Club Politique by Che Tibby

Well, big ups to Splash Gordon, who were savvy enough to stay open over the season break and draw in punters wanting to dive the F69. All in all I got in about four dives with their dive club, and three separate snorkel trips for the local seafood. And damn good seafood at that. So not too bad a break, all things considered. Caught a cold from all that time in the water, but, sweet as.

Truth be told, I just gave up the fight to stay on top of the niggle of a sore throat and just gave in. You can only let your core temperature drop way too low a few times over a few days before a cold is just plain inevitable. Experience has me getting a cold pretty much within days of any extended period of diving. Post-Cairns? Cold. Post-Port Philip? Cold.

But there's nothing to complain about really! The diving was entirely worth it, and hasn't impeded the wider experience of being paid to lounge about. A paid holiday... who would have thunk it...

The recent trip north had pretty much discharged any obligation to see family, although there remained the threat of a further trip to Auckland on the cards. I scurrilously avoided this, and instead hung out at home, made myself a big feed, and killed a few beers when the flatmates got home from respective families. Not too bad a day all in all, with no extended stories about 'the War', no comparisons to life back in the day, and no awkward moments. Just a series of long phone conversations and chat. I'd recommend it to anyone.

With the weather being suspiciously pleasant, there was always going to be the chance that I'd be doing some diving off Wellington's South Coast post-Boxing Day. And sure enough, I was soon in the water diving the Mermaid's Garden, a rocky stretch of coast just in front of the dive shop. Pretty straight forward set-up really, you just kind of get your gear on and get into the water. Before you know it you're seeing conga eel, noticing nudibranchs (I've seen two separate varieties so far), and being surrounded by curious and slightly tame Blue Cod. The flora is also amazing, with a huge variety of seaweeds, white sand, and this weird kind of pink weed that hangs onto the rocks. Makes for a great contrast. No crayfish but. It's only a matter of time though, those tasty suckers are just asking to be caught.

After three days of good weather I was lucky enough to score a place on the boat that heads out to the F69, and was treated to some mighty fine diving. We dropped 9m onto the stern first, and swam the length of the wreck to the bow, where we dropped 20m down to seabed. There we got to stand back and look up 12m as the wreck loomed up above us. We swam back up, and were able to get into and out of the bridge, to swim along the top, and then drop skydiver-style onto the helipad from where the smokestacks once were.

If that wasn't enough, the second dive involved dropping onto the bow, swimming past the gun turret, down the side, and into the wreck itself. The holes cut in the wreck for its sinking meaning it can be entered and exited very easily, and that the interior is very well lit. We swam through the engine rooms, around the upper decks, and out again to descend and check out some Red Cod living near the rudder. Very, very cool diving. Great visibility, no sediment as yet, and lots of natural light preventing the divers worst enemy, the heebie-geebies.

The wreck is also already covered in life, with millions of sprats darting about the place in huge schools (probably from those Red Cod getting straight on the job). There is already kelp growing on the north side, and the whole wreck is looking like becoming a fantastic reef in next to no time. I'm looking forward to getting back out there later in the year and comparing changes.

And all this for the very reasonable price of $45!! (Plus gear hire). No two and a half-hour trip to the reef (Cairns), no having to dive strictly at slack water (Melbourne).

The snorkelling is a simple story. I heard there was paua off the South Coast, and waddya know, they were right. It took three trips to get a large enough amount, but it was worth it, with three very different locations being checked out. There are a lot of paua out there still. Good old New Zealand, now if we can just drop the legal size to 120mm...

The trade off is a cold that has me sneezing and snorting. God... so, much, freaking, mucus... For all things there is a price though, and for five flour-dusted paua gently fried in a light oil to feed six people, the price is well worthwhile.

And they do don't they? You wake on New Years day and it begins. They kind of grind on day after day till before you know it you're starting down the barrel of your aunty Gloria's 3kg trifle, or picking 50c pieces out of a plum pudding. You're sitting on the couch snoozing or smelling that burnt wood smell of the BBQ in your clothes.

I've always thought those Northerners stuffed up having their festive season in the middle of winter. Sure, maybe if it's 2 degrees outside, it's been overcast or raining for weeks, you're on the verge of a cold and trying to stay warm, and your flatmate has just taken off for a week in the Aegean, a big feed and getting a bit cut is exactly what you need.

But why would you subject yourself to that, when you could just be chilling on the porch with a sweet New Zealand beer, a chicken sandwich, some soulful tones playing, the smell of a manuka fire, and the tightness of ocean water drying on your skin?

