SAAB

BY TAHI MOORE

Why did SAAB die? I don't know. No um GM bought them and made Opels that looked a bit like saabs or something like that and then um.. They use Fiat engines as well, and something to do with Cadillac Chassis. Now they're moving to Germany so they're promoting the Swedishness and the aeronautics. But also there's this thing now about the distinctive looks. This years models looks like last year's Holden. It's true. 4 wheel drive holdens. So I was cycling up a hill and saw a genereal motors saab red saab with a penis painted on it. It's true. Depressing. People say Subaru is the new saab. But GM is meant to be going down the toilet, or they've gone down the toilet but they haven't realised that yet. Yeah and Holden is GM Australia but I don't they're going down the toilet at all. I'm not sure if the same person took the photos or not. Maybe there's a set of guidelines.










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The Speedway Experience (International Midget* Series USA vs. NZ)

BY LYDIA CHAI

If you visited my home city, Kuala Lumpur, you would probably be struck by the comparative lack of hoons on the roads. Less roars of souped up cars, more drones of the likes of reliable Volvos, Beemers and Toyota Harriers.

Malaysians. We just don't have a need for speed. Wildly out of character, then, that I spent my Saturday evening at the Speedway, Western Springs!

Robert Crumb once described Harvey Pekar's life as being so ordinary as to verging on the exotic. In this vein, out of curiosity and fascination, I invited my Aussie ex-pat friend E. to check out the rubber-meets-dirt subculture with me.

The hoi polloi did not disappoint. Can we say full marks for ambiance? Consider this: a glorious afternoon with a lingering lilac sunset. Well-prepared oldies with their deck chairs, munching peanut-butter-on-celery-sticks. The smells of hot, fatty foods. Even the burnt petrol smelled sweeter than usual.

I scanned the terraces of heads for an audience demographic (though, this is pure guesswork):
Male/Female ratio: 50/50.
Old/Young ratio: 20/80.
Kids: Mostly boys.
Asians: 5.

If you ask me, the sprint cars stole the thunder from the midget cars. These are larger cars with Z-shaped wings on their tops so as to create downforce round the bends. They grunt more deeply and sound great, but someone needs to improve the aesthetic of those adhoc-looking wings.

The event culminated in a 50-lap midget car race with New Zealander Michael Pickens finishing first, but getting bumped to 3rd place for driving on the in-field a couple of times. 1st place thus fell on the cheeky American Brad Kuhn who had spent all 50 laps hot on Pickens' heels. The boos of nationalistic protest went past our Aussie and Malaysian heads.

I am no petrolhead, but if there ever will be a demolition derby, I am so there. I'll plant a tree today.

*referring to the cars, not drivers. I made that mistake, too.


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BY RYAN MOORE

No Pictures

BY SIMON DENNY

We had to give the car a bit of a clean as we had to give it back the next morning. We had a rather dodgy map but knew we were in the right area. There were no signs and after about an hour we were about to give up when Jon spotted it. It was dark by now but we managed to get a picture of it. After cooking up some food in the van we then went to the minus 5 degrees bar. We have a similar one in London. We were given big jackets and gloves. The bar is made all of ice, including the glasses. There were some really good sculptures in there but they would not let us take poictures. The novelty of being cold soon wore off and we went to another bar. There was a big casino in the centre of town. We had used their parking so we had to go inside (convenient for Jon) whilst Jon enjoyed the roulette I enjoyed the free hot drinks. We then had to find somewhere to stay for our final night in the van. It was late and quite a built up city so we settled on a relatively quiet road. I will miss our little moon roof we had, at night you can open it up and see lots of stars. I will not miss waking up and having to drive to the nearest toilet in order to pee though! The next morning we did just that and stayed parked up in order to get our stuff packed up. Jon noticed a hole in one of the mens cubicles (think Shameless, if you have ever seen that episode) and we noticed in the hour we were there that way too many men were using the cubicles. Bit much for a Saturday morning but we were sure we had stumbled accross a little hunting ground for Auckland's gay men.

We were running late for dropping off the van so we knew we would have to pay a $10 penalty which wasn´t much. Now, with this company you had to bring the van back clean. We could not find a car wash but had noticed brushes to clean windows and buckets at most stations. So, in true backpacker style we washed the whole van down with the window brush and rinsed it with a watering can. The man in the garage must have thought we were nuts and was giving us a confused look. When we went to take the van back half an hour late we found the office was closed. I called them and we were meant to take it to their office near the airport but no-one had told us, this meant we didn´t get charged for being late. So we drove there and I managed to pursuade a cab driver dropping someone off to take us to the airport cheaply. We were not due at the airport for another 3 hours but as we were close there was no point going back to the city. With 3 hours to kill before check-in we got a free shower and caught up on our diary.

Once checked in our flight was delayed by 2 hours which meant another 5 hours waiting around. They gave us a voucher which we spent in the bar, well what else is there to do in an airport. I felt rather merry when we finally got on the plane!



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Weathering Christmas on the way to Waiheke

BY MARCUS STICKLEY

"Return ticket on the 11 o'clock sailing to Waiheke, please,'' I said, trying to sound bright and awake despite feeling about as grey as the brooding clouds over Hauraki Gulf that were waiting to rain.

I handed over $30 cash I got $1.50 back.

The square of paper I was giving in exchange was clipped as I stepped onto the gangway to the half-full Fullers ferry at the terminal in Auckland City.

Even with the wind up, and rain threatening, I was going to sit outside on the top deck. I needed plenty of fresh air and room to move should the need to heave over the side win the mind-over-matter battle raging in my body.

Sea sickness had never been a problem for me. Even in my worst Cook Strait crossing, where glasses were smashed at the bar and every other person had their colour-drained face in a bag, I hadn't been fazed. I even enjoyed it.

But the night before had gotten heavy. At a music industry Christmas party free drinks were flowing and there were old friends and friends I'd forgot I had to catch up with.

While I was feeling the after effects of all the cheer, I boarded with a group of corporate who were just warming up for a day I suspected they would indulging the Christmas spirit at the Island's wineries. On their excursion a spikey, silver-haired Santa was wearing a sports coat and jeans with his big red sack.

Sitting in an uncovered section of the top deck with me were a group of women made-up with bug-eyed sunglasses who moved for shelter from the blustery wind soon after we pulled away from dock.

I stayed on with a few other blokes and tucked my baseball cap into my backpack to avoid it being whipped away.

Also on the top deck was a cameraman who on our stop at Devonport was joined by a soundman carrying a mic and boom. On the way to the island they shot a passing ferry and some panoramic views.

By the time the boat past Rangitoto my head was starting to clear. The sky was not. It was unsettled, like my stomach. Those scrambled eggs I had for breakfast were in need of some reinforcement.

Two women and a male companion sat in the seats immediately around me, sauvignon blanc's in hand, having just been down to the little onboard cafe/bar. One said she's spilled her glass three times already and struggled to light a cigarette as she crouching for cover behind a row of seats.

Just as get up to find out if there is a steak pie at the cafe counter the ferry's engines drop a gear – we were at the island only 35 minutes later.

Even on a bad day the sailing seemed smooth, spilled wine and self-inflicted pain aside.


Marcus Stickley moved from Auckland three years ago and sometimes misses it, especially the rock'n'roll. He now lives in the South Island.



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