No Sun in Nelson, Day 2.5

Roger offered to take Robert to the head of the Abel Tasman track (partly to assure that he'd leave) about seventy kilometres from Nelson and I jumped along for the ride. The ghastly weather didn't much let up for most of the ride there, but I could see the beauty of the landscape in promise - golden sand still golden despite the sea, curving bays and estuaries and cliffs yielding short views into the murk. How I wish to return for proper tramping through the Kiwi bush!





Gray days make me want to nap. Instead, Roger (aged seventy) watched American Wedding with me, which proved even more crass and unentertaining than the previous two (the first of which I highly enjoyed as a film). Between that and plunking away at his piano, I quickly passed the afternoon away in the safety of his home. In fact I decided to remain there most the rest of the day, quite successfully scared away from busking at all. Torrential rain also assured it'd be a soggy affair, anyways. I improvised some roasted brussel sprouts to serve with bok choy and fried rice for dinner, after which Roger enlightened me on the workings of Rugby League.

No Sun in Nelson, Day 2

I began my first rainy day in Nelson with my standard two eggs in toast, a good a start as one can find, really. I took my time waiting to make sure the rain would hold off (one gets a good sense for weather when one's livelihood depends upon it) and headed the few blocks to the CBD for a busk on Trafalgar street. I set up outside a Starbucks who's permission I obtained - sign, seed change, song list, CDs, business card, Zebra, water bottle - for a thoroughly unsuccessful pitch. I really only stuck around to await my host Roger, who'd said he'd like to meet me busking. Roger was quite surprised I earned anything at all the previous night and I felt curious about his estimation of my skill. He stayed for Streets of London and requested a falsetto song - I supplied She's So High. Back home, he noted how I tapered at the ends of phrases in both volume and enunciation, and how it wasn't his "type of singing, but you have a good voice." Roger's been an organist and very much involved in Sacred Anglican music much of his life. To return to the pitch, I earned about a dollar fifty from a generally uninterested clientele. Or interested but avoidant (children and parents and old people sitting far to the side).

I felt a bit miffed and down - probably the weather contributed. Finding Tehanu in the Nelson public library and finishing it in a sudden burst of sunlight cured me of this, though checking my email to find an extremely large health bill from my Hawai'i Clinic visit plunged me into a deeper funk and despair. What can the ones and twos and silver coins do to compare with the enormous sums from huge faceless bodies in the government (which believes I owe them five hundred more in taxes) and healthcare? I've begun to really despise the system of government I was born to, having seen the alternatives abroad. Here I avoid healthcare for the fear of payment and that's normal to me, yet quite insane to my hosts and fellow travellers. Here I am charged to pay full taxes from earning less than five figures and those same foreign nationals simply don't understand. Not that Nelson is free of such bureaucracy. I entered town hall to register as a busker and needed to sign off on some pretty ridiculous bylaws. Which I promptly broke.

I'm afraid I somewhat took it out in song. I found an arcade of absolutely gorgeous acoustics across from a fashion shop and jeweller's with light pedestrian traffic, people leaving the closing shopping district to the cars through the arcade. Every song I sang for my probably way to long pitch reeked of self-pity, at least in delivery. My delivery of The Blower's Daughter, in particular, won me some particularly pissed off looks from a stodgy white family. Frankly, I didn't give a rat's ass. I figured I'd use the maxim of busking emotion - smile and be happy, sing happy songs and songs people know if you want to do well, or if you sing sad songs, cry, be really really sad. Gotta be believable. Well I didn't exactly cry, but I was in a slightly hostile mood, especially with the increasingly hostile looks from passersby. Not a great relationship. Great acoustics though. Great place to hear myself sing, to pitch correct and so on.

I did receive a few tips, however, especially after a few songs when I'd cooled down from pissed off despair to bitter nostalgia. Not enough, though, not nearly enough. A sweet, end, though, with the jewellers who'd passed me many times walking in and out of the entrance during my entire pitch stopping me as I packed up with a two dollar coin and "Don't pack up just yet!" and a warm smile.

I'd promised to cook dinner. With a quick survey of prices with Robert, I decided to improvise a Chinese style meal with eggplants, bok choy, bean sprouts, beef, garlic, ginger, sugar, soy sauce, and rice. As per usual, cooking lifts my spirits back to a more tolerable level. Filled with "home-cooking" complete with a free eggplant courtesy of a redressed mistake, I headed out for another night pitch. First I scoped out Hardy street. I thought I'd give it a go, but while I debated which side of the street to play, a thirty something white man with a flamboyant air and accent asked me brightly if I had the guitar why wasn't I playing it for him. Apparently he asked in jest, surprised at my answering question about the better side to ply.