If a year's end wrap up is what's required, then here we go. Jesus 2004 was shit. As I pointed out all that time ago, 2004 was miserable, all long shifts for crap money, bullshit arguments with uncompromising flatmates, days of study, days of watching life pass me by, fun just beyond my grasp.

Thanks be to the people who told me to come home. Guys, I don't ever really think I can thank you enough. They say you don't move here for the weather, and they're right, though on days like today, you know there is nothing better than a good day in Wellington. So to those two members of the original Le Club Politique, here's to you and your good advice, had I not listened to you who knows what kind of miserable life I might have ended up in. I will (as I have may have said through several drunken hazes) be long in your debt.

And that's the thing about 2005 for me, the culmination of moments. 2005 was very much a culmination year, one that began when I saw my life fading and slipping into boredom and oblivion, but saved it by listening to the call of a small city in a far corner of the world.

There are plenty of times where we chose to ignore the plaintive-sounding whispers of our many futures, but they whisper to us all the same. They fall on deaf ears or are swept away by facades of momentary joy. They slip between the cracks of our day to day life or are swept away by gentle breezes while we leave them out to cool. We put them out with the cat while we sleep, or we leave them on a shelf where they're smothered by bills and commitments.

So let's hear it for listening and making the right choices. Let's hear it for knowing when to walk away from bad situations. Let's hear it for knowing when to step into good ones, like full-time employment. Let's hear it for not being afraid to step out of comfort zones into even better places.

Hell, while I'm at it, let's hear it for those new-found lovers out there, good things happen to good people. Let's hear it for those couples still sticking it out years later. After seeing a 60th Anniversary last weekend, I know what kind of stress you can put on relationships and still have then survive. Let's give it up for new-found friends, even if some of you are arrogant bastards who need a reality check. Let's hear it for low-stress flatting situations, and low-stress work environments. Both of which I very much deserve. Let's cheer for rapidly shrinking debts. Let's hear it for all-too-rapidly expanding waistlines. Let's hear it for rediscovering family after being all too long away from home. And let's raise a glass to hangovers, every last goddamn one of them.

All in all, not such a bad year.

So it goes like this. A series of happy coincidences has me heading to Auckland to not one, but no less than two humungous feeds. As you can well imagine, the prospect of such a conjunction of fortuitous events has this perpetually hungry blogger feeling very interested.

As it was though a flight wouldn't cut it, on account of having to be in two different towns and a number of suburbs over the course of four days. I found myself driving then, on that seemingly endless trip along State Highway One.

There's a couple of things a man thinks when he's barrelling along the open road at 1[0]0 Km/h.

"I'm bored."
"Damn I wished that stereo worked."

Oh, and also, "when in the hell is someone going to finally build a big diversion around Hamilton/Cambridge/Taupo/Levin?"

Regardless of these minor problems, the need to attend my paternal grandparents Diamond Anniversary meant I was happily suffering the inevitable hassle of driving past hectares of gorgeous scenery I've only seen about a million times before.

A Diamond Anniversary. How many of those things do you think you'll see in this day and age? I'll tell you. Probably none.

So. Many. Lamingtons.

Anyhow, distraction and a pesky good-naturedness drove me to stop for a couple of hitchers. The first guy wasn't too bad. Decent young fulla, learning to be a dive instructor after doing some dole course. He got a passion for the sport, and was forking out something like $11k to make something out of himself. Good news story that.

The next dude was this young student. Bright-eyed and bushy tailed chap. Didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground but. When we picked up another hitcher, he even asked, "what are the Hells Angels?" That one stopped me in my tracks.

You see, the third hitcher was a slightly scary looking dude. The first guy had jumped out to head to Palmerston, and me and the student eventually collected this poor dude stuck in some impossible sun-soaked spot. Nice guy. Only had half his teeth, but dentistry does not maketh the man.

When I deliberately turned the conversation to P he was happy to show us a certificate where the Doctor told him he wasn't allowed to take the stuff anymore. Pesky damn sixth sense... How was I to know it gave him fits though?

Ok. So flash certificate man turns out to have the occasional gang tatt on his arms, black t-shirt, the whole nine yards. He was on his way back from somewhere in the South where he'd been visiting his kids and selling 60 tabs of acid to the neighbours. As you do.

