something. Turns out there is no difference – normalcy, normality, tomatoes, tomatoes, you know).

Trouble is, that line, that grotesque cliché languishing right there at the top of the page mocking me with its hackney, is nothing but a pseudo-profound piece of shit recited by the kinds of people who, although they could appreciate that the subject’s (my) actions may have been far from conventional – so much so, in fact, that those actions were leaning more towards the realm of ‘inappropriate’ than not – the subject is/was/probably will again one-day-be-but-maybe-not, very dear to the speaker (them) thus the speaker is wary of hurting the subject’s feelings because so much has passed between the subject and the speaker so when that day comes where the subject is genuinely normal again (probably will again one-day-be-but-maybe-not), the speaker wants to be there to welcome the subject back into the real world with open arms and other clichés (also perhaps apologise for the years’ of bullshit sycophantism that they fed the subject on the basis that, presumably, he was too frail to cope with the reality of life; that is, despite being forced to endure that exact debacle every Goddamned day of his life).

Normalcy, normality. Huh, so, turns out they’ve identical meanings. What a bust; really thought I was onto something there. See, I was going to write this extensive article about how ‘living amid a life of normalcy isn’t always conducive to an existence of normality’, or how ‘quantity in life will not always supersede quality of life’ and other pseudo-profound, preachy crap like that. It was going to be awesome; was really going to exemplify my own humanness, you know?

Ah screw it.

Ultimately, ‘normalcy’ is being real, being true, being good and, in my opinion, being honest. ‘Normalcy’ is not striving to be the same as everyone else, because that shit’s lame; it smacks of weakness of character and anyway, why would anybody want to do that – want to be that way – be the same?

To perceive someone struggling away, trying but failing to portray their intended quota of ‘normalcy/ity’, then trying to convince/reassure them anyway that they are normal (or worse, asking them something vacuous like ‘What is normal, anyway?’), well, that shit’s tired, overdone, and equally as lame as the above; most likely these struggling folk are quite aware they are not normal and probably, they are just quietly trying to reach their norm, in their own time, and on their own terms.

Or not. Who am I to say? I’m not normal and likely never will be; shit, I embrace the weirdo lifestyle.

Honestly, I gave up caring how I was perceived a long time ago.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Wie B Striven-Four

Photography by Norm Al Cee

Is it me or has our Government introduced yet another massive double standard to New Zealand society?

Alcohol poses a greater financial burden to the New Zealand Government than any other recreational pastime yet, while something such as cigarettes are constantly vilified by almost everyone in our great nation, alcohol is still celebrated as a glorious tool, a wonderful form of catharsis at the end of a hard week/day…

Which it very much is; please, don’t misunderstand me, alcohol is great – it is among the world’s finest consumable manmade poisons.

…It just upsets me when our Government bitches and moans about the apparent ills of one thing while overlooking the obvious detriment of something else.

For example, I was recently, albeit inadvertently, accosted and potentially injured, by a, I assume, Christchurch local and his, so-called, marvellous innovation.

Indeed, the advent of Lime Scooters/e-scooters in New Zealand cities, while providing a marvellous transportation solution to the people, appears to have slipped under the typically rigorous, often counterproductive, yet senselessly stringent, New Zealand Government sanctioning body.

How is it that motorists are required by law to wear seatbelts and adhere to speed regulations, cyclists are required to wear helmets and are also bound by regulations, skateboarders are required to restrict their pastime to authorised places with more regulations; riding shotgun across a carpark in a shopping trolley borrowed from Pac’n’Sav is not even allowed anymore, yet these scooters, infernal contraptions they are, often pulling in excess of 40kph, have no regulations and may be used basically wherever they can travel? …

Incidentally, as one might recall, years back the New Zealand Government legalised Herbal Highs, jumping onboard the Kiwi hedonist’s desire to branch out and try something new (while also no doubt sensing another abundant taxation avenue), until a short time later, as predicted, after the aforementioned Kiwi delinquents have (as is human nature thus was always going to happen) found ways to abuse and misuse this bewildering liberty – in the process killing several participants – expectedly, Herbal Highs were outlawed; yet to this day variations of these insidious manufactured drugs are a scourge on Kiwi youth/people in general.

