Blast from the past

Jacks Point golf club, with the Remarkables range

"You have been here before," the restaurant manager said mysteriously.

The restaurant is the heart of a golf club and high-end housing development near Queenstown where my parents have made their home.

The manager, a friendly, outgoing type from Poland, supervises a polyglot staff drawn from many nationalities, including several Asians who work in the kitchen or wait tables, he told us proudly.

The golf club at Jacks Point

He greets and farewells diners to the restaurant, attached to a golfing supplies and fashion store, like a pro.

While I  had indeed been there before, it was in fact my first visit in 10 years.

The last time I was there, my parents had only just moved into their place on the hills at Jack's Point about five minutes away.

It was barely developed, as they were among the first residents; unlike today, 10 years later, when I saw perhaps hundreds of houses nestled in the hills. With the majestic Remarkables mountain range as a backdrop, they look down on the golf club and sweeping golf greens wrapped around Lake Wakatipu. How about that for a view?

Earlier, while waiting for lunch to arrive, I sat on a small wooden wharf-like structure jutting into the lake outside the restaurant.

I recall the last time we visited: my parents, sisters, their families and I took an outside table for lunch.  My young nephews and nieces ran about happily as the adults mused on life.

Today, it was just Mum and Dad, and we dined indoors, though I was to see my sisters later in the week in nearby Wanaka, where the older of the two girls has bought a large home.

Their children, the same ones who ran about the place 10 years ago, are now grown up, with only one still attending school; the others are studying at university or have entered the workforce.

Side view of the golf club at Jacks Point

My parents told me later that our ties as a family to this part of the snowy southern alps in New Zealand go back even further than I realised.

"More than 40 years ago we visited NZ with you kids for the first time and took a boat to have lunch at Walter Peak, which you can see there to the west of the lake," they said.

"We liked NZ so much we decided to move here in the early 1980s," they added, when we swapped our old lives in Sydney for a new one in Christchurch, about six hours away from Queenstown.

My Polish friend was right: I had been there before.

The jetty where I did my musing

As I sat musing over the lake, I could have been looking at reflections of myself on that boat trip: a boy aged in his mid-teens who could not suspect back then that his family's life would remain entwined with the southern lakes district for decades to come.

The elder of my two sisters has bought a second home in Wanaka, about 90min from Queenstown, where she hopes to move by the end of the year from her main home in Auckland.

Lake Wanaka

My other sister lives in nearby Dunedin, about 3.5 hours away, but takes regular skiing trips to this part of the South Island, which she knows well.

My family and I packed a lot into my 10-day stay. My sister H, who is big on fitness, took me down lengthy running tracks and on brisk mountain walks.

Sister H, Mum out for a walk

I tried out an e-bike for the first time on the hills around my sister S's place in Wanaka. We visited historic Arrowtown, and drove through the Millbrook golf course. 

We tried fishing for salmon at the lake-to-plate fishing restaurant Hook (no luck, unfortunately); and for a little quiet reflection headed to a specular pebble beach by Lake Hawea.

H knows these stamping grounds well, providing a background commentary about friends she knows, places she goes when she's in town.

My parents have also immersed themselves in the area since their move, as has my sister S since she bought her home in Wanaka.

That leaves me the odd one out: so what is it about ski resort towns and spectacular mountain scenery that I don't like?

Old clippings from my mystery box

"We have an old box of your things here which surfaced during our move."

That was my parents, on a recent Google Meet call, shortly before I travelled to see them in NZ.

An old box of fading papers which I had last rifled through 25 years ago, I suspect, when I first left NZ for my new life in Thailand.

I put a bunch of papers in a white stationery box and forgot about them.

When I was at their place in Jack's Point, I took a closer look. The box contained old news clippings from my time as a reporter in Christchurch, some of which I can't recall ever writing.

I also found legal papers dating from my split with my former partner, and documents related to the sale of our house shortly before I left.

More interestingly, I unearthed old emails between her and her chat friends talking about her affair with the man who was to marry her.

They look tacky, even now, but I have taken pictures of a few of them to illustrate this post - for old time's sake!

A collection of awful chats...

I also found an old cartoon of me which the resident cartoonist at my last newspaper drew to accompany a feature story I wrote about a men's support group with whom I spent a challenging weekend on the outskirts of Christchurch.

I am reposting it here, partly because it's one of the few pieces I wrote for which I still have an online record (the others were clippings), and because the cartoon bears a good likeness to the hairy, bespectacled young guy I was back then.

As for the other stuff, those tatty memories can go back in the box for another 25 years!

