His father and he had discussed it at length and bearing in mind Kahn’s passion for all things outdoors, it made sense that his move should be to the countryside.

He saw it firstly, as a chance to take a break from life; Kahn could appreciate that he had been doing it tough for, well, for as long as he’d been in the workforce but now, having executed his master plan and achieved his major goal, this was an opportunity for a clean break. In the shade less than three years he’d been landscaping, according to the diary he started on the day his working life had commenced, Kahn had amassed a gross total of $87,435.00, which wasn’t a lot in the scheme of things, but for an entrepreneurial sole trader in the nascent stages of business development, he thought he had done admirably. Decidedly less admirable were the outgoing costs, leaving his net total at a paltry $61,131.40; nevertheless he’d broken through the 60k threshold so he was happy. Moreover it ought to have been sufficient for the next part of his plan.

Kahn Walters moved into his new home, in the rural Canterbury town of Waddington, on the 1^st of November, 2013, aged twenty-one. With help from his father, they negotiated the house price to $280,000, and the $55,000 deposit Kahn proffered meant that he was able to secure an affordable repayment plan, with cash left over to cover the inevitable home ownership shortfalls. His father was overcome with emotions the first time he stepped inside his son’s very own house; he was so moved that every attribute regarding financial prowess, regarding forethought and organisational skills; every value and moral fibre that his mother and he had done their best to instil in the boy, had stuck. It made him proud as a father while reassuring him of the inherent goodness in people, and gave strength to Dave’s doctrine about the nature of a child’s mind not so much being born but rather, being developed.

Kahn turned on the TV at six o’clock that evening, excited about watching his first television show in his new house: “In our opening story on Three News tonight,” the TV blared, “it appears the quest for world peace, takes yet another hit, as North Korea continue to intimidate the masses.

“It is widely believed that, since the brutal slaying of Pyongyang’s Chief of Police, Chi Dewar, just last week, with the North Korean capital’s last bastion of incorruptibility now deceased, city, and perhaps even nation-wide, lawlessness, is sure to follow.

“Rumours have today emerged, that the General of the North Korean Army, Kodos Wanton, recently released from prison, oddly, over ten years earlier, than his sentence stipulated, initiated the hit on Dewar, while still behind bars, in nothing more, than a spiteful act, of petulant, vengeance.

“Further revelations came today, as, on returning to his post as General of the Army, Wanton openly called for, additional assassinations, throughout the Pyongyang police force, and in fact, reportedly, killing anyone, who doesn’t share his views, on global colonisation.

“And with the North Korean army continuing to swell, according to sources, with all indigenous males over the age of fourteen, facing indiscriminate conscription, the question, resonating throughout the world, must certainly be, with a megalomaniac of Wantons calibre, at large, for how much longer, are we safe?

“This has been Michael Robertson, reporting from Pyongyang, North Korea.”

The news presenter’s words left him in disbelief. What was so wrong with the world that – global colonisation..? Really? He turned off the TV in disgust and stepped outside, into his backyard. Here, on the southern border of his property, he was surrounded by a sporadic arrangement of giant macrocarpa, eucalyptus, and pinus radiata trees, standing their ground as if for no other reason than that’s where they want to be; along with vast lengths of pine tree hedges, impeccably shaped and trimmed, providing shelter for the livestock which inhabit the expanses of unadulterated grasslands, Kahn felt at peace. There was no substitute for the calming audio of, as he had named it back in Christchurch, ‘the tranquil sounds of nature’. Here, in the countryside, that audio was so much more real and not just with birdlife – there was now sheep, cows, and even horses to add to the lullaby. The best thing though, here, there was no one to tell him what to do; nobody to tell him how to live his life. Not that he would suggest his parents had ever been hard on him as such, life in the city had just felt restricting; oppressing. He took a large gulp of fresh, country air and reflected on how far he’d come since the day he’d stood in the Pyongyang City Square and listened to the address from the Pyongyang Chief of Police – who, apparently, had just been assassinated.

Seriously, he thought to himself, what is happening to the world?