…Because of the supposed benefits to the ongoing issue of public transportation in New Zealand cities, our Government has allowed these electric toys to effectively go loose on our streets; since their introduction, however, because latently most Kiwis are irresponsible idiots, the cost to ACC has been astronomical and, with no required skill level or safety gear to ride these unwieldy scooters, that cost is not forecast to reduce anytime soon.

A lot like Uber and its grotesque lack of regulations, it seems if there is a way for our Government to utilise some technological advancement under the guise of benefitting the nation – while looking like the cool uncle in the meantime – however much they might be forced to implement their Parliamentary blindfolds regarding all things logic, however much they might have to ignore blatant contradictions, hazards and flaws unearthed by their plan; however outrageously impetuous their plan might be, it seems, they’ll embrace it.

For the time it takes, for the number of people it takes to pass a law – or in fact just to make a decision – in the New Zealand Government, it should be reasonable to expect that, at the end of said process, they will be certain to have made the right ones; that is, rather than having to later retract/amend that decision which, regarding e-scooters, they likely will.

Just saying.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Scooter Hazzard

Photography by Cal Amity

 

 

 

All my life I have been a single man; not so much out of choice, more just because that’s how the Dictators of Fate appeared to believe my life ought to be destined.

Used to happen a lot but I could never understand people who would laugh, pat me on the back and tell me my ‘standards were too high’, because realistically, as an 18-year-old fresh out of an extensive stay at Burwood Hospital Brain Injury Unit, honestly, I felt as though I was ready to take what I could get.

Problem was, in those early days as a recovering head injury patient, nobody took me seriously – boy-friends or potential girlfriends – to them I was just someone who used to be somebody but, through an unfortunate chain of events beyond his control, was now effectively nobody.

A 17-year-old able-bodied young man afflicted with the kind of brain trauma which, after the brain had collided with the inside of the skull then the injured portion had swelled to the point where it effectively killed itself, left me equipped with the faculties of a two-year-old while forced to still live in the body of myself; lying incapacitated in a hospital bed, subsequently, I was beholden to learn to walk, talk, eat, drink then yes, fit in with the outside world, again.

While my new brain still had the ability to think coherent thoughts and, indeed, operate with basically the same level of capability as most, it was the projection of these thoughts and abilities that caused issues; problem was I looked like a braindead zombie and, I guess, I sounded like one too. In hindsight I can’t blame people for disregarding my presence, casting me off as someone to be looked at but not talked to; it’s in our natures, after all, to discern who will best receive our approaches and, think about it, we do tend to overlook the less functional.

The years passed me by and, as I effectively stood spectating while my dream career as a diesel mechanic was pushed out of reach by a worsening post-traumatic tremor, try as I might, I just couldn’t seem to harness that projected ‘normalcy’.

The injury was sustained in 2000; it wasn’t until around 2012 that I felt truly able to take my constantly rehabilitating brain (medical professionals will maintain that the brain does all the healing it is likely to do in five years but I beg to differ) out for a spin in the real world…

Don’t misunderstand me, I was always in the ‘real world’, just not so real as a ‘regular’ person might perceive it. Hitherto, happier to stay at home (in the house that was purchased in 2003) rather than to go out and experience the world, possibly as a result of the constant failure/rejection/spurning/ridicule I was forced to endure in that world, increasingly I had become a recluse.

…Here I started an attempt at meeting new people and, although initial attempts were  sometimes met with a familiarly uncomfortable response, I had developed sufficiently in the cognitive realm to appreciate that this was simply the ‘error’ aspect to the fabled philosophy of ‘trial and error’; thus it was with a demeanour of duck-backed perseverance that I pushed on.

Alas, even with my modified brain now projecting something (which I was pretty sure was) akin to normalcy, failure after failure – error after error – humiliation after humiliation, continued to drive me back, crushing me down and leaving me desolate.

Self-esteem, self-confidence, self-worth, self-possession thus self-respect, at this point, were failing me. Too much failure. Helplessly, I felt myself going backwards, drifting back to the place I’d begun, that is, after losing everything and starting again; slipping, sliding, clambering, stumbling, and still losing ground. Life felt hopeless.

