Tag Archives: travel

The thrill of inspiration

July 14, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

There are few things I like better than discovering new ideas. As an adventurous cook, encountering Carolina Mustard is a marvel for the senses and another tool for the home grilling arsenal. As an author in training, having a crazy new focus for my first book pop into my head on a long drive between The Black Canyon and Aspen is like finding a crisp tenner in an old coat pocket. Two days before pay-day. Ok, maybe even better than that.

My first American BBQ tasting was last weekend, in a sweet little playground of a town called Nederland. We had driven up to check out photo opportunities around the quirky mining museum, but this place is a confluence of madness. After happy snaps of rusting machinery and coiled ropes, aiming for that classic sepia shot, we decided to pay homage at the information centre. Boomshanka! Firstly, Nederland happens to be the home of the “Frozen Dead Guy Days”, a yearly festival inspired by…a frozen Grandpa. Bredo Morstoel was cryogenically frozen in 1989, and has been on ice ever since. He’s cocooned in dry ice in a Tuff Shed above the town, and each March a range of events are held to celebrate life, and ostensibly the vague possibility of his future reincarnation. These wintry fun times range from coffin races to a cryogenics workshop. That’s right, DIY immortality, what’s not to like? Unfortunately we’d missed the event by four months, the frozen turkey bowling wouldn’t be as effective on this midsummer scorcher.

Fortunately bizarre festival t-shirts were just a start, the kindly volunteer behind the counter suggested “The Carousel of Happiness”. Who could possibly resist? A 1910 wooden carousel had been purchased sans animals by a Vietnam Vet, who then spent 26 years learning to carve replacement figures. The experience is a delightful mix of creepy and delightful. You get to choose from over thirty different beasts to mount, from the first eerie carvings of mermaids and dolphins, to the more competently sculpted gorilla. Once you’ve strapped in (it’s the US, everyone needs a thrill stopper wrapped about their ample midriff) a huge old Wurlitzer Band Organ starts pumping out a jaunty tune, and slowly you accelerate. About now the nervous “I’m a big kid at heart, this will be fun any minute now” grimace slides into a genuine mirthful grin. Based on my voyeuristic viewing of the next group of riders, the facial expression half way through “Chatanooga Choo Choo” is 90% “wheeeeeeeeee”, and 10% “Wow, this is really seriously getting quite fast now”. One dollar per ride? Magic.

So buzzing like meerkats on amphetamines we decide on the Wild Mountain Smokehouse and Brewery for a stomach settler. Here you can get a beer taster in the form of a “Brewski”, literally a foot long chunk of ski, with five beer tasting glasses inserted. Second drawcard, I’ve never tasted American Barbecue. The beer was weak, but this was more than made up for by a “tasting” of BBQ sauces. And yes, of the six delicious blends, the Carolina Mustard was the star. As often seems to be the case with American cuisine, the most interesting new (to my kiwi taste buds) sensations are drawn not from molecular gastronomy, nor from classic French techniques. Instead just blitz five or six other sauces and pour on or baste. See the recipe at the end of this article. Simple, effective, wrong and yet right.

Travelling the back roads of this continent is bound to spring intermittent surprises, from ex-top-secret missile silos, to towns called Climax (haha, I kept every single one liner to myself, ever so proud). But it was a lightbulb moment on the drive between Gunnison and Aspen that rocked me a couple of days ago. I found an old copy of Steven King’s book on writing in a thrift store (charity shop…) a couple of weeks back. Steve taught me at a very young age, that the thoughts in a person’s head could be as interesting to read about as the actions that they performed as a result. And on the second read through of this lumpy explanation of his (and now my) craft, I began to worry that the central “idea” of my first book wasn’t really all that powerful. This thought sat in an uncomfortable place in my head, parked somewhere between “Do I tell my parents I love them enough?” and “Do I really REALLY need an iPad mini to write while I’m on the road?” Somehow, the easy comfort of being a passenger in an ever-changing landscape put my head in the right place for dramatic internal inspiration. Mr King had also explained that no author could really explain where the ideas came from. And this new idea, I have no idea how I came up with it. And once again I believe in magic. It certainly wasn’t the car corpses and mountain vistas that had been keeping my eyes entertained.