He put this global plight out of his mind and focused on what he had to do. The sky was still light so he decided to do some exploring. He knew the section under his house was roughly a quarter acre, which translated to approximately a thousand square metres – two hundred square metres more than his parents’ – but looking around, it appeared so much bigger than even that; in fact everything appeared bigger: the section and the house. He concluded it must have been the fact that it was an older style design which gave it such a towering and expansive appearance – wide gardens merging into a big backyard; the house with its large eves, chunky guttering, and proudly visible gable ends – also the fact that its timber floored design meant it sat on piles, so it was already half a metre taller than modern, concrete floored, houses. Kahn swelled with pride. What a purchase. The red robin hedges around three sides – the east, the west and the north – of the property were freshly manicured, although the array of large trees to the south were overgrown and in desperate need of maintenance. Behind this copse, which he surmised had been planted as some kind of arboreal division between the house and the road, ran the main thoroughfare to the West Coast. He suspected the trees must have been doing their part in reducing noise pollution, too, as the motorised cacophony he had expected to hear emanating from such a busy road, on the day he first looked at the house, had been rather less disruptive.

Nevertheless, first job: prune trees. It made Kahn smile to think that after three years of doing it for others, the maintenance he was now doing was going towards the upkeep of his own property.

He strolled along the south boundary inspecting the gargantuan trees then around to the west face where to his delight, he could see by the distant mountainous silhouettes, if he stood at the northwest corner of his house a few hours earlier, he would actually be able to watch the sun go down. He was ecstatic about that but adding to this ecstasy, the main selling point of the house had been the conservatory located at that very corner. Now, every evening, Kahn thought, he could sit in his conservatory and just watch the sun go down, and in a month’s time, as the longest day drew nearer, it was going to be even better than it was now! A bounce in his step he walked by his garage, nestled back among the red robins in the northwest corner, then turned to walk along the north face, back down his driveway. Something piqued his attention. Around halfway down the driveway’s verge, in the longer but still trimmed grass, was something he’d overlooked during the initial house inspection. It wasn’t worrying, it was simply curious. It was a wooden trapdoor constructed from, by the look of it, pieces of metre long, four-by-two gauge timber. He took his time in assessing it. It appeared reasonably modern and by the way the lawn grass was growing over it at the sides, it didn’t look as though it was in frequent usage. He bent down and tried to wedge his fingers down the sides; to no avail. He stood and assessed it further. He tried standing on it. Nothing of interest happened. He tried jumping on it. As expected it gave the audio impression of covering something hollow. He gave up, curtailing his excitement, strolling back past the front door and over to the final perimeter fence on the east side. The red robin hedge really was quite spectacular; he walked right up to it and admired its density before lifting his gaze and viewing the narrow road that ran along that length of the property, and which was the house’s only point of access – Kahn especially liked the way his address sounded in his ears: Number one, Walkers Road, Waddington.

This is the most scared I have ever been. Something’s happening. I don’t know what it is but it seems pretty big. I’m hearing sounds I haven’t heard before, engines and that, up and down the road outside. They’re still coming through my house occasionally too, with their heavy boots. Don’t they have any bloody decency? Don’t the yellow monkeys know that its not polite to wear your heavy boots though someones house? I honestly don’t know if I can stay here for too much longer, its getting pretty hairy down here.

Still keeping the pride, K.

Trafficking immigrants is an illegal act – or so we’re led to believe.

Whenever a boatload of asylum seekers is discovered floating aimlessly off a nation’s coast their Coastguard promptly deploys vessels to execute a ‘rescue’, transferring the stricken souls to a more seaworthy craft, ensuring the migrants are warm and dry, then taking them to the safety of the country around which they were floating.

Nice one. Asylum sought. Job done.

After experiencing such wonderful success on that trip – for instance, 2000 Libyan immigrants each having paid monstrously for the chance at a new life then successfully making landfall on Italian soil – this particular gang of people smugglers will likely make their way back to their homeland to organise the next excursion.

My point, which seems to have become lost amid an equal mix of facts and sarcasm, is while I do understand that humanity dictates these migrants are not simply left to die on the ocean, by performing ‘rescues’ of these migrant boats Samaritan nations are offering no deterrent to the people behind this exploitative act; I imagine that once the boatload has been rescued the people behind the illegal migration simply blend into the horde, thereby becoming stricken refugees themselves.

Trafficking immigrants is an illegal act, yet the world’s hopelessly compassionate stance on trafficked immigrants is doing nothing but perpetuating its viability.