Nothing to hope, so little reason to look forward.

Then one day recently it turned around.

A simple encounter; a fortuitous tryst. A remarkable woman; a transcendent being. I could finally stop pretending; could finally stop being so hopeful that one day I would see the light – think I actually saw the light.

I realised then, that no matter how bleak things might have looked; irrespective how much compounded shit might seem to be crushing the last modicum of goodness out of life, rendering every day a monotonous chore, relief is never as far away as it sometimes appears.

One day, one person; one bright soul, one calming influence and it changed.

Thank you.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Moe Min Tuss

Photography by Chan Farm Ashun

Be Advised: Do NOT Enter this window if you are hoping to find tasteful content. The following is an uncharacteristically risqué piece but, as always, it is reality.

Also, given this entry is being shared through Facebook thus age restrictions are going to be not particularly commanding, I leave discretion to the mature minds of precocious delinquents around the world to decide if you’re mature enough to wear the R18 tag.

There. Hopefully those first few paragraphs filled Facebook’s introduction window; if not, this will. Good. Let us begin.

 

More than once I have heard women, sometimes while drunk, usually while surrounded by their peers, complaining, mocking, ridiculing their male counterparts, regarding topics such as: ‘Oh yeah, he only lasts five minutes, anyway…’

Every time I overheard the above, or similar, criticism, seriously, I almost choked in exasperation; therefore, now, on behalf of men everywhere, I offer this rebuttal: ‘Excuse me, women, I have never gone for more than five minutes without one of you complaining, ‘Oh, I need a break’, ‘No, I’m getting too sore’, or, you’re panting so damned heavily I fear you might be going into cardiac arrest, so, I mean, honestly, the fuck are you all talking about?’ You moan about how ‘most guys are so lame in bed’, about how much you want ‘stamina in the bedroom’; some of you brag about how you ‘love it hard’, how you ‘like a man to treat you bad in bed’, or how you ‘like it rough’, then when it’s given to you the way you apparently want it, you silly slappers can’t take even five minutes of hard love. Huh, I always thought pretentious men made the biggest blowhards but no, it’s silly women.

Another common female criticism is regarding the size of a man’s package. Over the years I have heard countless women glorifying ‘big cocks’, and similarly deriding smaller ones. Seriously, blowhards. Give them bigger, give it to them as hard as they claim to want it, for as long as they claim to want it and, huh, most won’t last even three minutes before complaining that something is upsetting them.

It might go something like this; in the beginning I’m told, ‘Just fuck me.’ Soon after that I’m further encouraged, ‘Fuck me harder … Faster … Harder…’ Then only minutes after that transition, upon doing only as I have been beseeched, the complaints might begin: ‘Oh, are you gonna, oh, finish soon? … Oh, can’t you just, oh, cum now? … Oh, I’m getting cramp, oh, oh, can we stop? … Oh, can we take a break, oh, oh, please?’

At this point I might quip something along the lines of, ‘Shit I’m sorry, I thought you said you wanted me to fuck you like a slut, all night long…?’

There it is; despite performing exactly how I (might) have been instructed, bringing to the game only what I was told to bring, presumably by the same variety of woman who openly complains to her gaggle about ‘most guys being so pitiful in the sack’, once again I might discover that, although sometimes, yes, it will be the men, invariably women do not perform sexually the way they claim they will. (Like I said before, though, this is purely a rebuttal for all those men in the world who, despite doing their best to please women with the equipment at their disposal, are still the target of derision; if necessary I can do the other side of the story at a later date – don’t label me a misogynistic pig just yet, thank you.)

Scientists/prudes talk about pornography skewing the perception of sexual reality for men; what about for women? Most likely they only make all these ridiculous claims about the desirability of perverted sexual exploits because it’s been so comprehensively embellished in pornography.

Do not misunderstand me, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying sensual (as opposed to firmer) pleasure with a smaller (as opposed to a larger) phallus but, if this is your preference, women, stop crapping on about the glamorous world and overall appeal of massive cocks performing all-night BDSM or similar.