Turns out that the guy was either an ex-Hells Angel or a current affiliate, not sure. He'd gotten a shitload of tabs from somewhere and kindly offered a few of them to us at a special mates rate. I declined, but when the student looked like he was about to part with a serious amount of money I thought that Che was best out of the picture. No witnessing A Class transactions for this driver.

I dropped them at a BP where they went to find some scissors to cut up the sheet, using the weak excuse, "gotta go to the $2 shop to buy a present for X".

For someone who didn't know much, that student was a surprising candidate for a couple of tabs under the eyelids. As it was the Hells Angel had already dropped a quarter before I even left the servo. Viva rock and roll I say, even if it is only 4 in the afternoon.

From there I made my way up to Papamoa to visit some family. Things didn't get any less weird.

Caught up for a meal with my mum and brother, after which me and the bro decided to put in a little time at the local tavern. The place is waaaay the hell out in the middle of no-where, and we guessed the only patrons would be locals. How wrong you can be.

As it was we strolled into the public bar, and stopped dead in our tracks. Instead of a few guys in jandals and singlets, we had a room full of guys dressed in little fairy costumes. Wings, little pants, tight halter-tops and fake boobs, wands. But... the other half of the room is full of guys in these giant Santa suits, red hats, beards, big black boots. Someone should have sent the elves to a beter store.

Of course, I can tell that you've immediately assumed that I must have been financially involved with the Hells Angel, but no. Although, it might have made me laugh a little more, and look a little less nervous.

I whispered to my bro, "Rugby club Christmas?" He just nodded.

We grabbed a pint each, sat in the corner and watched the evening unfold in all its weirdness.

And all this is only Friday.

Before I headed across the ditch back in '99 I seriously considered Brisbane as a place to begin the study, but was discouraged by the thought of being constantly bagged for being a Kiwi. As it was I spent waaay too much time there in Melbourne being referred to as a "fuckin' sheep-shagging Kiwi cunt".

Interestingly, even up until the time I left for Wellington the second-generation Calabrian who gave me the title would visibly flinch if I pointed out he was in fact a wog with tourette syndrome. I'd known the guy for about 5 years. I also had trouble explaining tautologies to him.

Otherwise, life is pretty easy for Kiwis in Melbourne. The place is a multicultural melting pot within the usual limits of redneckism. Brisbane on the other hand was likely to shit me within a few weeks. Sydney? A few days there was more than enough for me.

I decided to hang fire on the race riots to see what kind of stuff turned up in the media. But, now I am no long pyjamahadeen, work seems to take up most of my free reading time. Regardless, what a bunch of muppets. If you think that type of hatred is out of the ordinary for some parts of Australian society, think again.

We've all encountered racism at some time in our lives, but I've lived in Texas and I've lived in Australia. I have a hard time saying which place is worse. Look, I am sincerely sorry if this is offending any Australians. I don't think that all Aussies are racist, but there is a very, very clear vein of racism running through the nation that Māori -haters just don't equal for vitriol.

For that reason I read with interest Ben Wilson's comment put up by Mr. Brown this morning. My own experience says that he's both right and wrong. There are about 20,000 Aboriginal people in Victoria, and many hold very important jobs. One of the main reasons I stuck out the study was going to consult with a Prof. Marcia Langton of Melbourne University. She told me in no uncertain terms to "just fuckin' get on with it". Straight-shooter that Marcia.

The main reason there are few Aboriginal people in Melbourne is that many were dragged out of these prison camps called 'Missions' and dumped in rural townships to assimilate. By the 1960s the major Aboriginal populations in Victoria lived in four main locations. Lake Tyers Mission, about 5 hours East of Melbourne, in a series of humpty camps [shanty towns] along the banks of the Murray River, in the slums of Fitzroy and Collingwood, and in or near a closed Mission called Framlingham, a few hours West.

As part of the effort to assimilate Aboriginal people, they were targeted for a selective 'whitening' programme. Any person of 'mixed blood' was not allowed to marry or breed with a 'full blood' Aboriginal. The result is that a number of generations on, the Victorian Aboriginal population has whitened considerably. They still cop flak from rednecks but.

The next thing is the word 'blacks'. I'm still shocked to hear pretty much everyone here calling them 'Abos'. It's a bit like calling people niggers. Aboriginal people in Victoria tend to call themselves just that, or 'black'. A few of the old hippies call themselves 'Koori', but it seems to be going out of fashion.

During my time there I ranged across the state doing interviews with Aboriginal people in all kinds of jobs, but they were pretty hard to find. Until I got used to knowing who to ask, that is. I think Aboriginal people get used to keeping a low profile, if they can.