Certainly don’t punish people for feeling so unsafe in their own land that they must risk everything to leave but, definitely, a different approach needs to be taken.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Si Lim Sea-Carr

Photography by Dan Imme-Gince

After this recent ‘horror weekend’ on New Zealand roads where a number of incidents saw an even higher number of people killed, the call has gone out to the NZ Government to ‘make our roads safer’.

This must make a nice change for New Zealand Police who are continually finding themselves under criticism for, as is the popular phrase, ‘chasing drivers to their death’.

Personally, no idea how the NZ Government is expected to make a few million road users better at using the road, although there has been talk of implementing lower speed restrictions – which of course only works if drivers are willing to adhere to these new limits…

It’s going to be more straightforward to focus on that other one.

It seems that a number of offending drivers, on seeing flashing red and blue lights behind them, on hearing that beseeching wail of sirens, like to try and evade police, thereby endangering the lives of themselves along with other road users, by utilising their car’s, often modified, speed and agility, rather than capitulate and accept responsibility for their, generally idiotic, actions.

The result of this attempted elusion is often death – in many cases of the perpetrator but sometimes – of innocent bystanders.

Whenever one of these aforementioned dick-wads kills him/herself (let’s be fair, it’s typically a him) while trying to outrun police, a massive uproar can usually be heard from not only the dick-wad’s family but from other people, who think that because these dick-wads were young they deserved so much better…

Here’s the thing. If you commit a crime, odds are, the police will chase you. If you try to escape, odds are, you will crash. Once you have crashed, given that your speed will have been far in excess of the recommended limit, odds are, you will die.

This is not the fault of the trailing police car. This is the fault of the leading dick-wad trying to evade the trailing police car.

New Zealand Police have a job to do – to maintain peace and order. If somebody wants to disrupt this ideal, they should be willing to reap the consequences. If they choose to shirk these consequences they effectively remove themselves from the ‘peace and order’ ideal altogether therefore, essentially, it’s every man for himself and, well, anything goes.

Granted, officially, police will invariably maintain they had relinquished the chase prior to the car crashing, but that’s what they have to say; they’re not very well going to admit they pursued the car right until the fiery end.

In order for society to function, every person must abide by a set of regulations. It’s all very well to seek out the thrill of the dissident but be aware, to go against the established rule of society is to relinquish the safety thus support of law providers.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Polly Eastman

Photography by Fie Ray Crush

Sunday is the one day a year when it’s OK to admit that you love your mum.

Seems a little odd, dedicating just one day in each year to honouring our mothers, but according to the dictators of all things celebratory, that’s all we’re allowed to do.

It’s apparently all they deserve for their tireless hours of dedication ensuring that children are kept under control, ensuring that adults follow a similar line of authority; ensuring that the world, that our world, that everybody’s world remains functional, prosperous and ultimately, that life runs smoothly for all involved – by which I mean everyone.

One day a year. Alright. Yeah. Seems fair.

Well, they do get birthdays as well though, so, you know, it’s really like two days…

Yeah, but if they’re anything like my mother, they’d rather not acknowledge their birthday at all.

So what’s she complaining about then?

She’s not complaining; she never complains – about anything.

Well..?

Well, instead of being bound by the convention which stipulates that motherly worship must be restricted to just the one day annually, why not mix it up?

Like, how?

Happy Mum’s Day, Mum.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Olive U Mom

Photography by Ali Yeer-Long

Tuesday nights have long been renowned for their party atmosphere; during this one most recent l was delighted to be seeing Everclear live in concert.

The show was advertised to begin at seven o’clock therefore, cutting short that evening’s class I quickly replaced my jiu jitsu gi with a respectable rock concert ensemble and dragged my still-perspiring physique along to the Allen Street Rock Club.

After locating Allen Street without issue but having to perform numerous circuits of surrounding one-way, or roadworks-restricted, streets in order to even get close to where I wanted, it was in a state of sweaty frustration that I held my breath and executed an impeccable parallel park somewhere along Manchester Street. A balmy northwest breeze doing nothing to placate my temperament I feverishly disembarked, locked up, hesitated, re-opened and threw in my glasses, locked up again, turned, turned back, re-opened again to hastily swallow another half litre of water, locked up for a final time – I hoped – and made my brisk way to this hitherto uncharted rock venue.