I’m so glad the world still has this ability to take me by surprise. I guess I try to frequently put myself in situations where I will discover new things, but it is always the unforeseen eye openers that have the most impact. At the moment I can’t share the big idea with you, that will have to wait until the publishing of my novel. But I can share the recipe for that delicious sauce. Enjoy!

Recipe for (South) Carolina Mustard BBQ Sauce

1 Cup yellow mustard

2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce

1/4 cup wine or cider vinegar

1 tablespoon brown sugar.

1/2 cup honey

2 tablespoons tomato sauce (ketchup)

Mix all, and ideally refrigerate 24 hours before use. Apparently it’s also deelish with corned beef and hash…

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On making meals with strangers

July 3, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

On a number of occasions I’ve helped my sister Kylie run her backpacker hostels in Northern Ireland and Scotland. In the middle of the busiest summer we’d have over eighty people check in each day. That’s eighty-five people you’ve never met sharing your kitchen, assaulting your bathroom and hugging you and singing Galway Girl at the top of their lungs. It can be a tall order making friends with that many random punters each day, so I didn’t. But I did discover many, many gems. A group of Finnish music students who alternated Finnish folk with Metallica covers, photo journalists who’d catalogued the transition of Bulgaria, nightclub singers from Essex. Passionate, interesting, interested friends. Sometimes for three days, occasionally for life.

Over these periods I discovered more about the wider world in a few months of crazy experience sharing, than from thirty years of book absorbing and Woody Allen films. I got to learn about “The Troubles” with Basques, watch New Zealand get ejected from the Rugby World Cup with a room full of Australians (shudder) and lead hilarious pub crawls through Irish streets with my sis. I debated Gaza strip politics with ex-Israeli soldiers (unsuccessfully obviously…), nearly convinced a French plumber that NZ could make good wine, and almost finished painting an Asterix mural in an Irish summer. Ok, so not all victorious moments, but I also grew confidence in myself, got a little heavier (Irish food, Danish beer, minimal exercise), and increased my places-to-visit list by eighteen items. In short, it was the most elucidating period of my life, and at times I missed the camaraderie (if not the toilet cleaning) of strangers in strange lands.

It had been around two years since my last stint in the bunk-bed paradises, when I found myself single, living in a big apartment in central Wellington. I loved my home city, had far too many couches and I was missing conversations with travellers. And then I remembered discussions of Couch Surfing. couchsurfing.org is a little like an online dating site for travellers, and those of us in between travels. If you have a spare couch/bed/pillow-pit, and you love introducing people to your lifestyle, in exchange for learning of theirs, you can set up a profile as a host. If you’re off for three weeks in New York and can’t afford $300 hotels, you can set yourself as a surfer. Whichever side of the sofa you’re on, you fill in a profile about who you are, what you like, and how you like to travel. Then it’s time for hook-ups!

I hosted around a dozen people last year, meeting some ridiculously entertaining legends, along with a couple of dullards. For every five up-for-it mental health nurses from North England, I encountered a lobotomised iPod-insulated graduate from the mid-west of the U.S. But I learnt about snake breeding, seaweed soup and swing dancing, and that was just from one Canadian (props Linds, my frozen-rodent delivering food hero). In return I dragged people through tide pools on the South coast, took them surfing on Lyall bay, and even dolphin swimming in Kaikoura. Then it was time for my own travels, and two days ago one of the women I hosted caught up with me in Colorado, where I’ve been learning about the U.S. with another. Bliss.