He recovered shortly and asked me, "Is it just you, alone?"
"Yes" I replied not really knowing where this could be heading.
"I'd, um, I'd be careful around here, I don't know why it is, but around here, around here a lot of people treat people like you, I mean Asians really roughly." Earnest, soft, kind.
"Really? Is it that bad?"
"We've had a few... instances recently... I don't know, if you head to... You know what I'll take you there, you should be fine there." Walking now towards Bridge St. "Where are you from?"
"I'm from the States."
"Oh!" He stops me, turns me to face him, eyes me with a grin, "You don't look American."
I'm a bit flabbergasted by his well-meaning ignorance.
"If you play here around twelve to three..."
"That late!" It'd just turned nine thirty.
"Yeah... as long as you're in a well-lit place and near the security guards... all the bars have security guards you see and they're good people.. you should be totally fine."
"Well, thank you very much!" Ready to set up and play now, unworried myself.
"Take care of yourself, dear."

And as we part a very drunk Maori man asks if I need to a place to stay, a dry leaf in his disheveled hair.

I chose a spot near a food stall, but a small worm inching its way nearby scared me sufficiently to move further away from it, and not anywhere downwind, safely tucked between two bars. The leering men sitting in the open air portion of the bar who asked me "Chinese?" with crude attempts to imitate the sounds also deterred me. So began the start of a pitch I never should have begun. Or continued, for that matter.

Not long after I restarted my first song in my worm-free new location, a young maori woman across the way very pointedly displayed her middle finger on an upraised arm with hostile eyes. She and her mates made sure to get my attention with calls and just stubborn continuance when I didn't acknowledge this action. I continued to ignore them and they changed tack with some waving, which I took to be friendly, thinking maybe their rude gesture and raucous noises merely denoted drunken antics at a convenient target with no specific malice. I waved back and bowed a bit. Rain began to fall, and they threw coins towards me - two single dollar coins - missing such that the a squat maori girl stumbled into the street to fetch them and drop them in, refusing a request or even to look at me as she did so. A bit odd.

All throughout I endured comments such as "You're not going to get any money." Jeers, taunts, sniggers. One fake request of Rob Zombie which turned into a genuinely interested and appreciative singalong to Under the Bridge allowed me to cast these as misguided machismo. I did sing rather near that same strip club, after all. Many comments which sounded particularly... hm.. racist? in tone were the ones I ignored so well and we said so soft that I've no idea if I attributed the racism afterwards or if such was intrinsic to the hatred. At any rate, my un-lucrative pitch took a further hit when the proprieter of the bar I played near asked me to move (kindly). One friendly security guard recommended I sing in front of the closed Kebab shop across the way "So I can still hear you" with a broad smile. Of course, I obliged.

Nearer to the large crowd in the windowless section of this teeming bar where those maori girls and white guys first gestured at me, I hoped to capitalize on the captive audience. The hostile looks from groups of white men grew more overt, however, some seeming to leave a glow hanging in the air long after they'd passed along. Then, my confusion on the intent of my first tippers became clear. They stumbled towards the side of the street I'd just quit, but not before the slimmer girl told me, coldly, "You're making trouble for yourself. It's a Friday." (The relevance of the latter I don't understand, still). "I'd be careful walking home." and other such not quite veiled threats. I hope I've made clear how I usually assume the best of people and laugh off friendly warnings of racism. But these words, the way she said them and they way she looked at me with bad teeth and stinking breath, these words so similar to the friendly warning of my flamboyant chum, these words convinced me beyond a doubt that the hostility I'd been receiving all night stemmed from my colour.

I sang a song or two until the rain lightened a touch, and then I walked back to Roger's through the darkish alleways at a very brisk pace.

Earnings: 17.90 NZD
Song of the Day: The Blower's Daughter - Damien Rice

No Sun in Nelson, Day 1

I was told I'd need to be extremely lucky to hitch all the way to Nelson from Christchurch in a day. As with most things (Geoffrey says it's an asset of mine) I just expected things to work out and voila, no problems. I didn't awake quite as early as I intended, but the sun emerged for a beautiful day to see and be seen. I needed to get to the highway from Riccarton and Christchurch is famously bad for hitching around/within - it took me about an hour and a half to get those few kilometers, finally catching a lift from a nice man who lived right by the intersection with the highway. I tried a little experiment of sign/no sign more consciously on this day. I found I would get a car to pull in almost instantly when I turned around to walk up a bit of a ways with my thumb and no sign - single men wanting to pick up a single girl heading to the airport. As I was neither I refused these rides politely. After half an hour or so I caught a lift to Waikuku with a man employed in rebranding with a neutral accent in between English and Kiwi.

His jobsite in Waikuku lay right off the highway after a slower speed limit sign at the Shell station which seemed to constitute the town's entire commerce. It didn't take much longer for me to catch a ride. Norman, a Chinese Kiwi with parents from Toisan, took me all the way up to Blenheim, thereby choosing for me my route to Nelson - one can take the mountain pass through the middle of country for a slightly shorter trip or the coastal route - Norman's route. We stopped in Kaikoura along the way, where Norman offered me his free sub voucher for the Subway. What gorgeous scenery! Just fabulous. And beautiful conversation, too. I'd never expect to catch a lift with any person of Asian descent - hitching is like busking - tons of people pass you by and you start to figure out who's more likely to tip from external factors like race and car model and speed. (Just like busking, the more money they look like, the less likely they will stop.) I really admired his life - wine merchant relinquishing pay for a healthier lifestyle, who's run over seventy marathons in five years, has three boys one I remind him of and wise with words about marriage/relationships. He dropped me off at what looked to be a good spot on the outskirts of Blenheim.