I entered the typically bleak establishment to the uplifting audio of, what turned out to be, Assembly Required. Their style of fast-paced, bone-thumping yet immediately aurally pleasing hard rock was brilliant. Less impressive – particularly if you’re a girl named Stacey – was the next act, Setting Fire to Stacey. I’m sure they meant well and try as they did to enliven the crowd, they just couldn’t live up to the hype that followed Assembly Required. New Reptiles were next on and such was their classically pseudo-American tone that the mildly inebriated woman to my right shrieked into the depths of my eardrum, “Are Everclear on next – or is this Everclear?”

Everclear were on next. Perhaps it was due to my listening more closely to this band than I had been the others, or maybe it was simply that I felt I should have recognised their tunes, but initially, I was disappointed. For a five piece rock band comprising a vocalist, two lead guitars, one bass guitar, and drums, I found it curious that the only instruments I could hear were the drums and, occasionally, the vocals – albeit with that inherent rock star tuneless quality. I then realised that this had been a theme throughout the night – bass drums that made your jeans quiver and stomach flutter, along with a snare that did all it could to shatter what was left of your eardrums – which, when you are unfamiliar the song being played and are thus not expecting anything in particular, is fine. The issue that I had in this case was that when it came time to bring out, arguably, Everclear’s biggest track, Santa Monica, and given that for the weeks leading up to the concert I had been hanging out to hear the live rendition of that famed ‘Santa Monica guitar riff’ that any 90s teenager will know, the guitar in question was virtually inaudible on account of the overpowering – but might I say, spectacular – drum work.

This, on consideration, probably had more to do with the club’s sound desk – directly to the left of which, incidentally, I was situated – rather than the band itself, rendering any negative band critiques regarding equal sound quality indeed, baseless.

As a band Everclear delivered what they promised and had no trouble ingratiating themselves to the ardent audience. All the classics were played including, Santa Monica, Heartspark Dollarsign, Heroin Girl, then towards the end, right when I thought they weren’t going to do it, they busted out my favourite, Father of Mine.

Ultimately, personally, it was a good night: four hours spent amid a quaintly dank rock club on Allen Street; hydration maintained with reasonably priced non-alcoholic beverages; a more or less constant stream of flatulence provided by the protein-shake guzzling, muscle-bound character standing before me; attractive bargirls in short skirts to occupy any visual downtime; good energy emanating from all around with zero incidents of hostility; four high quality rock bands all for under $90. Good times.

Thank you, Everclear. See you again.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Art Alexakis

Photography by Flash U Lance

As parents they could not have been more proud of their son. Going out there, making a name for himself as a landscaper, after enduring such unjust beginnings, was more than they ever could have expected of the boy – of the man.

Beth was overjoyed at the level of diligence that Kahn had shown in order to get himself to where he was; although she did have to concede, all of a sudden not having her beautiful baby boy at home with her all day was a pretty big transition. Dave was fine, he just did what he did; but as an almost 42-year-old woman, Beth felt lost. Raising that boy had been the biggest joy of her life and had given her life more meaning than it had ever held; now her fledgling was all grown up and ready to fly…

Beth was lonely, and it could only get worse when he did decide to fly away.

He had just flicked off the radio, that news report sending an icy shiver dancing under his skin, when the nose of a beaten up white Mazda ute, the other half of the K Walt fleet, came to an abrupt halt just half a metre from where Kahn was resting; sending the mower in the back of the Mazda catapulting into the headboard with a crash. Kevin bounded out in a fit of fury at the same time that Kahn was about to discipline the man for not securely restraining his load; at the sight of his offsider he thought better of it.

“Oi, K Walt!” Kevin shouted at his boss in a manner certainly not befitting of an employee.

“Yes, Kevin,” he answered calmly, “what’s your problem?”

“You’re my problem, mate,” the short man stared menacingly up at his boss.

“I beg your pardon..?” Kahn swivelled in the drivers’ seat to face him.

“You, ya bloody nip cunt,” he drawled, “you people have been fucking with our country for years -”

“Hey!” Kahn called out sharply, “You stop it right there, Kevin … Don’t say another word, do you hear me? Or I cannot be held responsible for what I might do.” Kahn stepped to the ground and fearlessly approached his aggressor.