Frequently people express concerns at the thought of inviting strangers into your home, or spending the night on an unknown potential train-spotter’s/Viagra-addict’s/Republican’s couch. Fortunately couchsurfing.org prompts you to make comments on your host/surfer after your stay, so you can get a sneak preview of the sort of person you might be spending time cooking sea snails, scarfing mulled wine, or arm wrestling with. You can also bitch about their lack of hospitality, or their leering, sweating, side-burned flatmate once you leave. More importantly though, you just need to put a little faith in humanity, and hopefully an equal amount in your ability to judge others on meeting them. In general I’ve found that around the world, people are good. They may have ulterior motives, they may be stingy when it comes to buying a round, they could have different political or religious viewpoints. But there are very few of us aiming to injure or take advantage of others, without remorse.

We often get to know ourselves better through our encounters with strangers, than our times with our friends. If we spend time with people we meet through a simple desire to exchange viewpoints and share a couple of meals, we hopefully both part enriched. To all those friends I’ve met and befriended while travelling, or while they were travelling, thank you for contributing to my adventures. And for providing endless material for my writing…

To my sister Kylie, thank you for the opportunity to join you in a mad, mad, but thrilling world. You’re always an inspiration.

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One month in America (the United States of)

June 25, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

"Freedom is, the only way yeeaaaah..." — “Freedom is, the only way yeeaaaah…”

One of the things I enjoyed most about living in the UK is regionality. I loved that I could spend Friday evening interpreting Liverpudlian accents, and then on Saturday head to a fitba (soccer) match just 45 minutes away, and have to learn a whole new dialect from drunk Mancunians. And it is so much more than just catch phrases and football songs. Attitudes towards homosexuality, the monarchy and farming are all influenced by where you first learnt to kick a ball. I always put this down to a relatively long history, I assumed that it was thousands of years of inventing slang and crafting hot puddings that led to such stark cultural differences. So bugger me blind if I wasn’t surprised to discover a similar situation here in the U.S. Ok, I have to be drive a little further, maybe six or seven hours, but there are accent shifts, cowboy hat frequencies and the delicious sub genre favourite pies to consider. In shifting your location a sub(marine sandwich) might become a hoagie, a hero, or a po’boy. Or even a muffalotto (yay Birmingham, Alabama!) You might drink a Coke with this in Texas, but in New York it’d be a pop, and a soda in Colorado. As far as I can tell, the vast distances between places to live, have resulted in a faster development of differences. Which makes it so much more entertaining on road trips, discovering toasted marshmallow milkshakes in one state, then promotion of rodeo heroes to rock star status in the next. When you add these quirks to the monumental landscape changes, and an abundance of wildlife (which changes with state lines too) how can you not be enchanted? Or at least hugely entertained.

South Dakota snacks... — South Dakota snacks…

Whilst in South Dakota over the past week, we stayed in a small town called Deadwood. I’ve never seen the apparently very violent TV series, but mention of Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane was enough to pique my interest. We set up camp at a motel on the edge of town, which I was delighted to see had an industrial ice machine for guests. I remember this bizarre detail from films of road trips across the West, it seems no night in a budget motel is complete without an emergency kidney removal in a chilled bathtub. As I contemplated a home-made slushy, we noted a flyer advising that a public gun fight was due to start at 6:00pm. Colour me excited! A fast trot took us to the slowly filling sidewalks (not footpaths), and we took a squat on the pavement amongst the burgeoning crowds. We were soon twitching at gunfire, grimacing at over-acting, and taking part in the trial of Jack McCall, cowardly assassin of Wild Bill. There was country music, there were gags, and there were thick layers of American cheese. But as a gent I spoke to yesterday put it, America is good at corny. And he emphasised the GOOD. And they are, I can’t imagine the re-enactment of Wild Bill’s death in a crowded saloon bar being done quite as well, yet ever so slightly badly, anywhere else. So now I want to check out medieval times, before I head over to Scotland for a rollicking highland games…