All that said, I know I'm becoming guilty of one-upmanship by insinuating that New Zealand doesn't possess the same vein of racism, but I'm not trying to prove we're better. The conclusion I came to a long time back is that Australians need to acknowledge that racism is endemic to their national society. Denying their racist history is one such sticking point, as it's a history that feeds into their present. With rednecks and white-trash Australia-wide unaware that their attitudes are just plain fucked, it's about time for 'the cycle to be broken' to use a cheesy colloquialism.

I've always thought that the dude with tourettes just acted out racism he'd experienced growing up in rural Victoria. But with well-documented racists like Howard in power it's hard to think that things will changes any time soon. Look at the Reconciliation marches, 500,000 people looking to symbolically bring Aboriginal people in from the cold, Howard claims it's unimportant.

Ah well. Maybe New Zealand can get together with a few other regional nations and stage an intervention. After all, a few protest marches aren't going to do it. A nation obsessed with the threat of Islam isn't going to come round anytime soon, ay?

There's been a little agitation about the lack of continuation of the Metics series, so I thought I had better get cracking and continue the story. After all, I'm sure there's a world of people out there waiting to hear about this one.

Ok, so I lied. Mostly you'd like to hear me ranting about race relations. But we can't have rants every day of week without appearing slightly unbalanced, so back to the rationalisation of this problem we go.

Why I named this series 'Metics' is because I'm certain that there exists within almost any nation-state a society that is the 'real' nationals. The specific dimensions of that society are more often the not the subject of a domestic debate (i.e. what does it mean to be a 'real' New Zealander), but that a national group exists is not up for debate. All you have to do is ask someone "what's an American?", "what's an Australian?", or "what's a Italian?" to get an opinion about what that group is.

You might note of course that this is can easily be an outside perception of that a nation is. But outside perceptions are as important as the inside ones. As with many things, what you say you are and what others see you as are two very different, though interrelated, viewpoints.

I've come to the conclusion that one angle into the problem is this: people can say whatever the heck they want about New Zealanders for example, but unless you are a genuine member of the nation your opinion counts for naught. The next question then becomes, "but who's a genuine member?" And that's where the equation begins to loop back around. Someone can feel completely at home in a country, but have their opinion denied validity in political and social circumstances.

More often than not, "genuine" belonging is determined through one of two mechanisms, undeniable verification, or subjective agreement. The former is something like being born into a citizenship. If you're born and raised in New Zealand, you're a New Zealander even though you might not actually like rugby or eat meat pies. The latter is a little more difficult, but is true if you can pass one particular test. Try saying to someone you think is an actual New Zealander, "I'm a Kiwi". If they laugh, smirk, look baffled, or patronise you, you're not.

It's the latter test that many fail. And there is a philosophical basis to it, as you might guess. A famous French guy called Pierre Bourdieu wrote a lot about what he called 'social capital', which is (in a nutshell) the idea that we each accumulate a lot of kudos around the things we either do, or are. Good education, big kudos, high social capital. Inheriting old money, big kudos, high social capital. Get busted for something shifty, low/no kudos, low to negative social capital. You get the idea.

I took a shine to Bourdieu's idea because it goes long way to explaining why it is that someone is automatically excluded from any particular society, and suggests a lot about nation-building as a form of socialisation. Even when they might have high social capital that is. The example that is often used is of Black people in France. They may well have a great education, a perfect French accent, have been brought up in a good family with heaps of cash, and be highly cosmopolitan in approach and outlook, but their skin and hair colour automatically places them outside the boundaries of that it is to be "French".

Problematically this undermines my previous point about undeniable verification, but that's more a commentary on the realities of racism than nationalism. The fact of the matter is that being Black isn't always going to prevent an individual from being regarded as "French". Should a Black individual accumulate just the right kind of social capital, then they're likely to overcome barriers like racism, and maybe even damage the barrier itself (witness the adulation of Aboriginal AFL players in Victoria).

Social capital is important for any member of a nation though, because it contributes a great deal to the amount of governmental belonging the individual has. Even though you might fit all the external indicators of national membership, i.e. right colour, right accent, unless you can apply a little of that social capital you'll never be in a position to speak for the nation.

And that's what it often boils down to, in my humble opinion, is the ability to speak and be both heard and recognised. It's natural for groups to not listen to people who are not members. And if you are a metic, according to the definition I've spaced out over these ten blogs, then what hope do you have of having your opinion heard? Very little, I will continue to argue.