Tattoo illustrates change of image. I am now a lizard.
November 25, 2009
I am currently negotiating a return to Rarotonga and my former job with the Cook Islands Herald. Which means I may soon face the toughest decision a man has to make: where to place my next Polynesian tattoo.
To help me get in the mood to add more ink to my body, I’m presenting the story I wrote for The Herald in 2001 about my first experience under the needle:
Years from now – SEVERAL years, actually – I can see my future grandchildren taking a break from whatever entertainment system is considered flash at that particular nanosecond.
They will gather at the foot of my rocking chair and ask me what I did during the early years of the century.
I could dust off an album of yellowing photographs, or dig out a wooden carving of Tangaroa from its resting-place deep in the attic. But, instead, I will simply tug up the sleeve of my housecoat and watch as the youngsters’ eyes bulge in disbelief.
“Grandpa!” they’ll squeal in delight. “You’re, like, so ancient and you drool quite a bit, and you’re a bit stinky but, whoa cool, you’ve got a tattoo!”
Cool isn’t exactly how I’m feeling as Tetini “T” Pekepo revs up the needle gizmo that is about to inject black ink into my skin. The owner of T’s Tattoos in Avarua, T explains how some people have fainted at the mere sound of this instrument, their brain equating the insectoid buzz with that other modern instrument of torture, the dentist’s drill.
Drugs, friends told me. Chow down a couple Panadols and you won’t feel a thing.
Sound advice, but I am scheduled to return to the office later, and I don’t believe my job description includes sleeping off the effects of painkillers while curled up under my desk.
Besides, I’m a Canadian. True North, strong and free. I’ve been hit in the head by ice hockey pucks. Wrestled a polar bear that wandered too close to my igloo. Elected the same prime minister for two consecutive terms. Pain? Bring it on.
A slick of deodorant ensures that the central image is in place, then T goes to work. As the needles dance over my arm, I realize the gravity of my decision. While I’m being transformed into a flesh-and-blood canvas — a scary thought, considering the price of laser surgery these days – I do my best to banish images of faded hula girls smeared across some ancient mariner’s saggy bicep.
Unlike a growing number of tourists, I have not come to Polynesia seeking a tattoo. The idea has flickered through my mind for several years, but it only took root when the thought struck that this would be a jazzy way to mark that part of my life now being spent in the Cook Islands.
I had a rough idea of what I wanted, the themes I wanted to incorporate, and T did the rest. That’s how the collaborative creative process works in this shop.
“People will have a rough idea,” T explains. “They’ll talk about things in their life, in their past. About people, desires, fantasies, whatever.
“I’ll design the tattoo around that, and I’ll use designs unique to Polynesia, and create what they want.”
Visitors often come to the South Pacific seeking tattoos in the mistaken belief that the art form originated in this part of the world. T sets them straight, tells them that his ancestors brought the handiwork with them when they migrated west.
“Tattooing started at the beginning of mankind,” he says, as my new armband develops before my eyes. “It was well-known throughout Europe. The Romans did it, the Egyptians did it.
“It was a form of identification, whether you were a witch doctor or a soldier in the army.”
In Polynesia, several of the tattoo designs derived from woodcarvings and were considered a form of fashion for the highest-ranking chiefs.
Fashion. Identification. These are still considered incentives for getting a tattoo. But the work should be as equally inspiring for the man behind the needles.
“It’s not about making money,” T says. “It’s about expressing oneself artistically. That’s what I believe artists are all about, not just pumping out things just to make money.”
That’s why T won’t repeat the same design twice, unless it has some connection to family, tribe or island. He also steers clear of the work being done in Europe and North America. Don’t even bother asking him to do a skull.
“I don’t like to do a lot of things that they’re doing in Western countries,” he says. “If you want something like that, go over there and get it.”
My tattoo is nearing completion now, two hours almost to the dot. Did it hurt? Hell, yeah. But not as much as I feared it would.
