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