And finally...

Before

After

Welcome to my last blog. I had intended to complete my scribblings on my antipodean adventures, but for reasons I shall explain I have changed my mind.

Writing the blog has forced a bit if discipline into my writing and I reckon I have a fund of about 150,000 words now to draw on should I complete my 75,000 word book. To date though there is little interest from the publishing world in a book about some middle aged bloke who takes a year out to do some exciting things. The rejection letters I receive from agents say roughly the same thing -' we feel it will be difficult to place a book of this kind given the current constraints of the market'. Without the hope of being published I need to use the time I have for writing to focus on projects that are more likely to bear fruit. For example, I am in the process of preparing a crime story for submission to a magazine called 'Crimewave'. Not all is lost though with regard to the book and a change of strategy is needed. I am now approaching publishers directly, or more specifically new publishers, as they offer most hope given their need to find new authors.

On a positive note, I recently published on here the first 10,000 words of said book. The same text was then submitted to Hull University as the final part of my Creative Writing Degree. The submission was well received and the mark I obtained was more than sufficient to gain me an award of First Class Honours. I'm not sure what doors such a degree might open, but it looks good on a covering letter when approaching publishers.

Apart from watching the dire World Cup, a lot of my time recently has been taken up with very pleasurable research. The terms of being given a place on their playwright course by Hull Truck Theatre are such that I have until the end of August to submit a play to them to consider and give me feedback on. Just as you can't write without reading so you can't create a play without going to the theatre. Thus, I have been cramming more theatre trips than usual into my schedule. The last was to see 'Cooking with Elvis' at Hull Truck. The advertising blurb didn't make the play sound very appealing, but it was one of the best and the funniest plays I have seen. A great script and a fantastic cast. If you live in or around Hull I urge you to catch this one before it goes. The play closes on Saturday 10th June.

I have also been paying visits to libraries and museums to research my own play. Originally one of the central characters was to be the spirit of a Native American. To create more local interest I have now set my play in Brough, on the shores of the Humber. In AD 71 the Roman Army crossed the Humber and settled in what was they called Petuaria. My new character is a rather randy old chap (well he's not had sex for nearly 2,000 years) called Marcus Ulpius Ianuarius, or Mikey to his mates. In real life Marcus was the magistrate for Petuaria. I am looking forward to bringing Mikey back to life over the next few weeks as I work on my play.

Looking back on the things I have been fortunate to do over the past year it is impossible to pick out a favourite. So many nice memories linger in my mind - the gentle mountain gorillas, the day on The Nile, walking up the Fox Glacier, climbing Sydney Harbour Bridge and of course doing the thing I always said I would never do - the bungee jump.

Do I have any more big adventures planned? Well, not on the scale of my trips to Africa, Australia and New Zealand. My cancelled trip to Hong Kong and Vietnam has left me 2 countries short of my target of visiting 10 countries that are new to me. To correct this I am taking a trip with my two sons next month. We are flying to Copenhagen, having a day out by rail in Malmo and taking the train for a stay in Hamburg. That way I add Denmark and Sweden to my list of 'new' countries.I also have a yen to travel coast to coast across the USA next year.

I am looking forward to cycling from coast to coast across England at the end of August. Following my collapse during the half marathon I have begun to cycle more and run less. It is really good fun and is so much kinder to my knees. I am drooling over a new bike in the local cycle shop.

I was asked recently what I thought was different about me following my year off. I concluded that I was less tolerant. The best thing about my life now is getting up in the morning and being the boss of me. I don't answer to anyone. In a perverse way, having more time has made me appreciate it even more. In the words of The Desiderata, I avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. I also avoid situations that I think will be boring or tedious. I seek out situations that are exciting or which I will learn from. That makes me sound very selfish and self-centred, but I would like to believe that I am simply focussed on making the most of my time on this wonderful planet. Twenty three years ago I had been married for just 5 months when my wife was involved in a dreadful road accident that left her scarred for life and forced her to give up nursing. I learned then that what seems important one second is irrelevant the next. Life can change in the blink of an eye. It is a lesson I have never forgotten. I don't need a heart attack or a cancer scare to remind me to cherish my life.

What has definitely changed is there is less of me and what remains is much fitter and active. I owe it mostly to Tesco Diets, an online slimming and fitness guide. Every week for 18 months I have been weighing in and leaving some comment about how the week has gone. In return I receive an email of support and advice from a nutritionist. Of course, there's more to it than that, but those weekly weigh-in have motivated me to keep going.