Stopped for rock scaling near a lookout.

Where I waited nearly an hour before a young man from Maui specializing in growing Pinot Noir took me to a new spot, having tried hitching that spot himself months before to no avail. I left the sun behind minutes before he dropped me off, entering a darker haze in front of an enormous gravel pull out at the intersection with highway 62. Luckily, I caught a ride almost instantly with a South African and a Filipino heading all the way to Nelson for a meeting to deal with wine. Both spoke softly and kindly through the misty windy drive over the mountains. They left me at the roundabout outside town with a cheerily ironic "Welcome to sunny Nelson!" so I might walk the mile in the mist to my host.

Roger welcomed me in with his other couchsurfer, Robert. I grabbed a dinner, and then after Robert played my guitar a bit the two of us ventured out for a busk on Bridge St., an offshoot of the main drag of Trafalgar, and apparently the only pub crawl in the microscopic town. (Roger was amused I called the place "cute" - 50,000 and it calls itself a city!). Despite it being Thursday night the entire town was dead. Hardly anyone passed my pitch outside the Rock Shop, unwilling, perhaps, to brave the warm misty night or depressed by days of rain so uncommon in these parts. As such I let Robert request most of my songs for the beginning.

One man insisted on my singing Kiwi songs, of which I know none, but tipped me a five dollar note nonetheless. I'd later note he was a security guard for the establishment to our left, and probably appreciated the entertainment on a slow night. His friend wanted me to sing O Sole Mio, but alas, I don't have that in my repertoire despite years of watching the Three Tenors with my family. Not long after they took up their posts, a man in a funny fishing hat stared me down intensely for a while and I didn't know quite what to make of him. I felt a bit uneasy - had been with strange aggressive looks and such but calmed with Robert on hand as almost a protector - but perhaps that's just his default expression. After many strange minute he requested Yesterday, surprising me by singing loudly along and then tipping me thrice - "One for the Father, one for the Son, and more for getting lucky" with a wink. He took my request list on his way back for a go at Where is My Mind - another loud singalong with his face now worked into a foolish smile.

I think I understand those mood changes now. On setting up, Robert and I assumed the establishment to our left to be a bar - it seemed the only one having any business whatsoever. As we walked back to Roger's, however, we realized in amusement and shock that it was a strip club. Which also explained the scantily clad women in heels passing by, encouraging me sweetly with no tips. We encountered a very "low" slice of society this night. One man in a black and white patterned hoodie screamed out "Fuck, What's that shit?" towards me during the bridge of my From Dawn to Busk, though when I finished Robert hadn't heard as he was concentrating on my lyrics - which he loved. By the by, Robert's German, but with an impeccable command of English. The highly chlorinated water didn't sit terribly well with my vocal chords - I think it may induce a light acid reflux, and when we headed back Robert borrowed my guitar to play as we walked. Just in time, too, as rain decided to resume it's assault minutes after we returned indoors.

Earnings: 15.00 NZD, 1 hour
Song of the Day: Yesterday - The Beatles

Coburg update

Lily's very wonderfully written me a guest post here.

Check it out!

Rickety Riccarton, Day 0.5 (Christchurch 0.5)

Dunedin being rather sleepy and dead, I naturally headed off to Christchurch the next morning. Hitching wasn't quite as fast this go around, though I was at a decent spot, the rain deterred most from picking me up (and unbeknowst to me most travelers would be on the other end of the road). I finally caught a ride after a few hours with a rugby player originally from Tonga with one of those beautiful stories of coming to NZ on travel, finding a job with a rugby team, falling in love, getting married and having his first child, applying to the police force in Oamaru now at only twenty five. I felt very amused when he assumed me to be a Native American - perhaps from a solidarity standpoint, as we talked long on the oneness of the peoples from America, Hawai'i, Polynesia, New Zealand... He took me on a detour to the Moeraki boulders, oddly round things on a very muddy beach. On a mini exploration up the hill he took a big spill down into the mud. His character showed as he burst into laughter halfway down. Not miffed at all. Quite the antithesis of what I expected form a professional sportsman.





He dropped me off at the end of Oamaru at a perfect spot just where cars began to pick up to highway speed with a huge extended pullout, a bit past where he lived with his wife. Such a spot yielded a ride almost instantly, with a young man, John, heading all the way to Christchurch. Almost a carbon copy of my interests we spoke on music, rockclimbing, IT, hiking, and travel all the way. He even dropped me off in Riccarton, where I'd contacted a surfer for my initial attempt to go to Christchurch. I just knocked on the door (my host to be was in Zurich and had told me to just show up) and voila! All well. Peter and I got some souvlaki later and I finally got access to a computer (his laptop) after many days without any access.