In fact there were places on my forearm where the skin simply went numb and there was very little sensation at all. That all changed when T moved to my underarm area, one of those little-used areas of the body that never seems to toughen up. Despite constant applications of ice and antibiotics, that section would bruise up quite ripely over the next couple of days.
And then it was over. There is no flourish at its completion, no great sweeping removal of the cape that denotes the conclusion of a visit to the barber.
The needles simply cease their whine and, in that great aural void, there is a quiet sense of some new permanency in my life, as if I’ve grown a new limb or fathered another child. Something has shifted and realigned in my personal universe.
I listen with particular intentness as T explains the meanings of the various elements, translated into English so the papa’a can understand.
The central motif, that of a moko poised vertically, that’s the guardian. Inside his body are spearheads, to add positive attitude. The actual band itself consists of several stylized images: People joined together (for unity), waves (voyaging), a bird (travel), and three small triangles inside a larger triangle, which is a blending of past, present and future.
And on the tender meat of the underside? A set of shark’s teeth.
“They represent courage,” says T. “The shark, to us, wasn’t something to be afraid of, but to respect.”
I return to the office a changed man, as if there is a talisman of great power barely concealed by my shirtsleeve. Look at this, I say, baring my new soul to the CITV ladies. Don’t ya think this is sexy?
There’s a lizard crawling up your arm, they laugh. You should have gotten a dolphin.
Oh, great. Now you tell me.
These are a few of my favorite things. Which probably explains why I’ve never been described as ’svelte.’
October 15, 2009
I’m back in New Zealand after four weeks of visiting friends and family in North America. The journey allowed me to compare what I like best about Canada, the U.S. and my new homeland.
What I like best about Canada:
Hockey Night in Canada
Lemon-cranberry scones at Starbucks
Chocolate-covered jujubes
Real maple syrup
My mom’s cookies
Ricky’s pancakes
What I like the most about America:
The home of Starbucks
Las Vegas
Cherry Coke
Krispy Creme
Wondrously inventive junk food (see photo)
HBO (because censorship can suck my * beep *)
What I like best about New Zealand:
O’Ryan’s Sour Cream and Onion chips
Feijoas
Ice cream
Kiwis’ “Bugger the lot of you” attitude
***
I’m standing at the sink in a public washroom in Vancouver International Airport.
I hear a woman speak behind me: “This isn’t the ladies’ room, is it?”
I glance over my shoulder at the elderly woman standing just inside the doorway, make a point of staring at the row of urinals lining the wall, and then turn back to her and shake my head.
“Didn’t think so,” she says.
***
I’m going through the security check at the same airport. The young lady ahead of me in line doffs her coat and sweater, as per regulations, and sends them through the X-ray machine in one of those plastic containers. Clad now in little more than a singlet, she makes her way through the metal detector to wait while her her carry-on luggage and clothes are scanned.
As I come up beside her, I glance at the fellow sitting behind the X-ray machine, the fellow who is in charge of spotting such nasty little surprises as weapons and explosives. I’m watching because I’m curious to note if anything in my carry-on causes him concern.
Except he’s not actually examining the contents of my camera bag or computer satchel. In fact, he’s not paying attention to the screen at all. Instead, he’s checking out the singlet-clad sweet young thing beside me.
Nice to know that boobs will always rank higher than the personal safety of airline passengers.
***
I’m waiting at the baggage carousel at Auckland airport. The beagle in charge of sniffing out illegal goods is making the rounds and soon has his snout buried in the carry-on bag of a fellow standing next to me. While the dog handler takes a quick look in the bag, the fellow — by his accent, a fellow Canadian — explains the only food he is bringing into the country consists of homemade cookies and Christmas cake.
A few minutes later and the beagle is now suddenly very interested in my bag. I, too, explain that I’m bringing back homemade cookies. The handler is momentarily confused, thinking for a second that she has already been through my belongings. In the meantime, the other fellow and I exchange knowing smiles, the one that says, “Ah, so you’ve been to see your mom as well.”
