Friday, December 19, 2008
Not according to plan
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Downtime
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Baxi
I am a bicycle taxi pilot. I use my leg muscles to ferry the nightlife of Wellington from here to there in groups of one or two (but never three! Unless you offer me extra money…). I charge $5 to $20 per fare depending on the distance and how much I think a prospective customer is likely to pay. I accept tips. I am trained and qualified to operate a three-wheeled vehicle. I have heard a better title, and it is “Professional Tricycle Driver”.
I have stories, oh do I have stories. I have driven three transvestites to Marion St. If you are from Wellington, you will roll your eyes and say ‘Of course Marion St.” because that is where all of the transvestites, and the people who are into transvestites hang out. I have driven at least three different passengers who claimed to be the mayor. One, while probably not the mayor, did play a mean harmonica. He played me a blues tune while I rode all about how great I, the Baxi driver, was. I have received payment in the form of coins, bills, kisses, drinks, and massages. I have received a $40 tip for a $20 fare. Joey has been paid $100 to drive two strippers around for an hour while they sipped champagne. Ben had a date last Wednesday with a customer. It was an average date, he said.
I know the street performers, the cab drivers, and the bouncers, and we are all tight. We are all apart of the exclusive club of cab drivers, bouncers, street performers, and Baxi pilots. The people who ride, love me. The people who do not, well, most of them do too. As I ride down Courtenay Place, cars honk approval, and pedestrians cheer! I reply with my bell, BRING BRING! The yay-sayers abound. I am a hero! Once, I drove a homeless woman who jumped on my Baxi thirty meters to the next bench for free, and everyone on the patio of Hotel Bristol cheered. “Good on ya!” My passengers flirt with me. “You must be fit to ride one of these, ay?” “Look at the size of his calves!” The girls pinch me in places it is not appropriate to pinch girls, and their boyfriends don’t care. The women give me kisses and think I am cute, no matter how dorky and unimpressive my helmet and mountain bike shorts make me look. When I am in the saddle, I might as well be wearing Armani.
Then there are the nay-sayers. There are cheap, stingy drunkards, who plead with me for free rides. Drunk women are the worst. So used to having drinks bought for them in the bars, they jump on the back and say “Mush!” I know better than to talk long. I give them my buzz-kill face and tell them to get off. I insert profanity in the above sentence if it is called for. There are unfunny, unclever boys who jump off without paying. I can spot them better now, and demand payment up front. My Baxi isn’t built for speed, and some streets are one way, so I cannot give chase, but the last one to jump off my Baxi fell and appeared injured, so I was satisfied.
The waterfront is the most pleasant place to ride in nice weather. It is quiet, and the starts are beautiful. The ocean laps against the warf and beaches, and the customers there are friendly and appreciative. Cube street, between Ghuznee and Vivian is a great place to find passengers, because it is quieter there than on Courtney, and I can schmooze a bit. Establishment is one of the biggest bars around, and one of few that stays open past 3:00am, when the final bump in business comes. I make rounds to and from Estab until 3:20 when it is time to call it quits, and go home. I return to the depot, where the other Baxis are stored, there are four that work, two that do not. There all the pilots have a cuppa and count their earnings. A slow night can be anywhere from nothing to $50, and a good night as high as $140. Above that is a great night, and I have once kept $191.60 after paying out the mandatory $40 rental fee. I do not pay taxes. I am an independent contractor.
In my underwear drawer, I have over $50 in coins, which I try to spend at the farmers market on Sundays. I keep close track of my money, and write the totals on the ziplock bags the cash goes in. I pay cash. I sleep in on weekends, and occasionally miss ultimate Frisbee practice on Sunday mornings, but I forgive myself. Sometimes, I have seen the sunrise as I fall asleep. At noon, when I awake, I share stories with Ben and Joey, my roommates, and they with me. We are heros.
Thanksgiving
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Early Childcare
Monday, November 3, 2008
Photos of New Zealand
Time and Leuven
My expected duration here, I find, changes lengths in my head constantly, despite its normalcy on paper. Let me explain this strange sentence. What I mean is that sometimes, I am thinking in terms of months within a year, while sometimes I am thinking in terms of hours within a week, and the constant oscillation between the two perspectives is a little unseating. As a traveler, the month of February, when I will begin a 6-ish month tour of the south island in the form of outright hostel-style traveling, seems around the corner. Which makes me think, Gee I ought to save some money! but that only brings me to the time scale of a job seeker, when I am trying to use my minutes as efficiently as possible. I squeeze as many errands into my day as possible, and make every meal and trip as economical as possible. And yet, holding onto an extra dollar here and there, does that really impact my three months of savings?