What with the CBD still roped off (though the state of emergency was declared lifted on my first day there) and the dismal grey weather that'd followed me, I didn't bother bringing my guitar on my walk about Riccarton. Maybe I should have done, as I found a beautiful buskable street right by the Westfield Mall. On heading back to retrieve it, however, I noted that the shops would all close in thirty minutes, at five thirty. I'm continually surprised at how early shops close in this hemisphere, though with over a month in it I should be used to it. In Gainesville, even, places don't close 'til nine!

We ate a freshly roasted goat chunk with our burritos and then I assuaged some of my loneliness on Peter's flatmate Alex with photos of climbing, and more demonstration of technique on the various furniture. How I miss rock!

I'm never Dunedin, Day 1

I'd the greatest luck hitching to Dunedin from Queenstown, and even might have made Christchurch quite easily. After only a few minutes I got a ride with a girl heading to work from near the hotel just below Neil's out to a perfect spot after a gas station in Frankton, and from there I waited only ten or twenty more before catching another lift. This middle aged couple, a Thai woman and Kiwi man headed back to Christchurch, took me on their detour to the bungy jumping station - the main tourist jumping spot and the first commercial jump, over a river. We saw a fabulously graceful jump there. A quiet, gentle couple - Tim (the woman) spoke almost not at all, while her partner pointed out all sorts of scenery and buildings on the way in a serene voice. They even gave me a couple apples for the road after buying some from a roadside stand. This stand amazed me - no one manning it, the apples all out in bags according to price and a little slot for the money next to a pile of IOU slips. What trust!

They dropped me off at the end of Cromwell where the highway splits on a T to either Christchurch or Dunedin, an absolutely ideal spot which took me but a few minutes to catch my third ride. Another middle aged couple with strong accents (Dave from the Southland and missing quite a few teeth), and simply wonderful. They took me up to a lookout over Alexandria and out on a detour into the orchards of central Otago to rendezvous with their son, with whom we talked for a good while. Spectacular scenery all the way. Heading home they didn't mind dropping me off right at my host to be's flat at the north end of the city. I gave a CD to both couples.

It being a Sunday night I didn't bother busking until the following day, where I had a go in the Albion Place arcade at lunchtime. Light traffic and extremely encouraging looks but slow tippage. Well, not terribly slow I suppose, but another factor forced me to stop. My right shoulder's always had a tension problem but in recent months it's gotten excrutiating. Perhaps my pack (the right strap broke in Hobart and I resewed it hodgepodge in Melbourne), or carrying my guitar, or my frayed tote bag from Helsinki. Whatever it is I can hardly play a half hour before it starts to hurt something awful. As I wasn't making mad bank in the cold dreary (almost forgot the obligatory and redundant adjective wet) street, which I traipsed out into braving strong winds buffeting me about (and the reason I chose the more sheltered arcade).


Beautiful mural by schoolchildren.

My first song, an appropriate Mad World inspired a lady passerby to double back with "You have a good voice, and I like that song." She reminded me of Emma Thompson somehow. Not long afterwards a more raggedly dressed one had a look at my CD and asked my pricing on it. She told me she'd return to buy it on Wednesday, but unfortunately I'd quit the town already by then. She requested a few songs and even sang along to Country Roads before moving on. In fact, all of my tips came from homely middle aged ladies this go, while the younger crowd gave thumbs ups or fixed emo expressions heads down iPods in racing on, and the businessmen voiced their approval with "Keep up the good work!" or "You sound great!" But, as I mentioned, I couldn't keep it up.

So I ducked into the library for a while to hide from a new spate of rain, emerging to meet my host Natalia for a pitch at the same place only to find the town absolutely dead. Even the entrance by the super market yielded nothing. She requested indie songs, which I sang, but with no tips and a headcold creeping into her, I headed back to the library while she popped off home. I intended to try the bartime pitch, thinking as the first Monday back from school holidays (as Dunedin's famous for being a college town), the students would be out in study-denial force. I met but six people on the long walk back up the slight hill to Natalia's from the library down the main drag, George St., however, one who recommended a spot which obviously lay absolutely deserted. Almost spookily deserted.

Earnings: 12.90 NZD, 1 hour
Song of the Day: Mad World - Tears for Fears

The Royal Busking weekend in the Queenstown, Day 3

With the success of the night pitch and the failure of the day pitch, I decided not to bother going in town with the daylight. Instead I hiked up a pleasant hill to the top of the Gondolas overlooking the city (after a confused detour in the wrong direction). Most of the photographs are total rubbish.







When I headed back into town to try the same pitch I'd an inkling the fire poi guy might be back. I knew if he was that would likely hurt my income. Lounging around at the wharf was Chris, the Vancouverite, and soon after, two Melbourners joined us as well. They awaited Teo and Kate and their poi/kerosene. So followed a strange, enjoyable but thoroughly unprofessional pitch. The two Aussie girls twirled their blue ribbons and poi almost idly while looking at the floor, creating a horrible - "Friends hanging out" vibe which I'm sure chased people off. In fact my hosts' flatmates Rachel and Cassie confirmed how odd it was. My request list lived in the hands of one of the Melbourne girls or with Chris; people looked sidelong and suspicious especially from benches down the way.

