I enter a grill where the waiter is Maori and dressed in shorts. He serves me the finest steak I have ever tasted. Two bulls-eye eggs bleeding yolk over the side of a cow. I wash down the medium rare meat with beer, stroke my belly, loosen my ponytail and wonder how long before I start looking like Meat Loaf myself. When it happens, I hope I have the right sense or the right woman to drag me to a barber.
The newspapers are still mourning the All Blacks and another failed World Cup. Even though New Zealand’s untimely exit was over a month ago the papers have still dedicated four pages to it.
I hear a scuffle outside and they all pile in, chicks in shorts, guys in skinnies, most are loud, some are drunk. The waiters prepare for the onslaught as the grill fills with young backpackers. Last of all is a blond man with a clipboard, built like a centaur.
‘All right, settle down, you lot.’ There are a few giggles among the revellers.
‘We leave at 1.45. Whoever’s last in owes me a beer.’
He points at the pack of girls all wearing similar green T-shirts with the words ‘KiwiTour Porn Star’ on them.
‘Maria, you owe me for last night.’ A dark-haired teenager blushes and everyone goes ‘ooh’.
Five minutes later the man lays a tray of macaroni cheese and an L&P soda on my table. ‘Mind if I join ya, mate?’
I point at the empty chair and nod. He spies the headline on my newspaper. ‘National tragedy, eh man?’
I shrug. ‘They’re still the best in the world.’
‘You reckon? What’s the point, if you’re gonna choke?’
‘Should’ve put Evans at the back and Conrad outside centre, eh?’ I say, parroting that day’s sports section and the man’s inflection.
‘McCaw should’ve gone for the drop goal. You remember when it happened?’
I tell him I only arrived in NZ a few days ago.
‘Mate, like somebody’d died.’
‘Is that right?’ I say, sounding like CrocDundee while trying not to.
‘You here on work or …’
The man is bronzed from summers spent driving travellers around these two islands. He has a twinkle in his eye and could clearly chat up anything that moved.
‘Bit of a holiday, bit of work. You?’
‘My work is a holiday, mate. I got a master’s in agricultural economics. Never used it.’
He tells me there is room on his bus and hands me a brochure from his clipboard. He tells me I can buy a North Island pass and hop on and hop off.
‘Best way to see New Zealand. We’re staying tonight at Pukekohe, then heading to … what’s so funny?’
I shake my head.
‘If I sign up for a North Island pass, will you drive me to … Pukekohe?’
‘As long as you don’t mind putting up with this lot.’
I look at the girls in shorts making eyes at this bronzed Lothario and I decide I don’t mind.
I make an appointment with Pukekohe MasterPlumbers. She meets me in reception and is exactly how I pictured her. Business suit, glasses, hair in a bun. I have nothing against chubby girls, in fact, some are quite juicy in the sack, but if I was a genius chinaman bowler, would I break the law, abandon my career and break the heart of an alleged fox like Danila for this woman? Who knows? Love can wield its club in strange ways.
‘Mr Garfield, I’m Shirali Fernando, how can I help?’
She smiles and even though her teeth are not perfect, the smile lights up her eyes and narrows her cheeks.
‘Thank you for seeing me, Mrs Fernando. You’re Sri Lankan?’
‘Yes, I am. How can I help?’
‘Actually, it has to do with your husband.’
‘Really? Simone said you were from the
NZ Plumbers Journal.’
The smile stays but the eyes lose their shine.
‘Not exactly. I went to Hampshire University with your husband.’
‘You were with Nalindra?’
‘Pradeep.’
‘No. I think you’ve got the wrong person.’
She rises to leave and I do not know what else to say.
‘Pradeep Mathew. Cricketer. Played for Sri Lanka. I really have to find him.’
‘Pradeep, eh? That’s a blast from the past.’ She tells me she is busy, but leaves me her business card.
I spend the next day preparing for my first interview. I decide to polish my shoes and comb my hair. Do I do a
HARDtalk
style Twenty Questions or an Oprah-style empathy session?
‘My husband’s name is Nalindra Fernando. He is a doctor at Good Health Pukekohe. He knows I’m meeting you.’
We meet at McDonald’s and it immediately feels more Oprah than
HARDtalk.
‘You don’t find the name Pukekohe humorous?’
‘Oh yeah. You get used to it. You know the name for white man is …’
I nod. I know.
‘So you never heard from Pradeep after your break-up?’
‘Mr Garfield, it’s a bloody long time ago. Do you remember your first girlfriend?’