One disturbing revelation on the road, has been my growing appreciate for the culture of tipping. Like all hard-working, poorly served kiwis, the idea of people expecting a tip bewildered me. Until I experienced the results. Considerably cheaper meals helped aid the transition, but from day two I’ve happily been adding an extra 20% on top of my buffalo burger bill. Because in return for this socialised tax you get a dose of (sometimes genuine) positivity. Being greeted with a grin, and then actively engaged with just enhances my good mood, no matter the reasons for the conviviality. I get a huge menu selection, a meal to last all day, and a chat with the waitress (server…) about whether key lime pie lived up to my expectations. Oh, and “cowboy coffee”. Eek, how easily smiles can soften my stoney heart!

Marshmallow milkshakes. So so wrong. But just a little bit right... — Marshmallow milkshakes. So so wrong. But just a little bit right…

In between bursts of travel along the interstate highways, I’ve been spending a week at a time back in Boulder. This gives me time to get to grips with all I’ve seen, and to write of it, and try to draw conclusions from my experiences. Of course it’s not seven days huddling over my laptop in a library. I’m getting to attend birthday parties, meals and gigs with all sorts of people, and to share my insights, and build on them with each engagement. One thing I’ve noticed on these occasions is that many people seem to possess a more natural ability to offer a compliment, and indeed to accept one. I’ve seen this numerous times, and although occasionally there are obvious motivations, in general it just seems to be a selfless kindness. And I’m warming to it. I’ve spent a few years growing my inner cynic, thanks to spending long periods of time dwelling on the wrongs I see being done in the world. And time in England (with the help of witty comedic heroes like Frankie Boyle and David Mitchell) helped craft a bitter (with a twist of witty) edge to my writing. And I guess at times, my personality. So now I’m feeling somewhat invigorated for getting a chance to tell someone they look stunning, without them waiting for a punchline, or assuming I’m envisioning them manacled to a wall in a nurses uniform.

Dan helps me find something new to wear in Denver

So sunny days, gun slinging, chocolate and peanut butter pie, I’m hooked. As an eye-opening, expectation twisting adventure, the US is brilliant, but it’s the depth of cultural experience that is proving my greatest thrill. I’m looking forward to countering cowboy experiences with visits to native American reservations, tasting even better tequila, and (weirdly) further rattlesnake encounters. But already this trip has changed my opinions, inspired dozens of writing ideas, and exceeded my expectations. Magic.

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Putting nostalgia in its place

June 12, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

Over the past week we’ve been travelling through landscapes which acted as backdrops for my childhood dreams. The canyons here in Colorado and Utah, the wildish west, are adventurous tales brought to life. The vulture monitored ravines that once harboured black hatted, unshaven gangs, are now a sanctuary for the ghosts of their notorious deeds. They make it so easy to slip back into the imaginary world of the eight year old boy or tom boy, casting a wary eye over the crevices and ravines, and stretching the fingers on gun hand. But it’s not just gunslinger territory. Scattered amongst the seismically ruptured landscapes are the physical evidence of dinosaurs, dream feeders for all us overly imaginative kids that wished for dragons, but were willing to settle for thunder lizards. All I needed was a couple of jawas and I’d have encountered the holy trinity of my childhood.

Nostalgia is an incredibly effective editor of our past, triggered by our senses and our emotional states. I’ve found it is at its best when unprovoked. Hearing “Pour Some Sugar On Me” and being drawn back to a long hot summer mowing lawns, attempting to accelerate mullet growth through sheer will power, and scamming beers from liquor stores. When I try to engage nostalgia on command, the results are usually underwhelming. Introducing a younger girlfriend to The Dark Crystal was seven levels of uncomfortable. At its lightest it is pleasant, fuzzy recollection, accompanied my a half grin and a half stare back at a version of the past. But it can also be a powerful distraction, thanks to our memory’s ability to summarise chunks of our past in the same way a movie studio makes a film trailer. Take the highlights, the most evocative shots, the funniest lines, the flash of half-nudity, and add a stirring two minute soundtrack. The highlights of old relationships, road trips with the boys/girls, and your first gig, are recalled with 92% higher frequency than the negatives. Probably.