Pushing the comfort zone

A cartoon's rendition of me attending the weekend

Intro

This feature piece about a testing weekend I spent with a men's support group, which I wrote for my old paper in Christchurch, New Zealand,  was accompanied by moody pics of candles, incense and blokes around a campfire in a forest-like setting. It also came with the cartoon you see above.

The organisers were a secretive lot. They wouldn't let the photographer get too close and in fact didn't tell the other participants that I was taking part as a reporter, observing and recording them. 

We agreed that I was to pretend to be just another man on the weekend course, without disclosing my real identity. Needless to say, they were shocked to read the story when it appeared. 

When I turned up at a follow-up meeting a few days later, I came under heavy attack from partipants and organisers alike. The men who ran the workshop — the hairy-chested courage they exhibited during the weekend's bonding rituals having suddenly deserted them — minimised their own role in inviting me and suggested I strayed beyond my brief. 

No doubt they wanted an air-brushed look at the often grueling rituals and self-abasing routines which made up men's encounter groups in those days. Too bad!

A new-age bloke in no-man's land

Published 29/9/98

Christchurch Press

Michael R takes a deep breath and ventures out on a 'men's weekend' for a serious, soul-baring encounter with his inner self.

Taking part in a men's weekend sorts the tough guys from the pretenders. Were it not for the wellspring of emotion trapped within, just bursting to get out, no right-minded bloke would take part. At its worst, this is an emotional self-flagellation which pushes the boundaries of the personal "comfort zone'' to stretching point.

It's that sly awareness that most of us have so much more to offer to the world — we just need help getting to the good bits, deeply suppressed as they are — that keeps us going. Inhibitions such as shyness have no place. Things can turn boisterous at any time. That's a very blokey thing, of course, but in this context vigorous activity takes the scary form of anger workshops and rebirthing techniques, rather than hairy-chested physical exertion.

Rituals set apart this type of manly endeavour from the sweaty, muscle-bound sort: from symbols of one's manhood (taking pride of place on a makeshift "altar'') to hand-holding, group hugs, and chanting. Women are part of the problem, of course — all that nitpicking and nagging can get a man down. 

Slagging women is not the purpose of this exercise, however: it is to reclaim one's masculinity, from whatever dark place it has been consigned. Some men lost that essential something in early childhood trauma; others in bad marriages or career hassles.

On this weekend, run by the Men's Trust of Christchurch, 34 blokes come together. No alcohol is allowed. Watches are left at the gate. If a bomb went off we'd be the last to know.

The staple diet of men's talk — safe and familiar ground such as sport, work, the weather — will no longer do. That, we are told derisively, typifies a "level one'' conversation — the merely functional. We are to aspire to level three — that's where we get to hug each other and feel good about it.

We'll have to invent a new language to explore that no-man's land of social interaction — feelings. There is much talk of "pushing the buttons'' (anger), and getting in your head space.

A silent trek through the bush to the meeting house at Bellbird Heights, on Banks Peninsula at Living Springs, is foreboding. The night-time march takes place to the primitive thump of jungle drums. 

Living Springs, where the weekend was held

Candle flames waver. Incense lies thick. New Age music creeps about.

Something begins to stir, and it's fear. I appear to be entering the clammy embrace of a cult. What have I done? How do I get out of here?

Form a circle, we are told. Join hands. Breathe deeply, connect. Now, get up in front of everyone and introduce yourself. Do a silly dance.

To those of us who express emotions through physical gestures, this comes easily, like play antics at a football game. For the wordsmiths among us who take shelter behind intellect, it is not so simple. I'm Michael, I say, stepping into the circle. Modesty forbids anything more extravagant.

Guided by members of the "core group'' (the people in charge), men reply loudly and in unison: 

"Welcome Michael, Michael, Michael!'' Some have done this before. "Ho!'' one says, with emphatic closed fist. To the uninitiated, he is showing approval — a kind of Freemason's handshake. Men are invited to say why they came along. Some have horrible stories. Before the night ends men are dancing and singing together in a fetid, heaving circle. We start to chant. This religious-style droning is magnificent: with so many powerful voices our sounds take on a life of their own.

Another shot of Living Springs

Men do not shrink from touching each other, I note, although ideally this is in "approved'', non-threatening ways. We are shown positions in which we may safely hold one another, such as the cradling position.

Then there are the group hugs — little clusters that pop up spontaneously, like spawning sealife. Stumbling upon one of these can be a shock. Early on, I discover that some eager types will pounce panther-like, with arms outstretched, so keen are they to bond. One of these guys is ticked off before the group for being too "intense'', too keen to flash his credentials. The ones who get in your face, your personal space, invariably have bad breath. One cannot help turning away. A little voice criticises me: the point, Michael, is to open up.

