Of subbing, supinity, and the sublime

I began life in my new place with an enthusiasm I hadn’t felt since the blazing hot late August of 2001, when I moved into my first dorm room at Malaspina U.C. Laundry was done (even folded and put away for the first time since Alexandra! Like a real boy!), I stocked the fridge and cupboards, and I prepared each night for the next morning’s theoretical subbing work. A normal rhythm returned to my nomadic lifestyle and my health, somewhat sapped by weeks of living outside in the exhaust-y CBD and running a constant sleep debt, returned to me. I even hosted a few different friends I’d made in various places in my NZ travels, replete as I now was with floor space. Aside from my friends’ snoring – and why exactly they all had to be snorers I am not sure – I had a comfortable existence, and my own doggedness to thank for it.

There was one problem, however: I had been told that the prime time to receive calls from the subbing agency was just after 6 in the morning- when the agencies themselves tended to get calls from the understaffed schools for relievers. I went to bed each night sure that my phone was charged and that it was close to hand, but found myself waking up unmolested by the ringtone at around 8:30AM each day. The first few days this happened I looked at it as a reprieve of sorts... one which would let me be at leisure in my glorious new place and accompanying neighbourhood (Auckland Domain – my erstwhile home – being up the road afforded additional ‘points’ to my location). I got to know some of my neighbours as well, though the Governor-General (who lives about 200 meters away) was away on business during the block function I attended. A certain unease, however, began to manifest as time went on and I remained employed only in theory.

In essence, my first thought of each weekday became ‘damnit’, as my waking up at a comfortable hour obviously meant I hadn’t been called. While I was quite happy overall in my new abode, the fact that most mornings started with a tinge of economic unease started to wear after a couple weeks’ idle time. During this time my landlady would occasionally ask, as we companionably worked in the backyard garden (I had been tasked with stewardship of a dozen or so tomato plants), whether I was getting any calls – to which I had to half-sullenly say ‘no’. While I was still riding the pecuniary wave of my savvy homelessness, the time to improve my financial prospects was clearly nigh.

As difficult as it may be to understand for those that know me best, I had finally tired of free time. I resolved to offer whatever services – in a voluntary and thus irresistible capacity – I could to the incredibly prestigious institution I lived directly across the street from: Auckland Grammar School. I had admired it from afar (alas that ‘anear’ isn’t really a word, applicable though it might be here) as the kind of school I might have enjoyed in my youth: all boys (reducing distraction), all in mandatory uniforms (reducing anxiety re: ‘what to wear?’), and all ‘bourgeois as’, as the Kiwis might say. Thus it was that I cast out an email, adding yet another item to my list of ‘things to wait for’. Just as I had hoped, I wouldn’t have long to wait.

A few short days later I found myself ushered into the office of one of the Deputy Headmasters (doesn’t that just sound better than Vice Principal?) and thence around the school. In a word, I would describe the experience as astonishing; having attended and then taught at a series of adequate, if utilitarian, institutions back in Canada, I wasn’t really prepared for what I saw. The main hall, replete with aged hardwoods and artisanal brick construction, soars to a 3-storey height (at least... I admit to a lack of skill in estimation) which accommodates every boy (some 2,500) each day for assembly; it more closely resembles a church than the gyms I sat through endless assemblies in in my youth, but only started the tour.

I was ushered through a series of massive outbuildings to meet various people (head of Music, head of Supply teaching, head of Learning Support, and so on in dizzying array), pausing for a moment to enjoy both of the huge gymnasiums, various athletic fields, and heated outdoor swimming pool (think about that- I believe it was of the 50m variety, about 8-12 lanes) before my tour was cut short by a passing rain squall. In the end I was brought back to the starkly well-appointed administrative wing to receive the description and paperwork relating to the place they wanted to put me: a teacher aide/foot soldier in the Learning Support department. As if to sweeten the deal I was told that if I were to do well in my voluntary trial, I would be in a strong position to be upgraded to a paid version of the same job when a number of aides left to go back to university in a couple weeks. A few more handshakes and forced smiles (my being quite overwhelmed at this point) later, I was out the mahogany front door and back across the street to my palatial basement abode. 3 days later I would be going to work at the single most prestigious public school in New Zealand with a decent probability of gaining a paid position that would make my rent/bill anxiety vanish like so much caviar at a school wine-tasting function, and I had my own initiative to thank for it.