Not that I felt displeased. I'd sufficient income, certainly, from the night before so I felt alright about not earning much. I enjoyed their company, but I certainly would have preferred either more professionalism or distance - across the way perhaps, out of the light, not right beside me. One of the girls, with a great voice, sang along to some of my songs as she chose them - this was great fun especially when I'd given up on the situation, resigned myself to their presence. That same girl ended up tipping me and refused her portion of the tips we'd received. A good example of the bad vibe occurred when a middle aged couple stayed for some oldies, interest piqued by Let it Be. All the while my cohort twirled her blue pompom like thing absently to the side, not really looking at them, though singing very well. I could see our audience growing uncomfortable with her in sight until they focused their eyes entirely on me. We treated them to Hallelujah while they chose another song - which they danced slowly to. When they tipped the man looked up at me for a smile and face turned deliberately to keep her out of view. I think most wouldn't brave such an awkward situation.

Cassie actually used the same mobile provider I'd mistakenly bought the sim for, and she came by to "tip" me the twenty dollar cost. Right as she arrived so too did Teo and his kerosene. Chris jumped down from the parapet and assembled his staff. they congregated to soak the ends and the poi, and just as they ignited them all I started to sing Run, which I'd learned specifically for the possibility of joining with the fire spinners again - the chorus runs "Light up, light up, as if you have a choice..." I followed this with what I felt to be the appropriate slow mournful choice of songs. One man came by and borrowed the staff, now unlit as Chris didn't feel right using too much kerosene (wonderfully considerate he didn't take a coin from our earnings, though it's true we were not tipped during the three songs he spun for). I somewhat wish I'd filmed it. Two fires whirling about with a singer in the spill of a light fronting the dark water. Like a mirage.

Towards the end Teo requested I sing faster songs to suit his style better. Our last six or seven seemed nearly choreographed, as we finished (singing/flames dying) together, he danced about in rhythm, and I chose more songs with fire imagery: Relax, Take it Easy for instance has "It's as if I'm playing with fire..." in it's postchorus. Just before we finished, a tipsy young man flanked by girls asked to borrow my guitar to play Wonderwall on seeing it on my list. He tipped me generously for his own song. I suppose I did do the singing for it. Teo, Kate, Chris and I decided to finish after we set to talking awhile on websites, the nature and psychology of busking, how to be professional, where to go - information I have become a fountain of. It felt nice to have allies, friends of my age and temperament, and I felt almost lured into staying more nights. We packed up and split the earnings down the middle again - what with the paltriness of the take I didn't quibble about the coins I'd made in the hour before they arrived - which I think was actually more than half of it. This time, I took the note.


In the gift shop by the Gondola.

Earnings: ~33.00 NZD
Song of the Day: Run - Snow Patrol

The Royal Busking weekend in the Queenstown, Day 2

The worst days sometimes become the best.

Bit of a spoiler eh? It's a pattern I notice and the hope of it gets me through the shitty times. I don't even know what exactly brought me so down on this second day in Middle Earth. The last night's wonder alone should have gotten me through it. Mayhaps the unexpected cold - highs in the teens and lows in single digits - but most likely the steady wearing down of day after day traveling, singing on initially hostile streets, giving and giving and no community to anchor, friends from school at home all but out of contact for months, scrabbling for places to stay last moment, faced with the monstrous obstacle of the expenses to come in Asia...





But still, amongst this splendour I should never feel down. Just the wonder of being there normally would be more than enough. I walked down for a two in the afternoon pitch back on the Queenstown Mall, with the two wharf spots taken by a girl singing Country Roads and a man playing an amplified guitar. Though I seeded my case with gold coins (a tactic from Lily), in that hour earned naught but silver - a dollar total. I'm not sure why I kept going for an hour with the dismissive and annoyed looks, but I did, and my obstinance only hurt myself. When I finished I felt completely worn down. Bare. I ran into Jasper and Rachel on the street, despairing after buying a sim card and top up which didn't work in my Aussie phone and couldn't be returned. I'd no idea they locked their sims - I thought the whole point of sims was interchangeability. Twenty five dollars wasted to one dollar earned.

Then I wandered the bars and cafes again, with no luck until the sympathetic Starbucks manager offered me a spot opening for or playing during the breaks that night. Pol & Kate were slated to play but had played often and were amenable to my having a go. I started at seven and played nearly til' eight. I thought Hoffa would offer me some compensation but no luck. After I finished with a hasty CD plug (and fruitless, it being a Starbucks), he said, "That was really fun, thanks!" Right. But it was. It saved me. The captive audience clapped for each song, covers all. I could see them all clearly from my corner, mostly girls, mouthing along to the lyrics, totally attentive and appreciative with their gazes. A stark contrast from the day's pitch. For my first few songs one girl in particular stared completely rapt from her boyfriend's lap. I almost felt like I was doing something wrong. She clapped loud, took my card, requested a song from my list when I passed it down to her, told me "You have a really amazing voice" when she left. My list went round mostly amongst the musicians on the couches nearby (one was the young woman I saw on the wharf). I could feel the vibe for hipster songs amongst non-obnoxious indie music lovers. I love Kiwis for that - spare on the AmeriPop, thick on the local singer songwriters.