‘Actually, I do. How did you meet?’
‘At some party. A lot of cricketers hit on me. Didn’t think I’d date one.’
‘Why him?’
‘Dunno. He was sweet, I guess. Really moody. Just really didn’t give a shit. It’s kind of a turn-on, at that age anyway.’
Shirali wears a short skirt and has a plaster on her knee. She speaks in an accent that isn’t quite Australian, isn’t quite British.
‘My mum reckons I did it to piss them off, him being Tamil and all.’
‘Did you?’
‘Not really. Maybe a little.’
I see a few of the backpacking girls in shorts ordering fries. The bus has anchored in Pukekohe and doesn’t leave till tomorrow.
‘Did you know of a man called Kuga?’
‘No.’
‘Emmanuel?’
‘You mean Pradeep’s cousin?’
‘Was he?’
‘Real creep. Emmanuel. Pradeep worshipped him. I couldn’t stand him.’
‘Why?’
‘Looked like a real sleaze. Real dodgy.’
‘Sorry to be personal, but why did you and Pradeep break up?’
‘What did you say your project was?’
‘Writing a book on great cricketers.’
‘So what do you want with Pradeep?’
She laughs on the last syllable and reveals her imperfect teeth. I notice her boobs are as thick as her arms.
‘Did you know his coach?’
‘I met one of his coaches.’
‘Newton Rodrigo?’
‘I can’t remember his name.’
‘Six fingers?’
‘Eh?’
‘The coach had six fingers.’
‘Don’t remember that. He looked like Gollum.’
‘Gollum in
Lord of the …’
‘I think. Or did he have a name like Gollum? I can’t remember, Mr Garfield. It’s like another life ago.’
‘So why did you break up?’
‘After I nursed Pradeep back from his wrist injury, he started screwing sluts. You want to put that in your book?’
‘What sluts?’
‘You had all these sluts hanging around the cricketers. Still do. He was having affairs with them.’
‘Mrs Fernando, Pradeep never tried to make contact with you?’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘When?’
‘Aw. Ten years ago?’
‘And?’
‘He came to visit me in Brissy.’
‘And?’
‘Couldn’t recognise him. Shaved head, quite fat, spoke all posh. He said he’d retired from cricket and was rich. I was with Nalindra and I told him we could be friends. He hung around Brissy for a while, then he called me from some bar and told me he was going away.’
‘Where?’
‘Never said. He was drunk and reading me poems. He used to write me poems, you know?’
She laughs again, I keep silent. She finishes her latte and opens her leather handbag.
‘I did manage to find this. Was a few Christmases ago.’
She extracts a postcard of a Maori carving and a beach. The name of the beach, Paihia, closely resembles the Sinhala word for penis.
Hi Shirali
Long time, isn’t it? Heard you’re leaving Brisbane. Didn’t want to lose touch. I’m married and living in New Zealand. Doing a bit of teaching and a bit of coaching. Met some other Sri Lankans here and they say they know your husband. Ubaya and Thilina Manukulasuriya? They told me you have daughters and are doing well. Small world, no? The Wellington Sri Lankan Association is also called USLA. I told the wife about meeting you at USLA and we had a good laugh about it. Remember those crazy nights? She said I should see what you’re up to. I’ve got two sons, Kula and Luke. If this reaches you, email me at [email protected] Hope this finds you well. All the best to your husband and the girls.
Siva
‘Oh. That’s right. He was calling himself Siva Mathew or something, I think he explained why. Something dodgy to do with immigration.’
I ask her if I can get a copy of this and she says I can keep it.
‘He sent it to my Brissy address. By the time I got it and emailed him, the mails kept bouncing back.’
The stamp on the postcard was dated 2006, the postmark was W … A … N …
‘What’s this?’
‘Wanganui.’
‘Where is that?’
She points to my
Hitchhiker’s Guide to New Zealand
and asks me to hand it over.
I fall asleep on the way there and it is hard to separate what happens from what doesn’t. The interior of the KiwiTour bus is graffitied to resemble a forest filled with native New Zealand creatures. Kiwi birds and rams look down upon the lads from Essex pouring beer into jugs stolen from student bars. On my side of the bus, lizards and whales gaze over sleepy Canadians and chattering Chinese girls. Outside the window, open pastures pass us by.
‘And on your right, these red trees are called Pohutukawas.’
Jeremy has switched from bus driver to tour guide. I jolt awake and gaze at tree trunks surrounded by flames of crimson. It is late afternoon and most of the frat boys are passed out. A few girls listen to Jeremy’s well-rehearsed banter.