Starting to become kind of a theme, that is.

Of resignation, resumes, and resurrection

Leaving the ‘occupy Auckland’ site with my new Canadian acquaintance, I had to admit a certain sense of relief. With barely a look cast back over my shoulder (to ascertain that all the campers, in fact, lacked any sense of protest or conviction) I left in the company of my new Nova Scotian pal, Henry. After a brief coffee and mutual congratulation on avoiding hostel fees AND arrest for the last few days we parted ways with a plan to meet up later for some beers in the sun: I had to get to my storage to exchange my ‘night’ and ‘day’ backpack fillers, and he had some serious jazz flute busking to do. A few hours and accompanying bottle-caps later we were in fine spirits as we sat next to the University of Auckland doing some bird-watching and getting blasted by the sun’s rays (alas, my skin was not up to the standard of his weathered maritime hide.. as experience dictated). We left in high – and slightly pink – spirits for our camping destination: a strangely-placed dog exercise park near the highway far, far removed from anyone’s ability to really bring their dogs to it.

Naturally we had the spot (a little nook obscured on three sides by bush) to ourselves and were pleased to luxuriate after setting up; not even the equally-surprised huge Samoan man who crashed into the midst of our campsite (in no conversational mood, giving rise to questions about his need for such impressively-calved haste) could put us off our good cheer. Waking up – a touch blearily – we were happy to note that we hadn’t been robbed of our gear OR lives during the night, and so we set off chirpily, skirting the ancient Chinese man would was enjoying his sunrise Tai Chi next to the increasingly loud freeway.

The next few days followed a set pattern, wherein I would range the city looking at different potential places for me to live in a non-nomadic mode while simultaneously waiting to hear from the teacher recruitment agency that runs the supply racket in Auckland; at some point Henry and I would meet up and wend our way to the dog park and camp out (thankfully without any further incidents), chat about our days, then hit reset the next morning. A few days later Henry left to travel the south island, leaving me to continue my endless walk over the concrete miles of Auckland – as one of the wealthiest and best-equipped homeless people around – in solo mode; this worked well enough until the weather took a turn for the worse, which can mean a solid week of clouds and rain in this geographic niche. Alas, I was soon to have one of the lowest moments in my New Zealand adventures.

I had recently been in to view a very appealing studio place in the stinking rich neighbourhood of Epsom, and had come out of the meet and greet with high hopes. I was eminently ready to end my shifty tenure in Auckland’s parks (it being less fun and more nervy when you are going solo), which by this point had meant my bedding down in an out-of-the-way spot in the old Jewish graveyard near the Grafton bridge. The moment I realized that my urban camping was over came when (in reminiscent fashion) I heard a crunching coming towards my bush-shielded tent one night at about 10pm. It was baffling that anyone would be in that unassuming corner of the woods at that time, and immediately started up the adrenaline sweat on my forehead. My first thought was ‘why the hell is anyone here right now? It’s so damn far away from anyone, and there’s no way you could have seen my camp’; my second thought was exactly the same, but with a bit more of a ‘worried Jewish comedian’ tone to it all, which of course changes the meaning entirely and brings my own folly into sharp focus. In the end I just waited 20 minutes after the person went away and went to sleep: I’m a big boy, after all. I was just waiting for a ‘big boy’ place to live to present itself, the decision over my favourite locale to be handed down via text message the next day, apparently.

So it was that I walked back to my storage unit, just moments ahead of the arrival of a visible veil of precipitation – the kind that only a subtropical climate can hit you with. It was a three-storey concrete megalith of a place, one where you could (conveniently for my current desire to avoid getting soaked) conceivably while away some time reading a book/charging your devices. As I had no pressing concern beyond getting the decision as to whether I had a place to live in – the rental market being very competitive in Auckland – I sat down in the eerie hallway of the top floor to wait it out. It occurred to me, as I listened to the rain lash the corrugated metal roof above me, that things weren’t really breaking my way in New Zealand when it came to employment prospects or, indeed, anything. The agency still hadn’t gotten back to me, I hadn’t garnered as much as an interview for a teaching position, and I was currently without a stable/non-terrifying place to live…and there was no immediate sign that any of these problems were about to fix themselves. When my phone spat out the message that I had been second place in the race for the ritzy abode I wasn’t even surprised: I just balled up the intractable Sudoku puzzle I had been working on and threw it down the hall with a tailwind of remarkably blue language to propel it.