Pol and Kate played with a djembe player with the same sort of repertoire. I think seventy five percent of their songs were also on my list. While this made me feel sometimes very... typical, I was able to enjoy them after a time. I felt worried for Kate's voice as I saw her breathing and belting without any diaphragm at all. They kept going without any indication of needing a break, so eventually I decided to milk my free drink offer for the most expensive and sustaining smoothie on the menu, having been denied food and not having eaten since breakfast. A little later I procured a chai to keep me warm for a new pitch down the wharf.

Right as I began, two passing young men from Jersey (not the New one but the original in England) stopped, intrigued by my sign, and requested I sing them Hello. They recorded a bit of it for their podcast and tipped me twice what I'd earned in total for the rest of the day, absolutely astonished by my voice - "How do you make your voice echo like that?" I suppose I was thoroughly warmed up... Soon thereafter, a Vancouverite stopped to keep me brief company and request Where is My Mind, apologizing for a lack of change and offering me a beer, which I declined. All I wanted then was someone to play for and connect with. He kept my spirits up, let me speak a bit about busking (as he intended to have a go with juggling type things). Paving the way for a wonderful encounter with a large group emerging from the pubs, presumably from Royal Wedding watching. One of the women from this middle aged group stopped her companions excitedly with the promise of my sign, and sang along somewhat spectacularly flat during Country Roads, Stand By Me and other... er.. standbys. They each tipped a bit - one with a note the others congratulated her for (I felt a bit awkward here, were they commending her graciousness as a philanthropist or as a patron of the arts?) and one with a lotto ticket, to the great amusement of the others.

After another dead stretch, another large group stopped by. One girl insisted on Wagon Wheel though I didn't know it, so I chose a key, played a I V vi IV type progression and sang what I remembered - the chorus. She went wild. I sang a few requests for the others until her clamoring for a reprise necessitated attending to - this time a triple chorus with all singing together. While they did so, my new Vancouverite friend returned with some change he dropped into my now brimming case. Then another group replaced these, a group from Christchurch stopped by a Red Hot Chili Peppers song and enthusiastic enough to request many songs, too. Chris passed once more with the Jersey boys who'd found a pair of girls to escort, they all stopped and admired my takings and then the girls each tipped a gold coin for their requests, talking amongst themselves with "He has a hell of a voice." "Of course he does why else would he sing out here?" "Just singing there in the bloody cold with no one around, damn it's hard." Echoing the earlier comments of the middle aged groups. Appreciation and understanding.

I ran off to the bathroom during a lull. Ran. To the Starbucks, thanking the manager once again for saving my night. My return opened beautifully with a request of Yellow from a girl from Mexico City, Katalina, and her mother. They complimented my accent in Spanish but preferred to speak mostly in English - about half of our conversation in each language. Amusingly for me, when her mother told her to buy my CD she used Spanish in that secret language tone, but of course I could understand. I signed it for her with a note in Spanish. When they left, I played to no audience for a few songs, entirely alone on the wharf as a boat's horn sounded from the lake to announce it's imminent docking. A single friendly drunk joined me with a funny commentary on the wedding like a sports recap "Oh, it was one - nil, the prince won." After some banter I figured out what he meant. Cheeky. He tipped me with his Prince William mask dangling below his neck and sitting on the parapet behind me (I'd chosen the spot framed by the lightpost), greeting one of a fresh largish group of youngsters with "Hey, Senorita." She responded with a not so amused, "Hello." but recognized I'd nothing to do with him and proceeded to request songs while he moved on with a smile.

She was (is?) astonishingly attractive, with a midriff baring ruffled shirt beneath a blazer that seemed woefully inadequate for the cold. Her two female friends also didn't seem appropriately attired - only her male friends were entirely covered. They hailed from Dunedin and on her request of Better Together pronounced "Bittar Tuhgithar" I nearly melted from the cuteness of it. She hushed her friends from talking while I sang No One then stopped me mid song to sing another, and then wanted an original. From Dawn to Busk impressed her, but she'd finally taken note of the absurd chill and they decided to move on. She left me a bus pass with her tip, taking my card and slipping it beneath her shirt. She offered her place in Dunedin (not a ride as they were flying). Unfortunately she never emailed and the connection never grew. Well to now, that is. Damn.


The site of both victory and failure.

Having still not eaten, I finally packed up to get myself another Ferg Burger, where one of the waiting patrons requested I sing him a song for a two dollar tip while we waited. Why not? I thought, and sang him a few. The venison burger tasted sublime, my conversations with the other young people about lovely, and after a few assholes pretended to pull over before speeding off I got a nice ride back to the flat.