“Yeah?” sneered Kevin, thrusting his face in Kahn’s, “And whadda you gonna do? Look at yourself, nip, you’re all fuckin’ talk, ain’t ya?”

“I talk when I have something to say, Kevin, something real … I don’t waste, or mash my words like you do, so no, to answer your question, I am not all talk – if anyone is though, it’s you.”

“Yeah? You’re all talk and you’re a fucking tight-arse, paying me fuckin’ minimum wage to break my fuckin’ back for ya – fuckin’ nip cunt, that’s what ya are.”

“Honestly?!” Kahn was incensed. “You ungrateful idiot … I gave you work when nobody else would, I tried to help you, Kevin … I try to help you, and this is how you thank me … With racist slurs..?”

“Fuckin’ breakin’ my back for a fuckin’ nip,” he muttered, almost inaudibly.

“Kevin,” this had gone far past the point of redemption, “look,” Kahn spoke through clenched teeth. “If you were out there, working as hard as you say you do, if you were truly ‘breaking your back’, as you say you are, then I’m sure I would reward you for it … But all I ever hear from my clients,” Kahn’s ire was on the rise, “the client base that I built up all by myself, through genuinely hard slog, is how slowly you work, how roughly you operate my mower, and how poorly a job you do of their lawns … Kevin, I am a fair man -”

“You a fuckin’ nip man is whatchu are -”

The first punch Kahn could ever recall throwing knocked the man to the ground. He didn’t rise again until after Kahn had climbed back into his ute and departed.

She knew something was the matter with her boy the moment she saw his face; he wore an expression she’d never before seen. It wasn’t so much a sombre look as it was one of defiance; her son was angry. Kahn took off his boots in the foyer, throwing his soiled shirt in the nearby washing basket and went into his room. Beth tentatively followed. She found him lying on his bed, teeth clenched, staring up at the ceiling.

“Bad day at the office, baby Kahn?” asked Mum.

Her son stifled a smirk but said nothing.

“You doing anything tonight?” she tried a different angle.

“What’s tonight?” he grumbled after a short silence.

“Friday night.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means, baby Kahn,” she said with a playful edge, “that maybe, you, should take some time off work, go out there, and enjoy yourself.”

“What does that mean,” he asked again, turning to look at his mum, his face lightening, “that I should get drunk and have meaningless relations with some chubby Kiwi floozy with an Asian fetish?”

“Well, yes … I suppose you can do that if you really want, Kahn,” Mum said thoughtfully, “I mean, if you think something like that will make you happy…”

“After today, Mum, the only thing that will make me happy, is not being Asian.”

“Oh,” this caught her off guard. “But what would become of the floozies with fetishes?” she remarked.

This time Kahn did grin, “Ha, you’re brilliant, Mum, but no … An Asian in New Zealand, even in the twenty-first century, even one with a Kiwi accent, doesn’t get a fair go around here.”

“Oh, but I thought you were doing so well..?”

“And I am, Mum, but it’s only because when they speak to me on the phone they think I’m a red blooded – a full blooded – Kiwi bloke.”

“No, come on, Kahn, you know that’s not true … Well, maybe it is a little, but it’s your reputation for being an honest, and darned hard worker that brings in your clients … Did something happen today?”

“Oh yeah, it was nothing, really, just a bit of a dispute with Kevin…”

“I did warn you about hiring him -”

“What, because he’s Polynesian? Shit Mum, you’re as bad as them.”

“No, Kahn,” Beth said sternly. “Not because he was a Polynesian at all – it was because of his history of breaking the law.”

“But that was why I wanted to give him a chance, Mum, because no one else would.”

“You’re too kind-hearted for your own good, baby, that’s your problem – so did you two have a falling out?”

“Yeah, turns out he’s a lazy, money-hungry, racist,” Kahn said quietly.

“Oh, well, baby Kahn, I think you already knew he was lazy and money hungry…”

“Yeah, and it turns out he’s just another racist Polynesian.”

“Yes, and that’s the worst thing – it’s one thing when Whites are racist towards minority groups such as Blacks or Asians, but it’s when those minority groups turn against each other, that’s when the real hurt begins.”