I booked into a hostel for the first time in over two weeks, and decided that I needed some time off of fretting endlessly. When I had been living in Alexandra there had been a series of movies that came through theatres that I had wanted to see but couldn’t due to the lack of a cinema (in the cultural capital of Central Otago, no less). They by this point had come and gone, but I decided to bear out the impulse anyways and found my way to a local multiplex. Picking out the grimmest/most violent looking one available (David Fincher’s ‘Girl with the Dragon Tattoo), I popped into the grocery store nearby and bought a few cans of beer in order to try to force a good time upon myself. After filling up on German goodness I swept into the theatre and proceeded to have a great/immersive time, so much so that my walk back to the hostel was actually undertaken in fine emotional form. I resolved to call the agency tomorrow, and that if things didn’t get moving with them in a more or less immediate fashion I would leave New Zealand by the end of next month. I had reached a point of semi-nihilistic uncaring as to whether it was going to ‘work’ for me here in New Zealand, and went to sleep with traces of self-righteousness still evident.

The next day I took my breakfast and walked towards town full of purpose and, admittedly, a little annoyance: the agency had said they would get back to me as soon as they got my information, which they had received 9 days previous. I called them fully prepared to give them a rather salty piece of my mind, listening to the phone ring with a Tyler Durden-esque tinge about my mindset. To the disappointment of my indignant/petulant impulses, however, I was told to come in the following day at noon to fill out the paperwork/interview/etc. – in essence to be part of the team. I of course immediately became sweetness and light, and spent the rest of my day with an alien feeling of optimism tugging at the edges of my insular funk. When my phone rang and I was offered the ritzy place I had looked at after the ‘winner’ had elected to instead go travel with some friend, my mild surprise became much more powerful and intoxicating. I took it on the spot, and returned to my reading with the vagrant weight lifted from my brow.

It’s overly simplistic to say that an episode of binge-drinking before going to see a movie changed my life in New Zealand, but there is a certain validity to that assertion. In a country without normal norms regarding communication I needed to take a more active role to get what I wanted, as it turned out. That it had to be fueled by pilsner and me getting my nose out of joint is perhaps unfortunate, but in the end I found myself with some employment coming up and a great place to live. I bid the streets adieu and begun preparations to move in to my first solely-held place to live ever, replete with the funds I had withheld from the grim Auckland hostels and a new sense of purpose in New Zealand: I put my plan to flee the country on hold.

The view from..............the dog park

Of hubris, horror, and homelessness

As I lay on my cheap foam bunk in the hostel the night after I returned my rental car, I found myself thinking about money – or more specifically my general lack thereof. The bed in the hostel cost me $30 for the night which I didn’t overly mind paying as I somewhat desperately needed a shower (along with a night not spent in the foetal position in the back of a Toyota), but it wouldn’t be a great economic solution going forwards; that is to say I could afford going the hostel route for the foreseeable future, but I would have to become gainfully employed in my chosen field within a very small window or face the reality of running out of funds entirely. The final nail in the hostel coffin came the next morning when I was hastened out of my bunk earlier than memory dictated this place did its evictions, summer policies of course being different than the mid-winter in which I had previously stayed. Clearly this more expensive and less friendly service wasn’t for me.

By this time I had secured a storage space for the vast majority of my belongings, to which I hastened in order to drop off all items non-essential for my day’s activity: scouting a suitably surreptitious spot where I might while away a night in a tent without attracting any undue scrutiny. After a bit of map study I decided to look within the bounds of the Auckland Domain – the oldest, biggest, and most naturally forested park in the city – as it was suitably far away from the downtown core, and big enough to make a nightly patrol of any kind unfeasible. Indeed, I was not the only one to reach this conclusion, as I actually came across a series of other people who were – in all likelihood – going to do the same thing as I: they were universally young, somewhere on the scruffiness continuum, and carrying large filled hiking backpacks around the more back-woods tracks in the park. At one point I took a somewhat worn looking departure from a trail and stumbled almost on top of a Scottish guy who was just then unpacking his gear for the evening; after a hushed yet humorous conversation I set out again to find my refuge, more heartened with this elusive kind of company than I had been previous to its confirmation in my mind.