I think there are problems though when we begin to yearn for the past with more passion than we can muster for creating a fulfilling future. I remember being told that my high school years were going to be the best of my life, and I am so glad that this wasn’t the case. If that’s actually true for anybody, what the fuck happened? Did they take their foot off the fun pedal the day they left the prefabricated classrooms, arbitrary rules, and inadequately enforced stress on conformity? Did the responsibility of making their own decisions, and owning their own failures take the sheen off the rest of their lives? Most of the fundamentals of who we’re to be, are decided by the first seven years. And then I swear I learnt so much more of life well beyond my teenage years. The thirteen to eighteen year stretch was a volatile time, decisions magnified by hormones, choices made with too much consideration, or none at all. They were days spent combating insecurities with bravado, then watching the bravado wilt, crushed by one harsh comment from a teenage witch.

Another powerful nostalgic diversion is that pseudo romantic favourite, lost love. An entire relationship can have its defining memories drawn from the few sublime punctuating moments, rather than the seemingly endless low-on-passion, high-on-drudgery hours/months/years that drew you towards a tearful/noisy/embarrassing conclusion. If I’ve been having troubles in a relationship I admit at times I’d get teary eyed reflecting on prior romances with piss poor recollection. “It was so much easier with [name omitted to protect the innocent], maybe we should never have split up…” Of course if you then mix in two jugs of ale and a functioning mobile phone, Queen Nostalgia’s destructive powers are revealed. Then again, one of the quickest ways to correct any misconceptions over why you split up with your ex, is to call him/her at 2:00am, drunk, and ask them for an explanation.

If we tie ourselves up too much in what has been, or what could be, we will lose momentum, we become less dynamic, less capable of making decisions at least partially informed by instinct. And I’ll happily invent a statistic that reveals that if we’re in a state to listen to our “heart” or “instinct”, or “Women’s intuition”, then the resulting decisions are considerably more likely to be super positive. We can’t recapture our youth, our first loves, the thrill of that first stage dive. We can though retain our youthfulness, have the courage to leave a destructive relationship for the right reasons, and relearn how to listen to hearts in order to discern how we should move forward. And never stop crowd surfing. Ever.

Nostalgia has its place, ideally behind me when making decisions, but leap frogging to the present to remind me that my life’s been blessed by many astounding moments, beautiful friendships and roller coaster relationships. Of course that won’t stop me scouring thrift stores today for cowboy boots and ten gallon hats, in preparation for a foray into “The Badlands”, South Dakota…

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First week in the U S of A

June 4, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

International differences in slang are ripe for giggles. Whilst at my sister’s backpackers in Derry a Canadian came into the kitchen laughing, and telling us that her boyfriend was double-fisting in the garden. At this point I realised that the fanny pack wasn’t likely the only snort-worthy misreading of intentions I was likely to encounter, should I visit the America’s. A couple of days ago Francoise and I went for a walk around the Farmers Market in central Boulder, and then for a stroll through the bohemian quarter. At one end was a “Cheesecake Factory”, and whilst jittering at the number of © and (™)’s on the menu, I noticed they served “root beer”. “wass that then?” I asked. Quickly I was led to Mountain Sun, a brew pub which happens to make their own root beer. Now for Kiwis (and Aussies) the giggles might have already begun, as a “root” in the Southern hemisphere, is another name for sex. I guess a root beer lowers everyone’s inhibitions? But when I was asked whether I’d like to take it away in a “growler” my poker face gave way. Down under (don’t even start) a growler is a cheeky euphemism for a woman’s lady-parts. Of course we passed a playground on the way back to the car which had a beaver on full display, and at this point I’m sure my estimation in Francoise’ eyes must have dropped. If not then I’m sure we’ll be friends forever.

