Kamikaze Kangaroos!

by Tony James Slater

  And after the test drive, the mechanic friend (who I’d been picturing as a human-sized clockwork robot) crawled underneath to look at… well, whatever the hell it is knowledgeable people look at under there. Could be a doorway to Narnia, for all I know.

  He seemed satisfied. “One last run?” he requested.

  “Alright,” Sam said, “and then we’ll go and talk cash.”

  So they got back in, and Roo and I watched as they did donuts around the junction, screeching the tyres and burning some rubber. It was much harsher treatment than we’d ever subjected Rusty to, and I cringed, half expecting him to topple over. But no – he passed that test with flying colours too.

  They pulled up, and turned off.

  On a whim, the mechanic turned the key again, performing one last test-start, just to be sure.

  There was a click – and then silence.

  And for all I know, Rusty may never have moved again.

  We apologised profusely over pizza at a nearby restaurant.

  It had to be the immobiliser – we’d never had a problem with it before, but the symptoms matched. The timing was unbelievable. All I could think was the rough driving had shaken a wire loose somewhere. And now…

  We stared into our pizza boxes and waited for the verdict.

  “I was going to offer you $1300,” Sam said. “Because he needs a bit of work, and the roof rails are rusted through, so I’ll need to replace them to carry my surfboard rack.”

  “Mmm,” I agreed.

  Sam was silent and thoughtful for a long while. Then he spoke again. Roo and I braced ourselves for the worst.

  “And you know what? I’m still going to offer you $1300.”

  “What? Really!”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a mate who’ll come and reset the immobiliser. I’m sure that’s what it is.”

  “That’s incredible! Thank-you so much!”

  “No worries. It is an awesome van.”

  “You are so right!”

  The money changed hands – cash on the spot – and we filled out the paperwork over the last slice of pizza. Roo and I shook hands with the two guys, and we all went our separate ways. On foot.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Sam, as he left, “I just bought a car – and yet I’m going home on the train!”

  Roo and I walked home slowly, alternately laughing at what had just happened, and shedding tears about never seeing Rusty again. It probably sounds daft, to be crying over a car, but for all his idiosyncrasies Rusty had always been there for us. Together, we’d racked up well over thirty thousand kilometres.

  My relationship with Roo had started out on those cramped and awkward back seats.

  Hell, we’d racked up a few miles of our own in there…

  But we’d decided not to mention that during our sales pitch.

  I’d like to think Rusty is still out there somewhere, shuttling a bunch of gnarly surfing dudes to the beach at five in the morning to shred some waves. It would be a fitting retirement for a van of his experience. If he is out there, to his current owners – I salute you! And to Rusty – thanks for everything. You were a star.

  New Zealand

  Does anyone know where the hell Old Zealand is? Well, unless it’s amazing, the New version is way better.

  Okay, I just found out: it’s in Holland.

  Which is a lovely country, but rather flat, and so not an ideal place to take up snowboarding.

  Conversely, New Zealand is perfect for it.

  Before leaving Australia, we’d scoured the op-shops for cold-weather gear.

  Roo had bought a pair of near-new snowboarding pants from eBay. They were pristine, glacier-white, sexy as hell and a great bargain. They were also far too small – she could only fasten them whilst holding her breath, lost the ability to bend at the waist once they were on, and the last four inches of her ankles stuck out of the bottoms. But apart from that, they were great.

  “I’ll lose weight when we start snowboarding every day,” she pointed out, ignoring the fact that she was already borderline skeletal.

  “And you’ll lose height…?”

  “Big socks.”

  So that was settled, then.

  Our flights passed without a hitch, and almost before we knew it, there we were – on the bus from the North Island capital of Auckland, en route to the tiny ski-town of Ohakune.

  We certainly knew about the bus ride, though. It took six and a half hours, and has gone on record as the only bus journey in my life that I wished would last longer.

  The scenery we passed through was incredible. New Zealand is much, much bigger than most people think – bigger than the whole of the UK, in fact.

  And less people live there than live in London.

  Result? An endless expanse of raw, untamed, natural beauty. Miles and miles of rolling hills, snaking rivers, lush green forests – and always, on the edge of the horizon, the mountains. After the harsh, dry wilderness in the centre of Australia, seeing New Zealand for the first time was like a cool breeze of familiarity. We could have been driving through the most picturesque spots of England, Scotland and Wales – except that, we kept on driving. And the beauty, unspoiled and empty, didn’t end. The entire country was like this – a handful of pocket-sized cities with well-groomed, miniature suburbs – and nothing in between them but green, verdant paradise.

  I loved it.

  Roo loved it.

  Our eyes were glued to the windows of the bus, and we kept shouting “Ooh! Look at the river!” or “Wow, you can see the edge of the mountains…”

  I could write a whole book about how beautiful that landscape was.

  But it’d be a bloody boring read, so I’ll stop right there.