***
After asking me to guard the cookies with my life, lest the beagle gobble them right down, the handler pulls out my package of Strawberry Twizzlers, holding it between two fingers as if leery of soiling her hands.
As difficult as it is to believe, I have never found any authentic Twizzlers in New Zealand. How do Kiwis live with themselves, knowing they are missing out on a treat that consists primarily of assorted chemicals, additives and edible petroleum by-products? Hopeless bumpkins, the lot of them.
***
Seen on a T-shirt: Watch midget porn. You’ll look HUGE.
***
Please buy my book at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1937. That way I can afford to buy more Twizzlers. Or Zebras. Whatever’s on sale, really.
***
Support the blogging community at http://www.blogsurfer.us
I’m in Whistler Village. Home to some of the best skiing in British Columbia. One of the host sites of the 2010 Winter Olympics. It’s located about three hours from my hometown and yet I’ve never been here.
Half the people I’ve met in New Zealand have visited Whislter, so I thought it was time I checked out the place all those Kiwis rave about.
I love the architecture and the stonework of the high-end hotels. I love the walking mall. I love the building that features an Earls restaurant above a Starbucks. Beautiful women working that close to the world’s best coffee? When I die, this is where you’ll find my ghost. Calamari on my plate, dark roast in my mug. Smile on my face.
The landscape is still only green and brown on this fall day, but the place is surprisingly busy. I hear accents: Italian, French, German. Even Australian, because Canada will pretty much let anybody in.
I try to imagine the village blanketed in snow. Filled with skiers and snowboarders instead of BMXers.
Speaking of BMXers, there is an obvious age division when it comes to wearing the mandatory helmet. Anyone under 12 wears their headgear in place at all times, because it’s cool to hide your face. Those over 12 who are not yet on the course, wear their helmets propped high. Because it’s cool to look as if you have a plastic and plexiglass growth sprouting from the top of your head.
There are several signs warning about bears. Things like, don’t feed the bears. And, especially, don’t feed small children to the bears (something about indigestion). But I see not a single wild thing. Not even a squirrel.
What I do is nearly step in a large brown splat in the middle of the sidewalk on the outskirts of the village.
I make two observations from this sample of ursine excrement: Bears eat a lot of berries. And, bears don’t bother chewing those berries.
***
My brother is shopping at his local Best Buy store. He approaches one of the sales staff, a young Asian man.
My brother: ‘Excuse me, could you help me buy a calculator.”
Salesman: “You know, just because I’m Chinese doesn’t mean I know anything about numbers.”
***
Dad asks one of the managers of the Langley Save-On-Foods store if there is any 2% milk in the storeroom, because the cooler shelf is empty. The fellow takes a quick look in the back, shakes his head no, looks at his bare wrist and says the next shipment is due in 90 minutes.
I smile as I indicate his lack of a timepiece. “Your watch is a bit slow,” I say.
“I know what time it is, buddy,” he snaps at me.
All righty, then. So what you don’t know about is a sense of humour or customer service.
***
I’m at a Canucks game at GM Place. After one hard bodycheck, the young woman behind me complains, “That was mean.”
Mean? Puh-lease. You know you’re at a hockey game, right? If you wanted nice, you should have stayed home and watched Dancing With the Stars. Wimp.
***
I’m at the Langley Shoppers Drug Mart, looking for something in Canada to take back to Viking Woman in New Zealand.
Me: “This is probably a wild goose chase, but do you carry a lipstick called Brazen Raisin?”
Sales lady: “Who makes it?”
Me: “What?”
Sales lady: “Which company makes it?”
Me: “I’m a man. We don’t know things like that.”
Sales lady: “OK. What colour is it?”
Me: “What?”
Sales lady: “Is it red or brown?”
Me: “I’m sorry, but what part of ‘I’m a man’ did you not understand?”