Earnings: 98.05 NZD, Lotto Ticket, Bus Card, 4.1 hours
Song of the Day: Wagon Wheel - Old Crow Medicine Show

The Royal Busking weekend in the Queenstown, Day 1

Jetstar is a wonderful company. Not only did their agent insist on charging me 160 AUD to check in my guitar, but she also decreed me "too late" to board the plane after wrangling me about that charge for a while - looking at her watch after a return from the security line and some fifteen minutes of arguing to say, "It's fifty five minutes before departure" which is apparently too late to check in. "There's nothing I can do. The flight's closed." Amazing. There's a reason Jetstar is cheap, and that reason is they go out of their way to make your experience miserable. Unfortunately, it's a great business model, and on looking for a new flight on realizing my old one was absolutely forfeit, I booked one the following morning with... Jetstar. I'd head to Queenstown rather than Christchurch, spending the night at the airport. It was the coldest night yet. Seriously, they try to freeze you to death in the Melbourne airport, and the open wire grill chairs don't help much.

But all for the best. Because the flight to Queenstown must be one of the most spectacular I've ever experienced. Dead asleep for the first few hours, but awoken for the "initial descent" right as we caught sight of land - the fabulous Western coast of New Zealand in all its wrinkly glory. Milford and Doubtful Sounds coming into focus, Mt. Cook in the distance, the Remarkables coming into focus as we lower perceptibly all the while, and then touching down amidst a field of the jagged brown peaks we just skirted. On entering the airport I was detained by customs for about an hour and a half to go through everything in my bag - the first time that's happened so far - perhaps because I looked so dead tired? Strangely enough this was a nice welcome to the country - unlike my own country's lovely manhandling and rough barking of even its own citizens (and absolute roughhousing of foreign nationals), the officer going through my things spoke amicably the entire time, genuinely interested in my story for the story itself along with the search for inconsistencies. I didn't feel my privacy or dignity invaded at all, and he carefully rolled my clothes back up as he went, leaving them in a neat pile, then re-packed my bag more efficiently than he'd found it, to my astonishment. I remain grateful to his system as that's left me lots of wiggle room.

I'd spent a few minutes on the internet kiosk with some free time donated by the maintenance man checking the timers (popping the coins in to check and leaving me the time) to frantically search for hosts, and on emerging from the airport I did so again, rejoicing when I saw Neil'd agreed to take me in that night. I headed into town and ate a Ferg Burger while I waited for him to come into town. I met his other flatmates for a moment and then we returned to the very small town centre where I set up for a short pitch on the Queenstown Mall. A cold, unlucrative pitch, marked only by an inquisitive young boy with clear eyes who confidently strode up, with a composed quiet serious air, to request Fly Me to the Moon to the surprise and delight of his father. The girls standing just inside the doorways of the restaurants along the mall snared no patrons, either, and seemed grateful for the tunes to bop along to.

Freezing my ass off but understanding the slowness had nothing to do with me, I walked into every bar/pub/cafe I could find to try and secure an indoor arrangement. Most indicated that their own patronage had been so small they'd had to severely limit the flow of musicians, and what spots they had were taken for months. By a stroke of luck, however, as I exited The Pig & Whistle (one of about ten establishments that comprise the entire live music scene in Queenstown), the night's entertainment walked in. He offered to let me sing a few songs after asking multiple times "Are you good?" which I found a strange question to answer but did with a reasonably confident, "Yes." Oh the balance between humility and confidence. Or between humility and the need to earn a buck.

They went on at half eight, so I had a few minutes to tour the rest of the possible venues (two of which sat entirely empty). On my way back, I encountered a fire poi spinner at the end of the mall where it met the wharf. He invited me to sing while he played and I acquiesced after running back to the Pig & Whistle to confirm a good time to return there to fill their necessary break. How companionship can turn a slow pitch into a wonderful night! We created a beautiful vibe where I didn't care a whit about the income from the very few passersby - framed by stunning mountains a little blacker than the glossy black lake before us and the sky lit by the visible milky way above. Every now and again Teo came over to dangle the flaming poi in front of my hands while I played (a bit scared for the guitar but more grateful for the warmth). I sang the sad songs I felt fit the vibe of the poi - slow and mournful and soaring. He loved my Blower's Daughter and requested another Damien Rice. I need to learn more of his! Kids stood wowed by the poi. I could feel the whole vibe perfect for the scenery and the hushed town - one of those that didnt feel at all imposed on but part of the night. The predominantly Asian tourists stopped for the novelty of fire, stayed for the music, left with photographs and all their coins. Only a pair of young Australians stayed to stand beneath the streetlight, clapping after a song of mine and requesting Fix You and Simon & Garfunkel. Towards the end, as Teo and I established a good connection of how to begin and end songs to coordinate with the running out of kerosene while his girlfriend Kate looked on ready to help sell the poi, a group of Chileans and a French girl stopped, sang with me eyes closed, requested Liberta. It reminded me of a night at the Notre Dame three years ago - but this time I was not merely spectator but performer.