I got a raise this week. This is probably due in a large part to the peculiar way in which I joined the staff of the Belgian Restaurant, Leuven. It began not with my employment actually, but with Joey’s. Joey was brought on board a few days before I, in fact he was the one who told me that there were still positions available. So for a period of a few days, Joey and I were both gainfully employed at Leuven, but during this time, Joey was growing increasingly unhappy with one of the managers, specifically the one with whom his schedule most overlapped, the owner of Leuven, Todd. Finally, the night before his 6:30am shift, he decided he’d had enough and the minimum-wage (with no tips, tipping is not common practice here) job wasn’t worth it. He called in and tendered his resignation immediately.
I had, at this time, successfully avoided all contact with Todd, the manager who provoked Joey’s abrupt retirement. Instead, Tony was the one nurturing me in the beginning, and anyone who has worked at Leuven will tell you that Tony is The Man. He is endlessly patient and forgiving, and delivers his thoughtful criticism without any of the exasperation and condescension that Todd includes with every heaping batch. Here’s how great Tony is: on day three I spilled a glass of red wine on a customer’s jacket and purse, ultimately shattering a glass, though thankfully, no one was hurt. As I emerged from the wreckage with a wet red rag and a terror stricken face, followed on my heels by a furious woman with two expensive white accessories now no longer white, Tony did the only thing that a good manager would, he simply let me off the hook. I disappeared from the situation, into another section of tables, and away from the mess of heated emotions and staining liquid that realistically I could do very little to repair. “Leave it to me, mate” and Tony was taking care of everything. He even talked to Todd, notorious for not understanding these sorts of things, leaving me out of the conversation completely. What could I offer to these people anyway? I’d happily have said “I’m sorry” indefinitely, but the value of these pitiful mutterings would only decreased to nothing quickly. Tony saw that this was simply something that happened sometimes, and that there was really nothing for it. Hey, what better reminder could I get to hold the goddamn tray flat? Too bad it was at the expense of an innocent Kiwi.
But that isn’t how I got my raise. The same day I spilled the world’s most potent red dye was the first day Joey didn’t show up for work. Tony was surprised at this, he being entirely ignorant of Joey’s brewing frustration with Todd, so he asked me if I knew what happened. I explained that Joey, like every employee who’d had a chance to tell me, didn’t care to work with Todd. I think Tony filled in the rest, that a minimum wage-paying job doesn’t have a lot going for it in a city where minimum wage-paying jobs are widely available if the manager sucks, and he presented this information to Todd. My raise, I believe, is due in part to what I’ve been referring to as a backlash of niceness. As it happens, Leuven is actually under a fair amount of stress right now, having lost many experienced employees in the past month, and relying heavily on new workers. Todd must have gathered that a little bit of extra generosity might be a worthwhile investment, and whom did he need to convince most to stick around? Me. Joey’s friend. Despite spilling a glass of wine, I have learned quickly, always show up on time, and work hard, and even more importantly, my impression of Todd was at least partly up for grabs. I got a warm handshake and a short speech about how a restaurant manager has to account for these sorts of things. “Just don’t make a habit of it,” he said, and all was forgiven. I was, until then, potentially responsible for the dry cleaning bill. A few more days of hard work, and me offering to come in on short notice to fill a morning shift and Todd decided to up my pay a buck an hour. Still a meager rate, and less than most temp jobs offer (I’m still searching for better pay), but a step in the right direction.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Tramping in Tararua
Henry was obliged to work from 8-12 on the first day of hiking, so this made for a late start. By the time Henry and company had made it to the trail head, it was after 2. The three kept up a quick and steady pace, knowing that there was a lot of ground to cover between them and the Alpha Hut (camping is only allowed in certain locations, but simple huts have been constructed along most trails), but after passing two fairly fit-looking hikers coming back the other direction, some prudent thinking and a return to the map resulted in an alternate course. According to the two guys coming from Alpha Hut, there was plenty of still-frozen snow ahead, and the trip downhill had taken them nearly 6 hours to complete. Instead of trying to reach the apparently icy summit, Henry, Ben, and Joey decided to take a route that ran along a river to a nearer hut. This turned out to fit the trio perfectly, as they made a safe arrival just as dusk was setting in.
The photo to the left is of a local bird Henry saw along the trail. At first it seemed the epitome of exotic, and so Henry stealthily approached it and got this candid shot. However, upon further consideration, Henry decided that bird really looked like nothing more than an over-sized pigeon. And indeed, as the hike continued, he learned that these birds were not as unique as he'd thought. The hikers passing the other direction as Henry snapped his digital shutter probably has a feeling similar to one we might have of watching a foreigner carefully immortalize a squirrel.
The next photo shows Henry as he skillfully made the one and only water crossing on the hike. It may look routine, but what the camera cannot show you is how staggeringly cold (beyond refreshing) the water was.
In this one, you can see some traditional gray rocks in the foreground, and then behind some red-orange stuff that is in fact lichen-covered rock. Wild lichens in New Zealand.
Here are Henry's good friends Joey and Ben enjoying a sandwich at the highest point of the hike. The snowy mountains in the distance are where the three amateurs thought they might go before plans were altered. Not shown in this photo are Joey's very breathable shoes, and his comfortably warm toes.