In the end I found a visually secluded flat space near where the park is bordered by the train tracks, and somewhat tentatively set about my first urban camping experience. To my mild surprise absolutely nothing bad happened, other than the occasional diesel train’s remarkable operating volume and a series of nighttime animals (likely either nocturnal birds, hedgehogs, or both) that made alternating spitting-cat and electric kettle coming-to-boil noises from time to time. When I woke up the next morning all continued to be well, and I packed up my tent with a certain bravado and the knowledge that the $30 it would have cost me to stay in a hostel was still mine: I had my temporary solution for waiting until the school season started.

I kept on coming back to my spot for a few nights, and indeed came to quite enjoy living craftily in a well-manicured park on the verge of the downtown area. Around five or six I would retire to the park from my daily perambulation around Auckland (doing errands and scouting where to eventually look for a real place to live) with some combination of groceries prepared for my dinner. By this point there would invariably be some variety of local sports going on worth watching on the park’s main playing fields – which in the New Zealand summer means cricket with a light dusting of soccer – so I could sit down, make myself some tea using my handy stove, and enjoy an eminently civilized evening decoding semi-obscure English sports. It was an interesting window into what old age is probably going to be like for me, without any kind of physical complaints slowing me down; it was, in a word, relaxing.

It was not to last, however. Some few nights later while inside my tent preparing to sleep I was rather surprised to hear a violent crashing coming through the vegetative screen surrounding my grotto campsite, complete with swearing and metal clanking sounds reminiscent of ski poles or microphone stands being carried inexpertly. As I was very much alone and solely clad in my underwear I chose to remain silent, rather than hailing my night-time visitor, and simply crouched motionless, waiting for them to leave. The person didn’t throw any words in the direction of the tent but I did hear the telltale electronic ‘beepbeep’ of a camera of some kind being used. The person then retreated in equally noisy fashion through the woods leaving me in a sudden night-sweat, considering my options. After a moment of indecision I immediately began packing up my bag, getting dressed, and breaking down my tent (all, counter-productively enough, at the same time), and a few hurried/sweaty moments later I was rather actively fleeing the scene of my singular ‘occupy the park’-style campout towards the more communal one in one of the main downtown parks.

View of the new inadvertent basecamp. Pretty in tents.

A view out the window

I arrived sometime after 10pm to a largely asleep camp of ‘occupy Aucklanders’, which was just as well as I had zero intention of starting a book club, and re-organised myself a sleeping solution on the verge of their small tent city. I remained there for a few days, or at least long enough to discover the real reason why the people who were there were camped out: they didn’t want to pay for, or couldn’t afford, hostel fees. It’s entirely possible that a handful of the occupiers were interested in global economic equality or somesuch…but not a certainty. Laying down to sleep one night I heard another tent arriving to be ‘occupied’ by a young guy who was apparently borrowing it from his female friend; the conversation around this was essentially the following:

“all right, thanks for letting me borrow it!”
“whatever you bum, haha…..don’t go bringing any trashy chicks into it, haha”
“oh, I won’t….pause….haha!”

There were no speeches given, no rallies held that were actually attended by the campers, and no proselytizing of passers-by. I found the experience immensely gratifying from an ironic perspective: in the name of defeating ‘evil’ capitalism, the people at this occupy site were saving boatloads of money – presumably to be used on buying sweet, sweet material goods. For my part, I at least kept the listening-to of my evil corporate ipod to within the tent…but that is about as far as anyone went.

After I got up on my third morning, earlier than my surrounding party-campers as a rule, I walked to the park bathrooms with a certain bemusement in my mind and my bag on my back (as yet another rule I would completely pack up before I left the tent at all in the morning). This turned out to be a brilliant idea, if I do say so myself, and a flotilla of security staff was descending on the camp as I made my way back in the direction of town; before you get too imaginative, however, remember that this is New Zealand. A ‘vacate in half an hour’ notice was given, and like the corporate lackeys we were, we all dispersed. I left alongside another Canadian that had joined the impromptu campout, in the direction of downtown and, no doubt, more questionable CBD adventures.