“Wow, Mum, profound words.”

“You get to be my age, baby, you see a few things.”

“Thanks for that.”

“That’s fine … Just make sure you clean yourself up before tea, alright?”

“I’m twenty-one years old, Mum, I reckon I can take care of myself.”

“’Never too old to learn a few things’, that what my Mum always used to say.”

“’Life is a classroom, keep your eyes and your ears open, there’s no limit to what you might learn’ – that’s what I say,” Kahn pushed himself up on the bed and smiled at his mother.

“Very good, that’s a very good motto to have – now get cleaned up, tea’s almost ready.”

Around the table that night, much as she tried not to, Beth couldn’t help noticing that her son had slipped back into his despondency. She thought it best to wait for him to bring up the issue, or to just leave it altogether. “So, aside from the obvious, how was your day today?” she asked.

“Pretty good, thank you … I was focusing on finishing that job in Redwood, while,” Kahn paused, “Kevin, mowed lawns just over the way in Burwood.”

“Oh, good, I’m glad you’re still enjoying it.”

“I don’t recall saying I’m enjoying it, Mum.”

“Oh, well Kevin must be loving the freedom,” and as if she’d clean forgotten what she just decided, “he must be very grateful for the opportunity to be working for a living…?”

Kahn remained silent for a few seconds as if pondering his response: “Mum, I reckon it’s time I moved out.”

Its getting dangerous down here. I don’t know how much longer I can stay here. They’re just so close all the time now. I can hear the monkeys chattering away night and day. They’re everywhere. I can hear them all around and even going through the house – through my house! To date, I’ve killed 6 of the slimy yellow bastards. Then I’ve been throwing them in the shit tank when no one’s around. Still, doubt if even that would smell as bad as their own country though.

Still keeping the pride, K.

Affordable housing in Auckland.

Sorry, allow me to rephrase. Affordable housing in Auckland?

Prices in the Auckland housing market have been inexorably climbing for years. They long ago surpassed that of any other New Zealand city and now, are beyond ridiculous. The reason for it is simple: too much demand, not enough supply. The Government, around the last election, stepped up claiming that it would introduce a range of basic, low cost, ‘affordable housing’ for low income New Zealanders…

Under this plan a single bedroom abode would cost a destitute Auckland family $350 thousand; although on account of increased building costs this total is now more like $400 grand. That’s for a single. A three bedroom house which, let’s be fair, if they have five kids, is more like what they’ll need, will cost a low income family $450 – $500 thousand.

Affordable housing in Auckland. It’s an oxymoron. I bought my three bedroom house in rural Mid Canterbury a few years back for $131 grand. A three bedroom house in Otago nowadays can still go for under $130 grand – in Bluff, under 100.

The easiest solution as I see it is of course, to blame the Government. It’s the Government’s fault that everybody wants to live in Auckland; it’s the Government’s fault that the nation seems to believe all the jobs are in Auckland. It’s the Government’s fault that the majority of NZ’s population already live in Auckland and it is therefore the Government who is to blame for not magically making land or, more to the point, houses appear – cheap houses at that.

Is it a crisis? I wouldn’t say so. If Auckland want to pack themselves into the upper third of the nation then bitch and moan about how tight it is, surely, that’s their prerogative.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Liv Inner

Photography A Boad

Seemingly New Zealanders are spending less time incapacitated as a result of carnage on our roads.

From the evidence I have seen it’s the logical assertion to make: fewer people suffering motor vehicle injuries hence less support required from ACC therefore, as I have it, come July 2015, the cost of car licensing renewal is to be reduced by around forty percent.

Approximately ten cents in every litre of fuel is also ACC levy, and it looks as though that’s to be abolished/cut too.

Word is this impending reduction has been made possible through the ACC’s finally ‘catching up’; which is to say, funding of historic motor vehicle incident claims as well as those projected for the year to come, has been supposedly covered.

Typical of Murphy’s Law though my own car licence renewal comes up in June, meaning I won’t be eligible to partake in these joyous tax cuts until next time around.

Nice one.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tex Cutt

Photography by Sods Law

It was during the journey home from Christchurch last night, the same journey I have made for the past several Tuesday and Thursdays, I stopped in at the Rolleston New World to be confronted with quite the medley of peculiarities.