Sleeping quarters

We wake to the maddening drums, a kind of Boy Scout reveille. The cubicle showers contain unspeakable horrors: black hairs in the soap; men honking their noses, animal-like. Men are surprisingly modest: a queue forms outside the showers, each of which is firmly locked shut.

Later, we present the symbols of what it means to be a man. I choose Shakespeare: plenty of Boy's Own stuff, I say, married with beautiful language. 

This hardly gets a second glance. One guy, a builder by trade, brings an enormous nail gun: to him, it represents power and strength, and something about fertility. Later, conversation turns to sex. Interestingly, the issue of orientation hardly comes up. Most talk is about performance and how considerate we should be (message: think of yourself, not just your partner).

That afternoon, the group splits into two for a rebirthing workshop and exercises in anger management. For the latter, three techniques are on offer. One can kneel down and pummel a mattress; tackle an upturned mattress; or lie on one's back and throw a tantrum. I try the first and second. I attack with vigour but say little. A quiet one, onlookers think . . . obviously too inhibited.

One of my colleagues is much more adventurous: he tries all techniques, in a spectacular display of aggression that goes on for half an hour. By its end the man is physically exhausted, sweating, and with bleeding hands. Next door, someone is revisiting painful childhood memories in deep, convulsing sobs. Both are trying to rid themselves of demons, and probably need an audience to do so.

Is it uplifting, or merely embarrassing? Fidgeting in the sunlight of a new day, it is easy to dismiss such behaviour as extravagant, self-indulgent. Deep down, I know I witnessed something moving: the ghastly things that lurk within, and the heroic lengths some will go to exorcise them.

Still, most of us have wobbly knees. Our newly found manhood is emerging like a butterfly from a chrysalis. As New Age blokes we are sensitive about our tender manhood. Humour helps relieve the tension. The exercise gives one man a headache: an avowedly gay guy, ever the wag, quips: "But I haven't asked you yet!''

So potentially life-changing is the bonding and sharing thing that, before leaving, men are warned not to make any big decisions for at least a month. At a follow-up meeting on Wednesday, men say they had a tough time keeping the car on the road. Some had trouble getting on with family and friends. Most were distracted, head-achy, bewildered.

Don't forget to bond

As ever, there are moments when a serious exercise slides into farce. Some say they had noticed a richer timbre to their voice; and, sure enough, they appear to be speaking with deeper, more resonant tones (Timberrrr!). One says he is more aware of how his wife smells, and the different smells that hang around men.

God help us. As for me, one guy says he is still wondering how to get through my brick wall. Most agree, however, that I am more relaxed.

Having stretched myself admirably over the weekend, I make further inroads against shyness by going dancing for the first time.

Mr Handsome returns

A regular contributor to this blog back in its heyday was Mr Handsome, a young gay Thai living in Bangkok.

When he started writing for the blog in late 2006, he had finished his studies and was taking his first steps into the adult world.

I cannot recall how we met (we never managed to do so in person), but we kept up regular email correspondence while our online friendship lasted.

At the time I provided a English translation to accompany his Thai, though I no longer have the English, as I deleted the posts that appeared on this blog.

Going through old emails, however, I found I still have his original pieces in Thai, and would like to repost them here.

His writing could be caustic, entertaining  and witty, as regular readers noted at the time.

He was a natural talent, and enjoyed sharing his stories. I am not sure if he ever showed his writing to his Thai friends, but Mr H was seldom short of story ideas, and could surprise me with some of the topics he chose.

A prolific contributor, Mr Handsome penned over 50 stories between December, 2006, with an opening piece about his quest to find a boyfriend, and June 2008, when he wrapped up his contributions with a story on Camfrog.

The first of his posts is here. I will put up the others gradually over the next couple of months, under the Mr Handsome label.

Note: Thanks to this site for the Chinatown pic. Most of the images which will illustrate his posts are unrelated, though in a few cases I have found pics which pertain to the subject matter, such as the films which Mr H reviewed back then.

Visit to the shaman (5, final)

Final glimpse of the offerings plate, with my worried partner in the background

Talking about the encounter later, I adopted the phrase "witch doctor" (หมอผี) to describe Mor Sawaeng. I was speculating aloud whether he sends a cut of his earnings as a shaman back to Mor Joe, who sent him our trade after all.

I also wondered why Mor Sawaeng's boss at the restaurant puts up with his frequent excursions into the carpark to perform his ritual over customers, and also the fate of the alcohol, which we left there unopened with him. 

Perhaps it finds its way into the Chinese dishes on offer at his restaurant, or maybe the cooks knock it back together out the back.

Maiyuu said that if I was being polite, I should call him a mor peun ban (หมอพื้นบ้าน), which translates as traditional doctor. This is a more innocuous phrase, of course, but also helps salve my partner's bruised ego, after he regretted leading us on this silly expedition.

