Tidy! (Also in the Gavin & Stacey sense)

 

Though I always say I'm not a proper journalist, having sneaked into travel writing through the back door, I am one in the sense that I really need a deadline in order to get work done. Or perhaps that's just my own personal procrastination in operation. Whichever, though I've filed all my commissioned stories now, there are others I could be writing on spec; but it's hard to sit down and get stuck in without a definite goal. As I'm nearing departure day for my next trip, 10 days in Southland including a 3-day hike, I've anyway moved into tidying-mode - getting my affairs in order and leaving the house clean and tidy for the burglars (even though I'm going on my own and the house will not be empty - just thought I'd mention that...).

The focus this time is the room I use as my office, which has been piling up with papers and sundry stuff for ages. It's been a bit of a mission: sorting through the bags and bags full of the press packs, brochures, CDs, memory sticks, maps and itineraries that I accumulate on each trip and never seem to have time to whittle down while I'm away, so dutifully bring back, all that glossy paper weighing heavy in my suitcase. Most of it is so beautifully produced, and clearly expensive, both in paper stock and in the time spent by the PR people justifying their existences, that it seems wasteful, not to mention rude, to bin it as soon as I'm given it.

However, binned it mostly has been now, and not only do I have the reward of clear decks, but also more tangible benefits: like finding the lens cap I thought I'd lost two years ago and have been missing ever since; and a bar of camel milk chocolate with dates in from Dubai; and a handbag I had completely forgotten buying that will make a fine replacement for my current tatty number. I also found my little Bose CD player. It now seems so antiquated that I doubt it'll get any takers if I try to sell it on TradeMe, but I remember being so delighted with it back in 2005 when I was driving in my rental car along the Stuart Highway from Darwin to Katherine, the music cranked up loud as I swooped along the long, long road that led straight to the horizon, blue sky above me and red dirt either side, donkeys and kangaroos, termite mounds and gum trees. And at the end of the day there was a boat to a barbecue with stars and a crocodile, and finally a bed in a rammed-earth homestead.

Not fair, Fairfax.

Twenty-three. That's how many stories I have lined up in the files of five publications, accepted and waiting to see the light of day. The good news is, well, 23! The bad news is, waiting. But that's how it goes in this job, and I'm used to that, even though there can be months - a year plus, even - passing by before I'm paid for my work. The very worst news is the number five. Four newspapers and one magazine, that is, the main takers of my stories. There are some other magazines that publish travel stories (though not many, and definitely fewer than there were) but for one reason or another I haven't done so well with them, so far anyway. That's why it's so dismaying that this week one of my core editors reluctantly announced that he's not able to accept any more - "for payment" - overseas destination stories from freelances for publication in the Press.

Fairfax has been trimming its sails for a couple of years now, getting rid of lots of journalists mainly in Australia but also here, consolidating its operations and cutting its budgets back further and further. It's all part of the changing face of the media, the incursions of the internet into the territory of the newspapers, falling sales and advertising revenue, the recession, money, money, money. No-one really knows how it's going to end, whether newspapers will survive in anything like their current form; but it's definite that everyone is now feeling the pinch, even me out here on the periphery.

It's hard for us freelances, to be losing now one of our main markets for overseas stories; but it's also bad for the paper. Sure the editor can pick and choose from huge files of syndicated stories by excellent writers who've been everywhere - but they're all foreigners, and what's missing will be the local connection, the specifically Kiwi slant on a place or an event that makes a story that much more interesting for readers here, more relevant, more intriguing. It's not being parochial, it's a short cut to being connected to a destination, and that's something I think is important (see above, right). It's not a big thing, granted, but it's just another dilution of the richness we have enjoyed. So that's mainly why I'm sad about the Fairfax decision: it's not just my loss, it's everybody's.

More, please.

"Another beautiful day in Paradise!" said the whistling builder unpacking his truck as I walked past this morning. And so it is: though there's an autumnal nip to the air at the start and end of the day now, the bit in between is still glorious summer, hot and dry and perfect. The farmers are gasping and the official drought area currently covers most of the North Island, but I'm selfishly hoping the weather continues for at least another couple of weeks.

