Bowling Through India was a was one of those trips where something happened almost every five minutes. Which of course became perfect fodder for a travel book. Stephen Singh of Birmingham wrote to me today and asked: ‘Have you ever feared for your life during any of your travel writing stints?’
There was the car crash in the game reserve in Namibia. (Our car had to be lifted from rocks by 15 burly locals.) And I seriously thought I’d end up in A and E boogie boarding down the Zambezi River.
This question, however, took me to the place where many others had lost their lives: a cemetery in Varanasi, India. Our cricket team, consisting of five New Zealanders, decided to challenge the local village to a game. It was a bizarre, beautiful experience.
There is a faint whiff of sheep dung and human sweat. A few hours ago this wasn’t the case. Four men arrive at the office prepared for banter, repetition and savouries. Each begins a routine befit of a first-five about to kick a penalty.
Clive, a bear of a man with a whale of a belly, smiles a toothless grin and sharpens his blades. Thommo, born looking seventy, glances at the penned-up Merinos and pushes back his mop of grey hair. Stirling, surely the only shearer on the planet with such a regal handle, rummages through his bag and swaps new brown sneakers for well-worn moccasins. Randell, the gang’s raconteur and King Pin, asks how the fuck everyone is and isn’t it about time we got on with business.
The buzzing starts and stops only when the jug is boiled. Randell grabs his first victim as if it were he were a policeman breaking up a fight. The sheep struggles briefly, though realises his captive is a pro. Within minutes Randell is on the board. He flicks his counter and shoves the Merino outside, who scurries down the ramp with the conviction of a gorilla in a swimming pool.
Clive is not far behind, his first sheep now through his legs and free from blades and blood. No one is more grateful than Clive who, despite having arms like fence posts, looks no fitter for it. Once upright his routine begins: wipe face with towel, pull up trousers, whack counter with thumb, spit and wrangle new prey.
At smoko Clive tells us his sister puts tomato sauce on tomato sandwiches. Stirling used to shear in Scotland, don’t you know. The savouries are the first to go, followed by banana cake.
The wool classer tells everyone they’re behind schedule. No one seems bothered. No one likes the wool classer. People call him the Colonel behind his back.
Ricky the rousie sweeps around the men and flays their efforts, clean side down on the table. Randell tells Thommo he’s supposed to be shearing that thing, not rooting it. The clattering of hooves echo on the barn floor. Stirling finds the only Jaffa in the room. Surprised you’re not dead, he says. Doesn’t everyone get murdered up there? Been to Auckland, adds Clive. Went on the rollercoaster and McDonald’s in Manakau.
Randell uses his towel as a pillow against the shed wall. Sweat drips from noses.
It’s the age old question. Neil Gaiman says he finds his down the back of the garden in a box in a shed. I find if I cram my head with weird books, songs and conversation an idea will eventually arrive, often fully formed. [Tip: PANIC is never good, but not altogether bad as it forces you to think.]
This past Saturday I was about to go for a run. Instead I opted for a long, long walk. I was about to listen to my typical playlist: Bowie, The Arcs, Tony Allen. Instead I went for Mothership by Led Zepp, something I never listen to. I walked and walked, across Auckland’s new pink cycle bridge and through a cemetery. Sunlight hit the gravestones. ‘Black Dog’ burned my ears.
Ideas spilled out. 90 minutes later I had plot, character, title and all.
So. Switch up the norm. Amble inside that creepy shop. Drive a different route. Watch good movies. Watch shitty movies. Read that Norwegian thriller. Then relax. Empty your head. Fill it again. Repeat. Don’t force the issue. You’re a creative.
My daughter Sophie was 2 months old when my Ellerslie neighbour said, ‘Fuck it, let’s go to the Cake Tin and see Bowie’ On that night it rained so much the Manawatu was flooded for weeks after. Bowie was the only band member who stepped out into the storm and sang. ‘Thanks for coming out on such a shitty night you crazy mothers.’
We stood metres from the man with two different coloured eyes who was my soundtrack to growing up in Raumati South. I always wondered how I’d feel when one of my heroes (we could be) died – and it feels pretty shit.
I last saw Graham at his second home, Brazier’s Books on Dominion Road in Auckland. I wanted to show my girls a real bookshop. Graham was at the counter, sitting down with his guitar. He asked if he could sing us his new song. We obliged. It was an honour to hear him sing. If you’ve heard Billy Bold you’ll know this guy can write a tune. He could also quote poetry by almost anyone. Did the store have a copy of Under the Mountain, I asked. He did, a first edition. He told my daughter to honour it and treasure it. Tis a Kiwi classic, he said. As he was. RIP Graham.
Today’s random phone call, followed by an email, comes via America’s Funniest Home Videos. SIX YEARS AGO I submitted a video – as a joke. The Clearance Coordinator needs first/last names and email addresses for the following people seen in the clip ‘where everyone was jumping on an inflatable cushion to launch a baby doll.’
Man heard talking in background: First boy jumping: Kid in background: Woman heard in background: Older woman jumping: Little girl running around: Tall man jumping:
I said, ‘That’s very nice Hassan, what about payment to use the clip?’ ‘Oh, no, sir you don’t need to pay us anything.’