As I pulled into my usual park at around eight p.m., I took some time arranging my various bags and clothing items in the passenger seat, flicked on the inside light to perform a cursory presentation check, took another long swig of water before scanning the surrounding area and finally, disembarking. I found it strange to see the number of, what appeared to be loitering teenagers, carrying their scooters or skateboards but doing nothing of related activities, in the near-freezing car park; just killing time on a Thursday night.

Suddenly I heard a scream – which on second thoughts might have been high pitched laughter. I glanced toward the sound. One of the teenagers was female and seemed to have become the subject of a game of ‘keep-away’. For the next few seconds I watched and listened, checking for signs of genuine distress but to be fair to the girl, I don’t believe even she knew whether she was laughing or screaming.

I sauntered though the front door of the supermarket, past the Lotto counter where despite being unmanned and clearly shut down for the day a middle-aged woman stood waiting to be served; I then fetched a basket from the stack and emerged on the fresh produce section. Here, two hard green avocadoes along with a bunch of fresh bananas took my fancy, then around to the bulk bins where my Thursday night friend Alison likes to lay in wait. (In truth I don’t know her name – I don’t think it’s Alison anyway – but the way she spends her time wiping the bins of Alison’s Pantry, that was the logical sobriquet to bestow upon her.) Once I’ve fumbled around $60 worth of differing variety of nuts into identical bags marked with illegibly printed numbers, all the while making small-talk with Alison, I move on.

Several more products go into the basket – rolled oats, cat food, soap, bread, etc – until, as usual, I’m considering that I perhaps should have fetched a trolley instead. Nevertheless, left arm at breaking point, I make my way around the final few aisles.

I see a girl. She’s young. She’s wearing the New World garb – but she’s positioned atop a rickety-looking chair near the end of the row. I approach tentatively. She doesn’t appear aware of my presence. In fact she appears unaware of anything except the aisle directly across from her. I draw closer still, intrigued by this apparently mesmerised store clerk. I see red tape on the floor, supposedly marking out a spot in front of the area where the girl’s vision is fixated. I am there now. I rest my basket on the floor. I look at the girl sitting on the chair, ankles crossed, hands in her lap, and ask, “What are you, in, time out?”

She glances up, smiles, and says, “No, I’m guarding the baby formula.”

“Well,” I say, “I’m glad someone is … Why?”

Unflinchingly she responds, “It’s just in case somebody tries to poison it.”

My mind flashes back to what feels like about three years ago, when some idiot threatened to spike baby formula with 1080 poison if our Government didn’t halt efforts to eradicate possums by disseminating the aforementioned toxin over the land.

Far as I know, and affirmed by this New World supermarket worker, no one has run into any trouble with the baby formula and the only thing that such a senseless threat has achieved, as well as besmirching the reputation of our product across the world, was to add tedium to the working lives of a number of minimum wage supermarket employees.

Good work, dickhead.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Lona Lee Gorl

Photography by Dee Kidded-Threat

Much as the rest of the world claim to detest illicit drugs, in Indonesia they’re setting the example – they truly abhor the stuff.

Believe me, I did all I could to avoid broaching this topic but there’s just been so much about it and I’ve been getting so riled hearing the people involved claiming redemption; the families claiming absolution and all that good stuff when really there’s only one point that requires address.

A group of people smuggled drugs into a country where the punishment for such an act is, unequivocally, death.

Sure, it was a long time ago, they’ve already done ten years’ in prison for the crime and now, many people have been pushing for clemency, maintaining the death penalty is too great a punishment for the mere act of pervading illicit substances…

Indonesia doesn’t like drugs. Indonesia wants nothing to do with drugs. Indonesia’s method of ensuring that drugs stay far from its people is to enforce a death penalty. That makes a lot of sense. It’s their land; it’s their law and harsh as it may seem to some, it’s seems to be effective.

In order to be free from the plight of imported drugs a nation needs to offer such a deterrent to potential smugglers that they are simply too scared by the consequences of being caught to do it – in fact if other lands followed the Indonesian lead I reckon the world could not only eradicate illegal drug smuggling but prisons around the world wouldn’t be so bloody overrun with drug-running piss-ants.

Enough said.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Terry Clark

Photography by Mr Asia