Next Tuesday I'm heading off back down to Southland, for another fix of fabulous South Island scenery. Chris Hadfield has tweeted this morning, in answer to a question about his pick of the eight (eight??) wonders of the planet, that third in his list is "S NZ", up there with sunrise, the Outback, Sahara, Kamchatka, Grand Canyon, Great Lakes and "where the ocean touches the land". Impressive company, but the South Island fits in there perfectly.

I'm going to Stewart Island (hopefully to see kiwi in the wild) and to the Catlins, having been to neither before - and also to western Southland, passing through Riverton, scene of my first teaching practice *cough* years ago, to take on the prosaically-named Hump Ridge Track, a 3-day tramp the first day of which rather frighteningly goes from the beach up to almost 1000 metres. Even seasoned trampers, which I am very far from being, report that there are sections which are "tough". So - quite possibly pathetically inadequately - I've moved my morning walk up a notch, doing a double ascent of the 132 steps on the route. [The fat man who lives at the bottom, in a tatty bach on an enviable section, called out this morning as I set off (briskly) on the first climb, "You're meant to run up!" In a literal, if backwards, example of esprit d'escalier, it was only at the top that I thought of replying pointedly, "That's what you do, is it?"] I'm expecting too much sweat and not enough breath; but also hoping for my reward in views which track reviews unanimously describe as "absolutely stunning". So, please stick around, summer.

"Human Catherine wheels!"

So my camera let me down (not, of course, the other way round) and my fireworks photos turned out, hmm, let's say more arty than conventional. Never mind: it was a brilliant evening, up on the hill in the Domain last night, watching the Auckland Festival display by French pyromaniacs (probably there's a more correct term) Groupe F. It was called 'The Breath of the Volcano' and was specially created, incorporating video and sound recordings the team had done around the city - sea, birds, scenery - which were projected onto the side of the Museum and choreographed with fireworks, fire and dancers covered in LED lights. It was all very spectacular and exciting, enhanced by the Firstborn's enthusiasm about the Catherine wheels operated by the dancers; and by the perfect warm clear evening with the Southern Cross right overhead.

The programme included what I suppose we now have to call a cheeky sequence where a rainbow was blown up by some cartoon frogs. Only my New Zealand readers will understand that reference, I presume: the sinking in 1985 of the Greenpeace ship the Rainbow Warrior by French government agents when it was moored at a wharf in Auckland harbour, the second explosion killing a Portuguese photographer on board. I wonder if even the French, as a people, remember that as well as we do? Our own little bit of international terrorism, initiated by a friendly trading partner.

They didn't like Greenpeace interfering with their nuclear testing at Mururoa; and the fact that New Zealand was - is - vehemently nuclear-free was probably an additional, though incidental, irritation. I do know that when we were sailing up the Rhone last year and we went past this cluster of sinister-looking cooling towers at a nuclear power station near Montelimar, one of them decorated with a cynically innocuous painting, we four Kiwis on board all narrowed our eyes a little.

Velbekomme!

And so the coincidences continue: first Bornholm popping up in the ISS Twitter feed and then my Ecco shoe catalogue; and today it's Noma's turn. A story in today's paper about insect protein is linked to the start of the 24th Wild Foods festival in Hokitika, and references Noma as attempting to make eating bugs more mainstream. Next month there's going to be a wittily-named Pestival in London, and the Noma people will be involved.

Apparently they've already served ants, on purpose: I did once almost eat a wasp in my restaurant lasagne, but that was accidental, and the Noma chef insists that anyone who's eaten mushrooms has also eaten more worms than they could imagine. He gets lyrical about a puree of fermented grasshoppers and moth larvae (tastes like fish sauce, evidently) and a sweet mayonnaise using bee larvae. It doesn't get my taste-buds agitating, but that's just privileged Western prejudice - plenty of peoples around the world have been eating insects for ever.

It wouldn't be the worst thing: I have bitten the bottoms off live green ants in Outback Australia ("six of these a day and you'll never get scurvy") which were tangy and lemony and really rather pleasant. The huhu grubs I ate in Hokitika certainly didn't look inviting, being big, fat, pale and unmistakeably larvae, but tasted of creamy peanut butter; and the deep fried crickets I was served in a Hanoi restaurant were a crunchy novelty that was quite tasty, if somewhat spoiled by the anxiety about getting legs stuck between my teeth. (Shocking photo - I blame the rice wine.)