Most guys aren’t into that kind of thing anyway and yes, the national average is 6 inches and 5 minutes; therefore, all you are doing, rather than endearing yourself to idiot males with your drunken smut-talk, is fuelling a common male shortcoming by pervading a sense of inadequacy.

Let’s not forget, the harder a man pretends to be in the eyes of a woman, generally, the more insecure he is in life.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Donna Lykit-Hard

Photography by Dirk Diggler

 

 

 

 

She was an attractive woman; any man could see that. Made sense then, every man wanted to be with her. Slim where it was required and voluptuous where it wasn’t, auburn hair shrouding a flawless face; dark eyes throwing up the contrast to her plump red lips, (Insert Preferred Exotic Name Here) was exquisite.

The above paragraph provides an adequate description of a generically beautiful woman; yet by adding a few qualifiers – largely unnecessary adjectives or adverbs – otherwise known as ‘superlatives’ (although, as scholars may point out, ‘superlative’ can be an adjective all by itself, just not in this case, thank you), I could have made it more than adequate – could have made it superlative – which, let’s be fair, in this modern world, is really/quite/pretty/very easy to do.

Admittedly, the written and the spoken word are dissimilar in usage in that, when someone is writing, firstly, generally, they give themselves more time to decide which words to apply and, secondly, they have the ability to read through the draft excerpt and edit any sloppy/foolish/extraneous speech before offering their words to the world; conversely, when someone speaks their thoughts, words tend to be delivered more quickly thus are less filtered, often resulting in humiliating and/or regrettable comments which, as the world will be quite aware, can be rather difficult to retract.

Indeed, he was quite aware, it would be rather difficult; it was kind of annoying and, to be honest, a bit shit. Conversely, he was aware it would be difficult and annoying; it was shit.

Which of the above sentences reads better? The former, wordy and arguably more descriptive, is more akin to spoken speech while the latter, less wordy and ultimately simplistic, is more like one would expect to read rather than hear.

The obvious question, therefore, why did I write this article?

First, another question: how do speech patterns/dialect become fashionable? Social Media perhaps – Facebook? Right, early 19^th century, first Cockneys of England, big fans of liking and sharing Facebook posts about their mortal enemies being ‘brown bread’…?

A nation’s dialect, generally, is decided by the speakers therein; one person utters a phrase which another person perceives as funny/memorable/worth repeating/worth hearing again, nek minnit, a fashionable proverb is born and from that, potentially, a variant vernacular.

Dialects/vernaculars/speech patterns can go out of vogue as easily as they arrive, too; who, in this modern age, even knew that ‘wherefore’ meant ‘why’? Of course, in Shakespearean times, ‘Wherefore art thou?’ meant ‘Why are you?’ yet that dialect vanished centuries ago.

Back to the original question; why did I write this? Alright, my first published article was ‘Mit Reklaw’s Truth on Speech’ and, although Sunday News chose to call it something different in print, it described the ridiculous nature of, thus my ongoing frustration at, modern speech patterns; over five years on, you might say, I’ve written a sequel.

The issue I have with the way we’re going, at least in New Zealand, is that everything is either ‘very good’ or ‘very bad’; please understand, ‘hate’ is not the opposite of ‘like’. It doesn’t need to be ‘really good’, it can just be ‘good’. It doesn’t need to be ‘so awful’, it can just be ‘awful’. You don’t need to be doing ‘pretty well’, you can just be doing ‘well’. You don’t need to ‘quite like’ it, you can just ‘like’ it; if you no longer ‘like’ it, you don’t need to ‘hate’ it, you can simply ‘dislike’ it.

The problem is, we’re using our words so thoughtlessly and needlessly, attaching qualifiers to everything we say and write, we are running really really really short on superlatives; now, in order to highlight a subject/topic, it seems the only way we know to emphasise our meaning is through repetition – of words or through exclamation points!!! (Also, millennials, stop putting a space between your word and your punctuation mark !!!)

Consider this: when Facebook began, if something appealed to you, you could ‘like’ it; well, ‘like’ has since been pushed back to merely a symbol of recognition and now if you genuinely like something, you have to ‘love’ it – but who truly loves to see a picture of what their friend is preparing to eat that night?

Too many words.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Whirr D Power

Photography by Don Tova Yuse