‘Stu will be serving fish and chips in a bit. Those allergic to fish and chips can try our roadkill possum burger.’ Jeremy grins and switches off his mic.
‘Ewwww …’ chorus the girls.
He takes a seat next to me. ‘How’s it going, chief?’
‘All good.’
He asks me if I want to buy a green T-shirt saying ‘KiwiTour Slag’, the same one the Eastern European chicks are wearing. I decline politely.
‘Fair enough. You hitched?’
‘Huh?’
‘Married? Girlfriend?’
‘Not really.’
‘Oh yeah. In which case I can tell you,’ he whispers, ‘they call this the fuck truck. If you’re up for it, there’s some fine young cat, up for grabs.’
I smile at him. ‘More of a tourist, mate, but always up for some cat.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘Me too. Tell ‘em you’re twenty-eight. The three-zero thing freaks some of the little ones out. You want to be the wise big brother, not the dirty uncle like Gregor.’
He points to the tall man with long grey hair wearing a photographer’s jacket and chatting to the fat girl from Malaysia.
‘He comes here every year. Leaves his wife in Belgium, just to come here and shag the leftovers.’
‘Looks like you’ve analysed this?’ I survey the different shades of white flesh, dressed in summer clothes, sporting huge bags.
‘Twelve years of truckin’ and fuckin’, mate. Welcome aboard KiwiTour.’
He gives me the biggest wink I’ve seen outside of a cartoon.
I decide to spend my nights lying in bed with my laptop, listening to gasps and moans from the neighbouring rooms. Jeremy comes to my room one night, his face warm from beer, his neck filled with lust bites, and with a double-skinned joint in his fist.
‘Eh, Garf mate, come out into the porch, bring your speakers.’
We settle on deckchairs overlooking the gorge, laptop on my lap, before us a feast of stars.
‘You a bit of a muso, eh?’ he says, sparking up the rocket. ‘Have a listen to that.’
He plugs his iPod into my speakers and a ghostly ballad soundtracks the view.
‘You being a good boy, eh man?’
‘Not really. Not in the mood for a shag, I guess.’
‘Fair enough. You writing a book?’
‘Just a few pages.’
‘About New Zealand?’
‘About Sri Lanka.’
‘Oh. Yeah.’
I notice Jeremy has a thick journal covered in stickers on his lap.
‘That your diary?’
‘Not really. Just scribble down things. Meet a lot of people in this job. You gonna write something for me?’
‘Like what?’
‘Whatever. That Bulgarian chick likes you.’
‘She’s got a boyfriend.’
‘They all do.’
‘You must have some great stories in that book.’
‘Nah, mate. Stories are in here.’ He taps his head. ‘And down there.’ He points to his crotch and chuckles.
He thumbs through the journal, which is filled with photos and stickers and handwriting specimens. ‘Have a read of this. Pretty deep shit.’
The quote is written in glittering purple, the caption scribbled in plain black.
I grabbed a pile of dust,
And holding it up,
Foolishly asked for as many birthdays
As the grains of sand.
I forgot to ask
That they be years
Of youth.
Ovid. Metamorph. Luxembourg chick. Kontiki ’99. Red.
‘I started on Kontiki in Europe before moving to KiwiTour.’
‘What’s red? Her hair?’
‘Red … Oh yeah. She had her pubes dyed red in the shape of a heart. Freaky shit.’
We laugh and I pass the joint.
‘I don’t think I can fake being a kid for much longer, man.’
He looks at me sternly. ‘You shouldn’t be faking, mate. If you’re faking it, you shouldn’t be doing it.’
The KiwiTour pass is valid for eight months and has a hop-on hop-off policy. I hop off at Turangi and hop on an InterCity bus.
My InterCity bus has no graffiti drawings. It is white and bland and strangely soothing. It is also far less packed. There are four grannies, a couple of couples and someone who looks like a nineteenth-century tramp. More sheep and more fields. The soporific effect of gazing at lambs lulls me. Bland towns pass by as I read my father’s manuscript for the thirteenth time. Waiouru, Taihape, Marton. I take turns between daydreaming of Pradeep and staring at clouds.
At the turnoff to Wanganui is the town of Bulls, which has recently been through a town-branding campaign. Pun intended. On the Welcome to Bulls sign is a sticker saying ‘Incredi-Bull’ with a cartoon bull in sunglasses giving the thumbs-up. We stop for lunch in a pie shop which has stickers saying ‘Edi-Bull’ on its plates.