One of the things that’s sometimes struck me about a couple of the Americans I met whilst travelling, is that they tended to vocalise almost everything that passes through their minds. “That’s a big ol’ bus” as a bus goes by, or “mmm-mmm, that’s red wine alright” as they take a sip of (yip) red wine. Occasionally these same individuals also dropped over the top responses to minimal stimuli, “Oooooh my Lord! Sweet Jebuz wrap me in a chunky Kentucky man’s bathing costume and throw me to the coyotes…” in response to a traffic light shifting from amber to green. I’m so used to growing up in New Zealand, a world of muttered, muted understatement, that this broadcasting of one’s inner monologue always used to seem a little…attention seeking. Like the red headed cousin that’s lost the focus of their neurotic parents attention and decides to shove dry roasted peanuts up their nose until the cough-cry-snot combo has the desired affect. This morning I went on a bird hunting hike with a group of around 25 citizens, most in their 60’s, and I had to shift my perspective. The harmonic vocalised enthusiasm that accompanied every hummingbird spotting was endearing when matched with widened eyes and “o” shaped lips. I’m glad my inner cynic has given way, I’d sooner listen to a chorus of oohs and aaaaahs of appreciation, than a cacophony of scornful derision. Expressed happiness trumps arched eyebrows and rolling eyes heavenwards.

Amongst the childish observations, I’ve also jumped in the deep end, and been trying to draw real learnings from my experiences and conversations. One thing I’m finding is that there seem to be serious concerns that the US Government is working hard to reduce people’s freedom to choose. The implementation of the Patriot Act utilised a nation’s fears to introduce Big Government in a nation built on rejecting State control. And since then it seems further erosion of freedoms, many which appear to contravene the constitution, are causing angst, though maybe not for enough people. Despite this though, there’s still an underlying belief amongst people I’ve met so far, that they should be able to achieve anything they want, as long as they’re prepared to work for it. And just as importantly, they have picked their own paths through life, avoiding “convention” when it ran contrary to their needs. And up until recently the mix of federal and state leadership promoted this. Imagine 50 regions with different environments, different laws, different attitudes. Americans have been able to choose to live in the area that suited their desired lifestyle, from gun control laws to attitudes towards homosexuality. I love the idea of those sorts of personal freedoms. But it seems increasing federal powers threaten the ability of States to maintain this degree of independence. Hopefully Americans still have the will to protect their freedom of choice, hopefully they won’t sacrifice it in fear, so that the state can “keep them safe”. Hopefully they continue to insist that the Government support the right of the individual to be just that, an individual.

So. At the moment, I’ve got a bit of a man-crush on the US. Ok, I’m on holiday, I don’t have to fight others for a job, I don’t have to be concerned over my children’s education. My glasses are definitely rose tinted. But each day I find a dozen grins, a half dozen chuckles, and several stunned shakes of the head. Soon I’ll have to staple a bungy cord between my forehead and my chin to stop my jaw hitting the ground so frequently. As far as I’m concerned, this is an incredible land, and I can’t recommend enough that people come here and give these people and this country a big hug.

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On the first three days in Colorado

May 29, 2013 reganbarsdell 4 Comments

I love the idea of the United States of America battling my expectations. It’s the country on which I have the most opinions on, from the least reliable sources, from The Dukes of Hazard, to anything written in New Zealand newspapers. I’ve found that from the few opportunities I’ve had to engage with wandering US citizens, I’ve been left with reassessed opinions and altered prejudices. So how will spending ten weeks based in Colorado, and the resulting experiences, chats and observations, affect my views of this rapidly changing empire? Well, three days in, let’s look at three areas: food, just how many places I recognise, and hospitality.