If you feel bad you haven’t got back to anyone for a while, rest assured. #sixyears
Two months after 9/11 I found myself in the UK singing for my supper. I lost a bet and had to door-to-door busk my way around the Motherland mid-winter and make enough money to fly home to New Zealand. The result was a book – UK on a G-String.
A number of years have passed. Yet recently the trip came up in conversation when a girl at a party asked me what it was like to appear on the Richard and Judy Show.
‘It was bloody great,’ I said. ‘There was the ride there in a brand new Merc as well as copious amounts of food and drink in the green room with Enrique Iglesias. But there was also the moment Richard and Judy duped me on national television.’
Here’s what happened. I sang on the couch for the famous couple, at the end of which they pulled out a crisp, white envelope. Richard smiled.
‘Here is an open return ticket to New Zealand,’ he said. I was speechless. ‘So when are you going back?’ Judy asked. ‘Well, when’s it for?’ I asked. ‘It’s open,’ said Richard. ‘Anytime you like.’
I could not believe my luck. After knocking on doors from Wembley to Wales and having them repeatedly slammed in my face, here was a free ticket back to New Zealand!
Only it wasn’t.
As I write this I can’t quite believe what eventuated. As I said my goodbyes and had a drink in the green room, I boarded the train to Liverpool, the last place I had busked. And when I opened that envelope, a dirty old boarding pass fell out.
The good guys! The decent couple! The generous TV stars! I had been duped.
The girl at the dinner party suggested I try and track down Graham Barley through Facebook, which I thought was a sound idea. Anyone know him?
The premise: Aussie Actor Damon Gameau decided to eliminate refined sugar from his diet. Not the typical sugars we know will kill you – cheeseburgers, chips and sundaes – but the hidden buggers in yoghurts, cereals and fruit juice. ‘You see some of these products in the supermarket with a sunset on them,’ he says. ‘Or words like Mother Nature and a bee and a flower or something. And people believe it.’
Gameau consumed the typical Australian’s 40 teaspoons of sugar a day, kept up his exercise routine, the same kilojoule intake of his typical diet and only ate foods perceived to be healthy. The result? He put on weight, lost energy and craved endless sugary hits. But can a film change behaviour? Afterwards, my niece handed me her fruit juice and threw her M’n’Ms in the bin. As we left our seats I inhaled buttery popcorn and chocolate covered ice cream cones at the ticket counter.
‘Guess you’re not selling too much confectionary this week?’ I asked the usher. ‘Nothing,’ he replied.
And this morning my daughter wanted nothing on her porridge but milk. Job done, Mr Gameau.
It is a typical morning in the Black Caps office. Stuffed wallabies and kangaroos hang from the walls. Brendon McCullum (Macca) is reading notes on his treadmill, coffee in one hand and 45kg dumbell in the other. Martin Guptill sits at his desk studying notes.
MACCA: Morning Guppy, first in again?
GUPPY: As always, but not for long. Got a 10’o’clock.
The office door swings open and a cheesy grin appears.
DAVEY WARNER: HEY, C%CKHEADS!
Macca attempts to thwack Warner across the head with his office chair.
DAVEY WARNER: Ha! Messed!
Macca picks up Warner with one finger and hurls him out of the window without spilling a drop.
MACCA: Damn Ockers.
Macca sits down, pats his pet Komodo dragon and unscrews the top of his power shake. He skulls the contents and crushes the bottle with his forehead.
MACCA: Now don’t forget, we’ve got that presentation with Mitchell Starc today.
The office goes quiet. Macca looks at the rest of the Black Caps who have arrived on masse.
MACCA: So?
GRANT ELLIOTT: Um, I’m, I’ve got to be somewhere.
ROSS TAYLOR: My grandma died.
ADAM MILNE: I think, yeah, my grandma’s dy-ing.
Grant, Ross and Adam flee. Three cars start up and speed off.
Tim Southee appears from the kitchen with two semi-naked broads hanging off him. Macca holds up the presentation notes.
TIM: Come off it, Macca! I’ve done heaps lately. Plus, you know, got my hands full.
The girls laugh and nuzzle Southee’s neck.
A tornado of canary yellow enters the office. It is Pat Cummins and he looks pissed.
PAT CUMMINS: Change of plan. I’m Mitch today and I do things different. Arm wrestle to see who wins this deal.
Macca rolls his sleeves up.
MACCA: Game on.
PAT CUMMINS: Not you, him.
Him is the mild-mannered, bearded man in the beige cardigan by the photocopier.
A bogan appears, clinging to the office window.
DAVEY WARNER: You got no chance, P*SSY!
Macca slams the window on Warner’s hand, then pulls it up just enough. Warner falls to the ground below and crushes Mitchell Johnson’s mobile tattoo parlour.
Kane Williamson sits opposite Pat Cummins.
KANE: Can I get you a cup of tea?
PAT CUMMINS: Get on with it, WIMP.
KANE: What about a biscuit?
Pat grabs Kane’s right arm and forces it inches from the desktop. Kane smiles and reciprocates. The desk is split into two. Pat writhes in pain. A broken wrist and sweaty underarms.
KANE: Thank you for the opportunity. I think you did very well.
PAT CUMMINS: Sheep shagging hobbit.
Kane digs into his work bag and pulls out a can of Rexona.