I lost a lot of weight and got fitter just to undertake my gap year. Since returning from New Zealand I have been able to lose more weight and train more often. I have reached my goal, which was to lose 3 stones. Tesco seem to be very proud of what I have done (as with most slimming clubs the majority of the clientele are ladies and male losers are rarer) and have made me a 'success story', which affords me free lifetime membership of Tesco Diets. They have also invited me for an all expenses paid day in London for a photo-shoot as one of seven big fat losers. I am quite stunned and thrilled by this.

Finally, thank you to those that have taken the time to follow my inane ramblings on here. If I have left any loose ends or you have any questions please leave a comment or email me at bryan.moiser@googlemail.com.

Live long and prosper,

Bryan and Wainwright.

Waitangi Day (Part 3)

A warm welcome - the young girls in the front row were from various backgrounds. Two of them were English and had only been in NZ for a year. During that time they had learned about Maori culture to then point where they were confident members of this group. In many way ways that is what Waitangi Day is all about.
My new brothers and sisters

Making our way onto the treaty ground I was drawn by the sound of singing and guitars that led me to a large group of Maoris in traditional costumes. They appeared to be suffering from a collective personality disorder. One minute the group were singing melodically, all warm and inviting. The next they were all making threatening gestures and poking their tongues out at me.

The women in particular fascinated me. Maybe it was their sheer beauty or maybe I was simply transfixed by the skilful way they swung their poi balls in time to the music. By the way, ‘poi balls’ is not a rude euphemism, even if they do always appear in pairs. They are balls held together by a piece of cord and swung in rhythmic and sometimes complicated patterns.

As my love affair with the Maori blossomed it was not enough to see them, I wanted to be one. So when the leader of the group invited people to join them on stage to sing and dance I was up there quicker than you can say ‘Waitangi Day’. Mercifully, the singing wasn’t very testing as it was more of a chanted melody and the dance steps were simple enough even for my two left size twelves. Sadly, I didn’t receive any offers of marriage from the beautiful women, but as the men shook my hand and thanked me for joining them I felt a little bit more Maori than I had at the start of the day.

My eagerness to join my new tribe combined with my English reserve robbed me of a one-off opportunity. I returned to my place on the grass in front of the stage and about 10 minutes later the group made a further invitation – they wanted men to join them in the Haka, the traditional Maori dance. The most famous exponents on the Haka are the All Blacks, the New Zealand Rugby Union team, as they perform it to frighten the crap out of their opponents before every match. Theirs is just one version of the dance, each tribe having its own rendition of the thigh slapping, eye bulging, tongue poking ritual.

I desperately wanted to join my new brothers in performing this iconic war dance. But, having already been on stage once, I didn’t want to appear as though I was hogging the limelight and foolishly I stayed put and allowed other middle aged men to steal the show. It was near the start of our trip and I reassuringly told myself that there would be another opportunity. There wasn’t.

After a wander around the treaty grounds and visiting the Treaty House, Pete and I made our way back to our car and drove further along the shore to our rendezvous with Dan, the kayak man.

Dan was a very slim, twenty-something, laid back and affable Kiwi who prepared us for the first of our New Zealand activities. We were joined by a young, Irish girl, whose name I could never catch. Sioboleenough, or something like that. She was 14 months into her world tour, having just spent 6 months in Australia and was about due to head over to South America next.

Suitably instructed and kitted out, the four of us took two double kayaks out into the gentle waters of the bay in the late afternoon sunshine. Our destination was a point about a mile distant where we beached the kayaks and then made a steep trek up through the woods. Waiting for us was Lindon, his dog and his beautiful vineyard.

What followed was an idyllic evening of wine tasting, cheese and biscuits and Lindon’s charming company as the sun set over the rows of vines around us and the bay beneath us. The wine was exquisite, although the vineyard was too small to make enough for export. One of the ‘must-sees’ Pete and I had excluded from our trip was the Marlborough wine region on South Island. Our hour or so with Lindon in his beautiful part of the land made up for the loss.

Lindon explained that this had once been Maori land but they found the soil too poor to produce crops. It was, however, perfect for growing vines and had been bought from the Maori for just two dollars and a couple of blankets. This information tested my loyalties. I liked Lindon and his wine, but here was a living example of the exploitation of my Maori brothers. I was very tempted to begin a protest march around the vines and maybe even crush the odd grape in defiance. Instead I reverted to being a British tourist and followed Lindon into his wine store where he did me a very good deal on a couple of bottles of delicious Pinot Noir.