Skaal!

Are you following the tweets of Cmdr Chris Hadfield, on the International Space Station? You should - he's an excellent Twitterer, and his photos are brilliant. This is one he posted just an hour or so ago, of Bornholm Island in Denmark. It's in the middle of the Baltic Sea, midway between Sweden and Germany, and saw some lively action during the war when the Soviets bombed the occupying Germans with huge damage to its two towns; which Sweden later helped rebuild by kindly donating hundreds of wooden houses. The reason it caught my eye today, is that though I haven't been there, I've eaten its food: it's known as Denmark's sunshine island and is famous for its mulberries (though in winter it can get up to 3 metres of snow - clearly less right now).

When I was in Copenhagen, we went to a restaurant, Koeford, that specialises in ingredients and dishes from Bornholm, and it was a really lovely evening. Our waiter, Lars, was from there too, and looked after us well, bringing a series of dishes to the table that though they were basically traditional, were served with contemporary style (perhaps the presence of Noma, "the world's best restaurant" just across the harbour made them up their game). So we had things like our entree of herring and quail's egg served in a little preserving jar with elm smoke trapped in with it, that escaped when we opened the lids. Some dishes were served on small island-shaped slabs of Bornhom granite: rooster, forest pork, mushrooms, leeks, really nice bread with soft buttermilk butter, celery crisps... Courses between courses. Yum.

Even the water on the table came from the island; same with the beer and wine matched to the dishes, but best of all to my taste was the Bornholm cider (made, Lars informed us, by a co-operative of disabled people, which was nice but also rather ironic, given the effect that cider has) that was served with the dessert of calvados-flavoured rhubarb sorbet and tangy oxidised apple. Double yum. And then chocolate to finish, with a sticky wine. Glorious! And fortunately, the restaurant was within staggering distance of our hotel; on balance (actually, the lack of it), it was as well we hadn't gone to Noma, which we'd been sad about at first. We ate just as well, and there was no risk of falling overboard on the way back. Which is always a good thing.

UPDATE: And, in the grand tradition of TravelSkite coincidences, what should I get in the mail the morning after posting this, but the winter catalogue from Ecco shoes with this photo at the front, with a blurb that says, "...and our favourite place... is the cozy, charming island of Bornholm - a small, mountainous haven in the Baltic Sea..." Amazing.

Lolly largesse

My camera came back from the repairers today - again. I was careless with it last year, and it fell from my suitcase onto a hard floor, about half a metre, and ever since has had intermittent faults with exposure and focus. I hope it's properly fixed this time, because I hate to be without its familiar black presence. The floor it fell onto was the one I was writing about sleeping on today - at least, on top of a mattress on that floor in the homestay in northern Vietnam.

It was such a fun trip, that World Expeditions one, and of course a lot of that was down to the other people, who were a jolly bunch; but it was also great to be in a new country and surrounded by unfamiliar scenery and people and culture and food, all of which was just delightful. Particularly the food. And the apricot rice wine. There was a horrendous amount of driving in a van, much of it along awful roads full of bumps and potholes and traffic, as well as often quite frightening drop-offs; but it was worth it to get to the off-the-beaten-track area where we were the centre of attention and frequently the subject of the locals' photos. It's always a bit of a hoot when that happens, and perfectly fair pay-back.

When we were in the depths of the Dong Van Karst Geopark (how that name is rolling off my tongue now!) we stopped to interrupt a lesson in a tiny hill village school that had just six little students sitting at their desks looking very solemnly at the blackboard and obediently not at us. They were very neat and clean, and totally unlike the small band of grubby urchins that was roaming around outside, in ragged clothes and no shoes (or pants, in several cases) - I wonder if they swap over for a half-day of education each? These ones I'm sure would have thought they were the winners that day, as some of us had been foresighted enough to bring lollies and shiny stickers, and though they were shy they weren't backward at sticking out their hands. Good for them. I bet they don't get many treats.