Blog 1: Of Customs Officials and Book Club

Week 1 and already posting a day late! Inauspicious start.

I never considered travelling to be something you needed to practice, like the cello or a cover drive. But this week has revealed to me that I’m out of practice, particularly with airports. I left my phone in the plastic tub going through security and walked off (unsuccessfully trying to play off the humiliating slink back to pick it up), and screwed up sticking my baggage tag on my hold luggage so the barcode was all crinkly and the woman at the bag drop gave me a funny look.

I’m a long way from the smooth skills of George Clooney in the opening montage of Up In The Air.

But hey, at least I’m not one of those idiots (of which there seems an unending supply) in row 27 who stand up as soon as the plane lands.

New Zealand Customs are legendary for the vigour with which they protect the people, culture and places of Aotearoa. I was aware of this reputation but arrived in Wellington with plucky confidence that, as I was carrying no firearms, explosives, pet snakes, eggs or inordinate amounts of cash, I would not face the full fury of the brave men and women defending my native land.

How silly I was.

I began filling out the customs declaration form, hunched over my tray table on the plane.

SURNAME:

FIRST NAME(S):

FLIGHT NUMBER:

So far so good.

PORT OF DEPARTURE:

A first snag.

You’re supposed to fill out the form in all-caps, but for some unexplainable reason related to muscle memory my brain decided that the first “y” in “Sydney” did not deserve upper-case status, so I wrote “SyDNEY”. I realised by the time I approached “E” that really the lowercase “y” looked awkward and ugly next to all its uppercase friends, so decided in the name of balance to lock in an uppercase “Y” at the end.

Phew, saved.

OCCUPATION:

Another snag.

Technically, I have no job. Yet. (I remind my dear readers that this is nominally where you come in, my contact details are a few clicks away). I left my (excellent) job at the Australian National University last week. I can no longer get away with the wonderful catch-all “student”, as again I’d technically graduated. Further, I don’t even know what I would call my job even if I did have one. “Energetic young person looking to gain work experience while travelling the world”? There wasn’t enough room on the form. “All-rounder”? I might as well put “cricket player”. I sensed a self-inflicted quarter-life crisis ensuing if I didn’t put something on the form very soon, so I quickly threw down “CONSULTANT” and moved on.

On arrival in Wellington, the aforementioned customs officials circled their prey.

“What sort of consultant are you?” came the question from Tim* as I was ‘randomly selected’ at the baggage carousel for a particularly vicious form of cross-examination.

“Well, it’s a bit complicated…” I began, and gave an audience-appropriate version of my recent career trajectory.

“So you mean unemployed then?”. Bit harsh Tim, but okay.

***

I spent a few days up the Otaki Gorge about an hour north of Wellington, staying with old neighbours. It’s a magical place, accessed via a one-lane swing bridge over the Otaki River, out of range of cellphone towers and the general pestilence of city life.

On the first night, I was invited along to the neighbourhood bookclub. There are a few things that set the Otaki Gorge bookclub apart from your regular bookclub. Why yes, for though all bookclubs are created equal, some are more equal than others.

Firstly, it is important to know that the least important aspect of Otaki Gorge bookclub is the book being read that month. This is partly why I knew it would be no bother for me to attend, having not the faintest idea what the group had been reading that month. Indeed, the primary function of this bookclub is to give its dozen-or-so members the opportunity to gather, gossip about their neighbours and discuss the local availability of mulch for their gardens.

Despite its complete lack of importance on this evening it is nonetheless worth mentioning the book in question, The Power by Naomi Alderman. Putting it mildly, the book was roundly panned by the assembled cast of reviewers (the mean age of which I lowered by a considerable margin in my attendance). However, as with many group scenarios, nobody wanted to be the first to unleash their true feelings on the novel, for fear of having spoken out of line. Fortunately for all, the neighbours I was staying with confessed to the group that they had not made it past the first quarter of the book, having found it so uninspiring. The entire room let out a sigh of relief and joined in a chorus of voices savaging the author’s work, before quickly moving on to talking about more interesting things.

The evening progressed smoothly from discussion of the weather and the roads (in true Sense and Sensibility fashion) through to one member's rosebush collection (oohs and aahs greeted the news that "they are good repeaters, you know).

Much to everyone's relief, January's work is Delia Owen's Where the Crawdads Sing, significantly more likely to be read through than the December offering. Whether or not it is actually discussed is another matter.

*Not his real name