Until recently my understanding of food culture in the 50 states, was that in general, huge unhealthy meals, and bizarre sounding snacks were king. I imagined travellers would be hard-pressed to find alternatives to chicken wings done 50 ways, corn dogs, and anything where they ask if you’d “like fries with that”. And that when they needed something to stretch overfull bellies between meals, they’d have to order snickerdoodles or Ding Dongs with a straight face. But within hours of arriving in L.A. (and before I had a chance to eat) I had relocated to Boulder, Colorado. This state is an enormous, beautiful, natural playground, and has the lowest levels of obesity and sedentary lifestyle in the nation. I’m prepared to confront other sides to the “what American’s eat” story, but here I’ve been enchanted with the foods, and a passion for “good” eating. The edible options I’ve been tasting and cooking with so far are frequently organic, carefully selected, and genuinely delicious. Mexican ingredients seem to take centre stage (adventurous salsas are a favourite so far), and game foods are far more prevalent than back home. For those who decline flesh, there seems to be substantial vegetarian delights, indeed the predominant incisor despisers are reportedly vegans and raw food zealots. So for now, my US diet has been more healthy, more tasty and contained less high fructose corn syrup than expected. Prejudice adjusted, to be reviewed over my next hundred meals, and after a weigh-in.

We travelled from Boulder to a cabin in the woods near Mount Evans, over memorial weekend (think flags, flag pants, unrelenting patriotism). On the way we passed Red Rocks Ampitheatre (where U2 recorded “Under a Blood Red Sky”) and Dinosaur Ridge, an incredible mecca for Jurassic nerds around the world. The next day I was unexpectedly taken to South Park (the very same), where I walked a section of the Colorado Trail. All of this within a radius of under fifty miles (local slang for 80km). I had no idea just how packed with recognisable locations America would be. What are already entertaining road trips (trailers boasting 80 flavours of jerky, scenery out of Road Runner crossed with any John Wayne Western), become events in themselves, as reference packed as a wander through central London. I’m discovering that this ridiculously huge landscape is fair over flowing with must see, wouldn’t-mind-seeing, and funny-to-note destinations. Ten weeks is looking a little weak, for even one state.

I was warned by a number of people over the years, that Americans were friendly, welcoming and hospitable. So far this is an unadjusted notion. I’ve been humbled by the warmth with which people (three in three days) have welcomed me into their homes. My third and briefest host invited us up for a chat after spying us walking the trail under his mountain perched cabin. John and his friend Eve gave us the grand tour of his self built timber paradise, from the humid greenhouse, to a koi carp pond that frequently hosted bears and other wildlife (evidence provided via an always on “Game Cam” mounted above the fish filled pool). They then plied us with travel tales, local gossip, beer, and a feeling we’re not intruding on their privacy. We walk away not quite sober, with photos of the wild turkeys stalking his garden, slideshow CD’s, and a copy of Eve’s world beating photo of a “sad squirrel”. Bless.

My cautious optimism has been boosted to unbridled enthusiasm by a country which I hadn’t yet visited, because I didn’t know where to start. An opportunity to have my introduction led by Francoise has proven one of my life’s great decisions. She has a truly adventurous heart, and I have already been spoilt with daunting landscapes, fascinating commentaries, and the promise of brewing beer together. It’s always the people that make a country for me, and based on my experience so far America is a beautiful, eclectic country, hopefully finally taking steps towards self reflection. I’m glad I got to meet her now, and I am eager to explore further.

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On incorporate my writing into my living

May 6, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

When I decided to replace my painting non-career with writing, it was always with the intention of working towards a novel. It’s at least partly my Dad’s fault. Every wintery Saturday morning down at the Ngaio library, I’d end up lost amongst shelves of books that smelt like wisdom wrapped in parchment. My Pa introduced his three children into incredible new worlds, for the price of an occasional lost book. I know it’s unlikely that my book will shoot to the top of best seller lists, get optioned for a film, and in two years I’ll be turning down Ryan Gosling and Reese Witherspoon (shudder) for roles. But as the lovely couple who sold me a reconditioned typewriter on Paekakariki Beach explained, the most important thing for me is going to be self belief.