In the end, I bought molasses kisses. They’re Viking Woman’s favourite Halloween treat. They’re brown and made by Kerr.
These are the things men know. Well, that and sports.
What happens in Vegas … usually happens to me.
September 30, 2009
Overheard on the flight to Las Vegas:
He: “My favourite musical is Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.”
She: “That’s all Jesus-y and God-y, and I’m not into that.”
Overheard outside the M hotel/casino: “He’s betting $44,000 at a time.”
He was not — I repeat — NOT talking about me.
Overheard outside Caesar’s Palace:
Gorgeous blonde to regular guy: “Do you work out?”
You’re shitting me, right? People actually say that to each other? And then get laid? I weep.
Oh, hello Part 1: Nine trips to Las Vegas in 10 years and we finally get a white taxi driver. Who speaks English. Whose name we can pronounce. Who woulda thunk?
Oh, hello Part 2: There are two of us in a hotel elevator. The other guy is wearing a Columbus Blue Jackets replica jersey.
Me: “Columbus, eh? I’m a Detroit Red Wings fan myself.”
Him: “I hate you.”
Me: “Doesn’t this elevator move any faster?”
Oh, hello Part 3: A taxi driver tells us prostitution is illegal in Las Vegas. He tells us ladies can come to your room but all they are allowed to do is dance. And help you choose which restaurant you are taking them to.
And then the taxi driver tells us he once picked up one of those ladies whose ass was so sore she couldn’t sit down.
That’s my kind of dancing.
What you don’t want to see inside your hotel: The water slowly gurgling down the drain after your shower leaves behind a layer of dirt that you know didn’t come off you.
What you don’t want to see outside your hotel: Workmen standing around a hole containing a large hose that leads back to a truck marked “24 Hr. Hazmat Spill Response.”
I may just skip brushing my teeth this morning. If that’s OK with you.
Not sure how this works Part 1: Security men check for room cards at the entrances to the elevator banks during the evening hours. They are nowhere in sight during the day. What changes after the sun goes down? And do I really want to know?
Not sure how this works Part 2: I’m pretty darn sure I was told to meet my sisters at the pool at 9. They’re pretty darn sure they said 10. So I wander amidst the bikini-clad denizens for an hour. Peering intently. With a camera around my neck. Sporting a telephoto lens. Because there is nothing suspicious about that at all.
Playing on the speaker in the washrooms of The Paris: The French translation for “Apart from being sexy, what do you do for a living?” There was no followup translation for: “Oh shit, she just kicked me in the balls.”
What I’d forgotten about Las Vegas in the year since I was last here Part 1: How many people smoke. And how these same people are kind enough to ensure that, by the end of the day, I too smell like a West Virginia tobacco plantation.
What I’d forgotten about Las Vegas in the year since I was last here Part 2: How many beautiful women you can cram into one city. And how they all want to rub up against me. OK, I may have made that last part up. I said “may.”
The recession is hurting the US in more ways than one. For instance, it appears that women can barely afford material for dresses. I’m just sayin’.
If you’re going to charge items from the hotel gift store to your room, the least you can do is remember your room number. Especially when I’m standing behind you trying to buy one lousy bottle of water. You know, for next time.
Restaurants who centre their menu items should come with a warning. That way a certain blogger wouldn’t try to order American Swiss cheese on his burger. Because that’s just silly.
Note to self: Never eat vegetables from a buffet. Not unless you enjoy the feeling of digesting broken glass. For two hours. On an airplane.
The M hotel/casino is located nine miles south of Mandalay Bay. It’s been open for six months. It is still clean. So clean, in fact, that my mother walked straight into a glass panel because she didn’t see it. I laughed until I cried. And, yes, as a matter of fact, I am going straight to Hell.
Best reason to visit America: Cherry Coke. Best. Drink. Ever.
Worst reason to visit America: Border guards: Nazi pricks. Every. Single. One. Of. Them.
