In absolute hate of the fact that my life is slowly turning into a routine and mundane one, I decided to get my shit together today and do something that I would probably miss when I return to KL. I decided to look for wineries in North West Auckland. On Google, I found two of particular interest because the restaurant carries the wines. But for some reason, only known to God, I decided to drive up to Helensville first and then make my way back down to the wineries.
Helensville is northwest of where I currently stay. On the way to work every day, I come to the end of the highway where I would normally turn right to West Harbour to the restaurant and Helensville is to the left. It’s about 30 odd kilometres away and today, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to drive up there instead.
En route, I remembered why I decided to come to New Zealand of all places – the countryside. The drive took over an hour because the roads are windy and for once in my life, I was happy to observe speed limits. In fact, 70 kilometres an hour was too fast for me. Acres and acres of land sloping upwards, downwards and sidewards, carpeted in grass and trees and in the backdrop, a beautiful sky blue that was peppered with clouds. No words will ever be able to describe and no camera will ever capture the true beauty of the countryside. For that entire hour, I honestly believed in life. For if in the world existed such beauty, there is hope, even for me.
I drove past the wineries that I intended to visit – Soljans Estate and Kumeu River. I drove straight to Helensville. When I finally arrived, the hunger pangs in my stomach were consumed by the regret that I did not live in this small and quiet town. With the exception of Woolworths (that completely destroyed the essence of the town’s character), it is everything one would imagine where Stephen King writes about – small, sleepy towns that are too sunny in the day and too eerie by nightfall. This is an absolute amazement.
The shops are single storied and all located within walking distance. At the corner of the main street, I noticed a Cafe Regent which looks (and I subsequently found out to be true) a restaurant and a movie theatre. It’s the kind that existed in the mid 1900s when people would go to the ‘pictures’. Unfortunately it was closed and so was the quaint second hand shop next door. Further down the street I noticed what looked like an abandoned building. It’s the Grand Hotel. I find out soon that it was built in the 1880s. Out of curiousity, I decided to pop in after being invited in by a young building contractor who told me that the owner of the building was inside.
The entrance I went into led to the pub. The owner of the building is a man of 40s and Maori descent. He tells me that I can drink whatever I want and it’d be on the house. I go for a Speights. It reminds me of Caffrey’s. Just as Young Contractor pulled the beer, another young builder slams the door behind me shut and locks it. For the strangest reason, I do not feel at all threatened being in an abandoned building with four strange men with the only exit I can see locked. Young Contractor 1 hands me my beer. I soon find out that there is an exit out to what would be an open air beer garden. I need a smoke badly. Owner motions for me and tells me he needs five minutes with his friend and he’ll take me around to have a look see.
Young Contractors take me to the dining room and kitchen area. The dining room is painted in deep red with heavy royal purple drapes. Really I thought I went back in time to the 1930s and could almost hear the soft sounds of a saxophone. The room takes my breath away. If ever I decorated my house, my living room would look just like that.
Owner doesn’t take very long with his friend and before I know it, I am outside again in the beer garden having a chat with him. He thinks I’m a journalist writing about fascinating places in New Zealand. He wants to know why I am so interested in the building. It’s funny that people sometimes over analyse situations. I quickly corrected him and told him that I was drawn to this building and that being in here made me feel a sense of belonging.
We tour the place. The hotel is being reconstructed to be reopened for business on 1 June 2008. Upstairs there are about 8 rooms, a beautiful sheltered balcony with French windows and white wood panels. One of the rooms will be a suite of sorts that will come fully equipped with a big screen television and a Jacuzzi. The wallpaper is a deep green with gold trimmings. It all looked very grand, I tell you.
I also find out from Owner that Bob Marley played in this very hotel once. And apparently his speakers were left in the hotel and Owner is going to display them in the dining room. I am starting to doubt his honesty but I politely nod in agreement. We walk downstairs and enter from another bar area. It has an old piano much like what Billie Holliday’s pianist would have played. I am tempted to play something on it but I don’t seem to remember anything but Richard Filthy Clayderman. I will not pollute this amazing room with trivial bullshit music.
After the tour, Owner and I sit down for a chat. Apparently he has been watching me speak with his builders and my reactions to each and every area of the hotel he has taken me. He tells me that he thinks I have some kind of purity and connection with old buildings and that he’d love for me to work for him in looking for and refurbishing old buildings around the country. Again, I nod my head politely in a vain attempt to shake off the conversation topic. I’m starting to feel uncomfortable. He tells me he feels connected to me. I want to throw up.
We make plans to meet next week in the city for a coffee. Apparently he wants to buy me one and talk more about what we can do together. I am tempted to ask him to lease the kitchen out to me but I am not sure if I really want to start of the project in the sleepy town of Helensville.
Not too long after, I bid him goodbye and tell him that if I don’t make my way now, I would not get to visit the two wineries I planned to go to today. He tells me that he looks forward to our next meeting and unlocks the door. I forget to thank him for the beer because I am desperate for a cigarette. Maybe I should buy him coffee instead. I’m so rude.
Just as I left Helensville, I suddenly had to pee. And this wasn’t one of those times where I could hold it in for a bit. I didn’t think I’d last till Kumeu which was still about 15 kilometres away on trunk road. I drive down the road for a bit and I see a tavern-like pub. It looks like a small house but the entire building is painted to promote Lion Red. I was starving and confident I’d get something to eat in here.
I enter the tavern/pub and it occurs to me that this place is a local. It was filled with middle aged men who looked like farmers or builders. This will be fun. But I had to pee badly. I head for the bar and order a drink. Speights again, please. The bartender tells me that the kitchen is closed until 6pm. I decided that I’ll survive on a small bag of potato chips instead.