I needed help understanding my strengths and weaknesses as a fledgling author, so I took on a freelance writing course. I aimed to use magazine articles as a way to make money from the research and character development I was doing for my fiction. One of the key elements of my first tale is a very special vodka. I spent a month investigating vodka marketing, vodka production (first hand) and vodka history. And doing just a little sampling. Just a little, because to tell the truth it tastes universally shite. I ended up with an entertaining article on New Zealand’s vodka marketing stories, and a solid understanding of why you don’t challenge a Polish woman to make a distilled spirit from courgettes and boiled sweets. I found it was very easy to get side tracked investigating and researching.

I guess some authors wouldn’t need (or want) to employ “method writing” in order to communicate informatively and persuasively about Afghanistani heroin production, or the Modolvan slave trade. But without my time in Northern Ireland I wouldn’t feel comfortable writing of the effect of “The Troubles” on tourism in Derry. And without a confrontation with Hungarian gangsters in Budapest, it’s unlikely I’d develop a plot involving the Eastern European mafia. Admittedly Mr McKinnon and I would also be 3000 Euro better off, but even the naive decisions made fumbling your way through foreign lands inspire new ideas. Excuse for further travel…tick!

Locations and ideas though, are just the framework. My stories are fundamentally about people, particularly people who find themselves displaced. My characters have to be unique, interesting and truthful, or who would want to spend four hundred pages with them? I need a way to access other people’s perspectives, or my characters will end up as just different versions of me. Fortunately my writing course provided a solution, a set of assignments requiring that I conduct interviews. Now some might shrug their shoulders at this, but I had my share of shy times as a young fella, and the idea of attempting to pull intimate stories from strangers was difficult to get my head around. But over the years I’ve grown bolder about attacking my anxieties head on, so I procrastinated for only a couple of months. I conducted my first probing question-and-answer session with a talented New Zealand artist, Greg Broadmore. And of course my fears were unfounded, he proved more than happy to explain how he managed to develop his own opportunities in a country with negligible arts support. We downed pints and a couple of roti bread, and my only issue was remembering that it was an interview, not a discussion. Nerves eliminated.

Interviews have turned out to be not just an incredible source of character ideas, but also a tool for countering my misunderstandings. I’ve been developing a blind character, so I decided to write an article on how the visually impaired deal with social media. I imagined they must struggle socially every day, having to do without such useful social tools as winks, colour co-ordination and carefully applied lipstick. And I presumed that interaction had become all the more difficult with the gradual shift from face-to-face chit chats, to technology based relationships. I mean have you tried using Facebook with your eyes shut? Exactly. So I set up an interview with a blind gent who teaches people how to use “adaptive technologies”. I’d seen a picture of him in a newspaper article, and he had been photographed wearing a Metallica t-shirt for the interview. I thought either his Mum had played a cheeky wardrobe prank, or he was a metal fiend, and we’d click. I met him at his workplace, and click we did. I found he was ridiculously capable, and I was embarrassed by how much this surprised me. His Uncle and Father had been raised blind, so he was brought up as a kid that bumped into things, rather than an incapable, lolling eyed burden. And over a couple of hours of conversation, my character developed a voice that wasn’t just mine.

So now I listen much more closely when an old man in a pub tells me of the day he realised that maybe God had never listened to him nor his younger brother. I try to understand at what point a friend abandoned her hopes and dreams as something she might one day achieve, and began instead to project them onto their daughter. And I sit and share a coffee every morning with the homeless girl huddled with a border collie, because I’m trying to understand why when she speaks of the father who beat and abused her, she describes him as if he’s the next messiah.

I hope that through my attention to the lives of others, that my characters might earn a readers sympathy, their empathy, or their disgust. So next time I meet you for a pint, and ask how you how your new relationship’s going, be wary…