Later, as I mused over whether I should feel upset at having parted with a stupidity fee (ฝรั่งเสียค่าโง่) as the Thai rather bluntly puts it, or the cost of my own ignorance, Maiyuu suggested we should see the encounter with Mor Sawaeng and his enabler Mor Joe in a more positive light. 

The day's expenses, which came to over 1,000 baht including the teacher's fee, alcohol and taxi fares, were really the price of buying a new experience (ค่าประสบการณ์), said charmingly.

However, Maiyuu admits he should have thought about the expedition more carefully. "I panicked, but I was worried about your condition," he said, wearing a sorry look.

It's not as if we were not warned what was coming, in a roundabout way at least. As I left Mor Joe's place for the taxi, he uttered some parting words which puzzled me at the time: "Never mind, we all have to help each other in this life."

I can see now that he was referring to his mate Mor Sawaeng, to whom he was sending a "referral", courtesy of our own gullibility.

Never mind, indeed. I learned from the experience, and enjoyed meeting Mor Sawaeng, warm, ebullient soul that he was. I hope your days are plenty and prosperous, if I may offer a prayer of my own in return.

I am sure they will be, if Mor Sawaeng indeed is treating a constant procession of needy types from the provinces in search of low-cost cures for shingles  as he says. The cost of seeing an ordinary doctor, in our case, would have been much cheaper.

As a postscript, I should add that I realised on the way back in the taxi what was really causing my red spots: an allergic reaction to clothes washing liquid. I wash some items in a bucket, slothful person that I am, and in my haste to get the items into the sun, forget to rinse properly. I passed this news on to Maiyuu, who looked relieved to have a more likely explanation of what ailed me. 

Since our misbegotten adventure to Phaya Thai, we are now converts to modern medicine. Maiyuu has bought some conventional lotion for inflammatory dermatoses, which he applies to my body at night before bed. The red spots are fading nicely.

He has also replaced our clothes washing liquid with a softer mix tailored to children and which is less likely to inflame my skin. It has a great scent, I am happy to report. 

Maiyuu knows my habit of rinsing clothes inadequately in my humble bucket, which I keep in the bathroom, is unlikely to change, so buying products suitable for kids rather than adults is the best way to keep me safe. How apt, I thought. Now I can stop pretending I am grown up.

Visit to the shaman (4)

The offerings plate: alcohol, a few baht for the monks, leaves, dry herbs

No, as it turns out. Mor Saeang placed the bottles of alcohol on a plate, one each for me and Maiyuu, who also underwent a similar ritual for a persistent viral complaint in his eye, for which he takes ordinary meds. 

Mor Sawaeng said a prayer for him too, just as he did me, to drive the virus away, just in case his meds fail to work.

Alongside the bottle of alcohol, Mor Sawaeng dropped a few leaves and, from a grubby bag in his pocket, some dry herbs, no doubt to add some spice to his cure. He also asked us to donate a few baht for local monks, and had us hold up the plate close to head level as if making a sacrifice to the gods. 

In my case I had to accomplish this with one hand, while holding up my shirt with the other, so he could blow on my red spots.

So how did it go? "Gibber gibber gibber....pause...blow, up and down the body."  Be careful not to miss any red spots, my health may depend on it. I made sure to keep quiet as he chanted, lest the health gods not be amused.

Forgive me if I can't recall the words of his mystical Buddhist cure. I don't do Esan, though I swear I heard the Thai word for diabetes (เบาหวาน) thrown in there. 

He blew on me a lot, and I admit I enjoyed the experience. I can hardly wear my sceptical foreigner's hat after such an event, as I happily took part in the ritual, even when the outline of what was to follow started to take shape and I realised he was not a real doctor at all.

When the chanting ended, Mor Sawaeng told us not one, but multiple times, that practitioners such as himself  do not charge for dispensing their wisdom, but merely suggest we leave a teacher's fee. 

"It's up to you how much you give," he said, smiling. 'but people come from all over the country to see me for a cure."

Maiyuu parted with 500 baht, or 250 baht for each of us, as we both recevied a prayer while holding up our booze plate. 

I went first, followed by Maiyuu, who managed the plate more adeptly than I did, and offered a graceful prayer to the spirits as Mor Sawaeng did his thing. The way Thais have with their hands when they pray; it's an unfailingly beautiful thing to watch.

My ritual, if I can call it that, lasted longer, perhaps because I was the main attraction, reporting with "shingles" as I did. 

That said, Mor Sawaeng looked surprised when he came out to greet us and realised that I was a farang. I am sure few foreigners seek him out for his cures, no matter how grand his reputation might be. They would rather place their faith in modern meds, but there you are.

now, see here