I bid Kate and Teo adieu and we split our just over 20 NZD riches down the middle, with a funny moment where we wondered who would take the note and who the coins. A gas fire roared in the fake hearth near Shay and Pearly, the artists of the night, and I huddled by it still shivering from the five degree night. A small table very into the entertainment from Queensland invited me to join them with a seat to the back of this fire, and we conversed a bit while Shay and Pearly played 80s and 90s hits with great harmonies, clever use of a loop machine and well arranged medleys. When Shay called me up for a song, my table erupted with "You had us on! We didn't know you were part of the act!" good naturedly. I sensed the cover vibe and opened with Hey Ya, and then Crazy before Shay regained the stage. He bought me a ginger beer. I'm not sure whether he disapproved of my music or wanted to get the night back in hand, but this threw me off a little bit - such a short set! I barely had time to push my CD.

Hayley, Jay, Dee and Gary bought one for each couple - for each car. They danced to the rest of the songs, chatted with me happily while I signed the jackets, told me they were so happy to have met me and to own a physical souvenir for that memory. I sold them at 13 NZD each, trying to adjust for the exchange rate and overshooting. I've realized I could sell my CDs for much more both in Australia and New Zealand, what with the average cost being well over 20/30 dollars, but I decided to morally stick to my 9 USD marker for comparison. They wished me the best of luck; Shay advised me to hitch back to Neil's from just outside the Real Journey store. I caught a lift almost instantly, with a girl heading the same way who happened to be from Hong Kong. I spoke a mite of Cantonese for fun with her, bringing my language use total for the day (Turkish to get a glass of water from the kebab store, Russian with a fellow patron at Ferg Burger while we waited for our food, Spanish with Neil's flatmate Fernando from Chile, English all day) to five.

Earnings: 40.46 NZD, 2.3 hours
Song of the Day: Liberta - Pep's

Buskeritz Carlton, Day 1

Leaving Lily's violin was very very difficult for me. In fact, I dallied at her place just playing it all morning and afternoon such that I was late arriving at Rosie's for the night. Rosie and I cooked up a beautiful mushroom risotto with beetroot and rainbow chard for sides - for some reason most of my hosts in Australia have been vegetarians or vegans. Before I left for busking I showed her various footwork and training techniques for climbing on furniture around her house - heelhooks/toehooks on her windowsill, crimps vs open-hand training on her doorframes, edging and ninja feet on her baseboards...

I didn't expect much after the slow night at Fitzroy the other night, and took my time setting up and choosing a spot. Again I chose one in front of a nice boutique window with colourful dresses. My voice was in massive fail mode (the chlorinated water no doubt) and I predicted a short, un lucrative pitch. Just as I finished warming up and began to mentally select a first song, however, two families emerged from the nearby restaurant and on reading my sign asked for my request list. They crowded around excited, then even more astonished when I sang them a passable rendition of Operator. So friendly and happy they'd clearly had great dinners, telling me "I bet this is the best five minutes you've ever had." And, "See, it's all about timing, isn't it." I sang Winter for one of the children who liked the look of it on my sheet, and then Hotel California before seeing them off with a Hallelujah. All the other passersby stopped to look, bewildered at my large crowd, but to shy to break in and tip. That last song transitioned well into their absence and people continued to take note of me.

After a petering off and a drought following the last note of the song, where a mean woman waved her hand in my face with sarcastic "Sorry," and passersby turned suspicious, a man with a young boy in a stroller stopped on his child's "Stop, stop stop!" I spoke with the son for a while, and he wanted to choose a song but couldn't read the list - so I played them the ever appropriate I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends made more appropriate by the turn of Autumn. Impressed, his father looked quietly and then requested a song of his own, tipping me a ten dollar note for which I pressed him a CD. Asians passing this whole while in young non-English speaking groups looked at me absolutely flummoxed, wide eyed and disbelieving - to which I smiled all the broader. Only one set - of elderly Asians, just over the young/old line unique to Asians regarded me kindly, the man in front beaming widely at me each of the three times he passed.

A little later two girls sat down to smoke from the bench across the way and watch me from afar. They smiled back at me when I acknowledged them. After a few songs, they came up to tip and head off, likely, but on seeing my sign and then list then stayed for four more songs, requesting Flume which I followed with Skinny Love, Hey Ya and Kids. They offered companionship and rolled eyes when assholes beeped from the street or blared music from cars or passed with muttered abuses. Other young women didn't warm to well to me with weird expressions. In general I found my pitch quite strange - glowing warmth and requests and smiles dotted amongst suspicion and disdain. Strange area, must be a rich one.

After a time, the group of guys who'd passed many times tipped silently, and then the jolly man tipped by way of his children before getting up from the same bench previously occupied by the young women. His boys seemed flustered by my thanks, responding with a shy "No worries" and downcast eyes. Around this time I needed desperately to find myself a toilet. This is an occupational hazard I haven't quite put many words to - to keep ones voice going one must drink continually and this makes the need to relieve oneself rather... imminent after the first, tiny warning. It's something quite hilarious.

Earnings: 51.10 AUD, 1.2 hours
Song of the Day: I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends - The White Stripes