The pub has a beer garden too. It is a beautiful sunny day and I decide to take my laptop outside and start blogging about my afternoon at Helensville. I think I must have wrote two paragraphs (in the above) when a tall, thin man of 50 approaches me. He asks me where I am from. I tell him I’m from Malaysia and he tells me he’s been to KL a couple of times. We chat for a grand total of 30 seconds and he prompts me to join his friend and he two tables away. The day is turning out to be better than great.
I join Tall and Thin and get introduced to a Scottish man in his 40s with cascading brown locks. We make pleasant conversation and more middle aged men join us at the table. This is starting to feel homely. Best of all, all of them smoked – without exception. We were then joined by a rather dashing man also in his 40s who gave off a kind of George Clooney charisma. I am quite mesmerised because he is handsome by all standards. I soon find out he is in a band and he plays the saxophone amongst other instruments. The moment I find out he is a musician, I fall out of love with Clooney.
There must have been at least 8 different men on the table and I think they were a little bit fascinated with my presence. I doubt the tavern/pub has ever seen an Asian chick waltz her way in alone as if it were her God given right. They are super polite to me and I in return. But after I knocked back about 5 pints of Speights, the motherfuckers and bastards surfaced. Not too long after that, their motherfuckers and drop kicks became apparent.
Clooney has a great idea and decides that we should drink a round of black Sambuca. I am the only person on the table that is agreeable and he buys me a round and another Speights. I told him about coffee beans in Sambuca and he manages to get a couple of beans from the bar. In total I must have knocked back 9 pints of Speights and 2 shots of Sambuca. Having drunk on an empty stomach, I was surprising lucid and sober.
I soon find out that none of them, with the exception of Tall and Thin, are married. Clooney recently separated from his wife but none of them are currently in serious relationships with women. Men to marriage is like water to oil. It’s all the same, everywhere you go in the world. More countries should legalise civil unions between two people of the same sex lest I end up unmarried and have bastard children. We have a short conversation about belief in marriage and that most of them didn’t because, according to them, love has nothing to do with a signed document.
From a legal perspective, in terms of trusts and probate, children and finances, that is actually untrue. The dissolution of a union between two people who are unmarried but living together as husband and wife can be messier than a divorce if the relationship turns to shit. Furthermore, it does not necessarily follow that all jurisdictions recognise common law relationships and therefore does not provide the adequate protections one has when committed to that signed document. But my personal contention is simple – I will not have bastard children. Call me conservative but if I chose to spend the rest of my life with a human being that never matures, it better be reduced in writing.
Which brings me to my next observation. The conversation that took place amongst the MEN within the group did not differ at all to that of what I hear amongst a bunch of (a) teenage boys; (b) young adult men; (c) adult men. I further deduce that conversations within men will only be about the following topics: (a) cars; (b) sports; (c) chicks; (d) another beer?. Get a man to talk about music or some life philosophy with another man and the third man sitting next to them will probably think they are gay. There is no escape. I will eventually marry a child which I will have to take care of for the rest of my life until death do us part.
It’s getting late and I need to leave soon because I promised Model to go out with her tonight and she’ll be coming round to the house at about 10.30 to pick me up. It’s now 6 and it’s getting dark. Clooney and I have a short conversation about Billie Holliday and apparently there are a couple of songs made famous by her which he has never heard of. He becomes increasingly fascinated with me and invites me to his house to listen to some music. He promises that he’ll play the saxophone. A guy from the group, who happens to be his housemate tells me that he’s pretty good and that we should all go back to the house for more beers. I am warned of a third housemate that is annoying. I take up their invitation and tail Clooney’s car back to his house.
The house is in the middle of nowhere. No, actually it’s a bunch of houses all within the same compound. It’s made of wood, or at least it looks like it is made of wood. It kind of reminds one of houses on mountain ranges. It’s all very pretty. Back home they’d probably make them into hotels. But the house is still in the middle of nowhere.
Clooney and I listen to some jazz and drink some more beer. He jazzes it up on his saxophone. It was fucking awesome. I wish I could play the saxophone too. I hear shooting from the link between his room and the kitchen. Housemate 2 and 3 are firing a round with shotguns and they have a target which is about 200 metres away from the balcony link. They invite me to shoot a couple of rounds. I admit I suck balls at this shooting thing. So much for my sniper ambition. I would make a lousy sniper.
After about a half hour, I realise that I will be late to meet Model so I decide to fuck off. But fucking off was a major problem. It’s really dark and all the roads look the same. Worst still, there are no road signs that tell you where the damn highway or motorway is. I must have made at least six u-turns until I felt comfortable that it was the right way. And true enough, my instincts we correct. I got back onto State Highway 16 which would take me right back to the North Western Highway and back to Te-Atatu South.
Model came on time but I managed to have a quick coffee before she arrived. We go to this joint not too far away from the house. It turns out to be another Magaritas. I have to stop hanging out in teen boppy places. Luckily for me, most of them thought I was Model’s age and that’s a ripe old 19 years. Woo hoo! I am quite pleased with myself. I don’t drink much. Two beers and I was good to dance to techno. I feel ashamed and foolish, but all in good fun.
So in a span of about 16 hours, I visited and toured an abandoned hotel, whose owner bought me a drink, spent the afternoon and evening with a bunch of 40 to 50 year olds, played with shotguns and listened to jazz then hung out with a bunch of teenagers. And all the energy was derived from about 12 pints of Speights, 2 shots of Sambuca, one bag of chips and a banana. It’s all good I tell you.
Life is beautiful.