A business story in USA Today tells how tall, boxy cars — the likes of Nissan Cube and Kia Soul — have recently become very popular with the American car-buying public. Hmmm. Let’s see: we bought our tall, boxy Honda Capa 18 months ago, and it was built in 1999.
Americans, eh? So far behind they think they’re ahead.
The maple leaf in my soul is bleeding red. And white.
September 19, 2009
I’m so over traveling.
I know what you’re thinking: “But, John, don’t you fancy yourself some kind of freelance travel writer? Isn’t the world your own personal ATM, where you punch in the words and various publications spit out cash?”
OK, let me rephrase: I enjoy the destination. What I’m so over is the actual getting tò the destination.
I’ve grown weary of packing, although I will admit to being rather adept at telling if my suitcase is overweight by the simple act of hefting it. A one-hand lift = good. Two hands and a grunt needed to lift = I’ve got a problem.
Are there any toiletries in my carry-on? How about water? Did I remember to remove the special Swiss Army knife my sister bought me when she was stationed in Europe?
What should I wear on my feet? The hiking boots that weigh 600 pounds and so are too heavy to be in my suitcase? But also have 600 hundred feet of laces and take three days to undo should they need to be taken off and placed on the X-ray scanner belt at the airport.
And please tell me how, at the other end of that belt, I am supposed to juggle the laptop I had to pull from its case, the belt I had to take off before it caused the metal detector to screech, the boots I had to remove and my two carry-on bags?
There is no need for terrorists to actually blow up my plane — they have already made my life hell and I am still in the terminal.
And then there’s that whole panic-inducing fear that I will be the last one seated in my section, well after fellow passengers from many rows away have already wandered over specifically to fill the overhead bin above my seat, meaning there is now no room for my stuff.
Even when that nightmare scenario does not play out, something else manages to bite me in the ass. On a recent Air New Zealand flight to Canada, I noticed a small overhead compartment directly above me. Concerned that maybe this was the one I was supposed to use, I reached up, while still securely buckled in my seat, and opened the door.
“Leave it!”
Now, I’m almost certain the female flight attendant standing in the emergency exit alcove directly behind my seat didn’t mean to bark so loudly as to readjust the part in my hair. I’m almost positive what she actually meant to say was, “Excuse me, sir, but that particular compartment is reserved for cabin crew luggage. Please close the door.”
I’m also guessing, due to the dim lighting and the fact that I do look young for my age, she simply mistook me for a 10-year-old shitrat intent on whipping open her litle suitcase and scattering her knickers and lipstick in the aisle.
Facing Customs & Immigration at the Vancouver Airport is always another treat. It matters not one whit that I possess a Canadian passport or that I lived the first five decades of my life in the Great White North, paying taxes every single hour of my working life. I am now a New Zealand resident. I am now a foreigner. I am now to be treated differently.
“What is the purpose of your visit?” asks the 20-something fellow with the faux-military haircut that matches the sneering chip on his shoulder. What he’s really saying is, “One false word, fat boy, and you’ll be touching your ankles while I snap on the latex gloves.”
What is the purpose of my visit? Where do I start?
I want to eat a lemon-cranberry scone with my Starbucks coffee.
I want to eat a Tim Horton’s doughnut. Maybe even one from Krispy Kreme.
I want to hold a Hockey News and an Entertainment Weekly in my hand instead of reading them online.
I want to experience real high-speed broadband.
I want to talk to people who understand what sport I mean when I say “hockey.”
I want to taste real maple syrup.
I want to see a dogwood tree. And squirrels. Maybe even a beaver.
What is the purpose of my visit? You’re kiding me, right?
My purpose, Mr. Dipshit, is to be a Canadian.
Now stamp my f*****n passport and order me a double-double before I drop my gloves.
***
Sample or purchase Brown Girls: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1937
***
Support the blogosphere at blogsurfer.us.