  We came to Ohakune just in time; the yearly rush on temporary accommodation was about to begin, when employees of the ski-field would fight tooth and nail over every room, loft, garage and out-house in town. Put simply, there wasn’t nearly enough of it; Ohakune was tiny, and for more than half the year less than a thousand people lived there. Around the beginning of June, the hordes descended; first the ski workers, desperate for affordable digs, and then the punters, who had no choice but to spend big in the hotel, the motel, the lodge – or the backpackers, which had the cheapest beds in town at around $80 per night.

  We struck it lucky, because we had an agent in town; her name was Gill, and by some amazing quirk of fate, her Australian visa had run out exactly three months before mine.

  Consequently, she’d been here for some time.

  It was a joyful reunion. I’d kicked Gill out hoping it was in her best interests; I’d hoped (and prayed) that she would spread her wings and soar, freed from my shadow and from having her every move determined by a three-way vote.

  And, after a slightly rocky start, she had done just that.

  She told us now about the fling she’d had in Adelaide with a travelling entrepreneur; she talked about the friends she’d made, blokes she’d met, and the Great Ocean Road trip she’d undertaken with a girl she knew from high school; she chattered on unstoppably about the Sting concert she’d worked on, the Chinese family she’d been adopted into and the bizarre turn of events which saw her representing an international designer at a fashion festival in Sydney.

  In short, Gill had transformed. She was still the kindest, friendliest, happiest individual on the planet – but now she had something else, too.

  She had confidence. She had the ability to rely entirely on herself.

  And she had a love-life.

  But that was none of my business, so I tried not to pry.

  Well, not much.

  Gill had found us a place to live for the ski-season, and had already signed a lease on our behalf. She knew we’d love it, she said – and she was right.

  A lovely old couple called Dave and Diane, living ten minutes walk from the staff bus depot, had a ‘sleep-out’ to rent. I guess we’d call it a granny flat, or a self-contained apartment. Loads of houses in New Zealand had them, pre
sumably because it’s so far between towns – you can’t visit anywhere on a day trip.

  Roo and I were delighted with the tiny, bright yellow room, just big enough for the double bed and a chest of drawers, on which rested the essentials; a kettle, a toaster and a microwave. Our landlords, who we referred to as The Hobbits because they were a matched pair at exactly five-feet tall, were generous to a fault. The only bathroom was in the main house, but our snug little abode had everything else we could want – including unfettered access to the hot tub, installed directly outside!

  Wow.

  Poor Gill had a rather more difficult time finding somewhere to live; three times she assembled groups of new arrivals, all keen to rent a place together. All three times the rest of the group signed into a place without her, after meeting other people or finding smaller houses.

  Two weeks in, with work long overdue to start, she was still living at the backpackers. They were going to raise their prices from ‘off-season’ to ‘on-season’ at any time – and from then on, she would be homeless.

  But, being Gill, she managed to stay positive.

  A week later we woke up to our first white morning. Work still hadn’t started, so we lazed around in bed and nearly missed it – but when Roo opened the door to the sleep-out, she instantly became five years old.

  “TONY! Tony Tony Tony! It’s SNOWING! Can we go out in it? Can we? Come on, get up, I WANNA GO OUT IN IT RIGHT NOW!”

  So we did. We spent the rest of the day introducing Roo to all the things I’d loved about Christmas as a kid.

  Starting with a snowball fight! Well, she didn’t realise it was a snowball fight for the first ten minutes, because my aim is so bad it took me that long before I hit her. And then she just thought I was being mean.

  “It’s so wet! And cold!”

  “Yeah, I know! Shall we go back in then?”

  “ARE YOU CRAZY?”

  So we spent the rest of the day romping around town, flinging ourselves into snowdrifts, trying to catch snowflakes, and laying in the middle of the road to make snow angels.

  By the time Gill found us, there was really only one thing left to do.

  We found a bench outside the local supermarket (which must have been the smallest shop ever to be granted that title), and we set to work building Roo’s first ever snowman.

  Gill and I were veterans at this, owing to the fact that neither of us have ever really grown up. We scooped fresh snow from the thick blanket all around us, and piled it up on the bench. A sitting snowman, it was decided, would give us the greatest chance to be artistic.

  While Roo worked away defining one arm, Gill was in charge of the head. She gave him her trademark big smiley face, with bottle tops for eyes. He looked very friendly. I’d been sculpting his left arm, and for a bit of variety I’d laid his hand in his lap. Then, for a bit more variety, I carved it into a rough approximation of a fist, and rolled a small snowball into sausage-roll-sized stump, which I added jutting out of the top.

  Finally, we all stood back to admire our efforts. Roo was the first one to notice something was amiss.

  “Is he… masturbating?”

  “I dunno,” I said, “but he certainly looks like he’s enjoying himself! Look at that grin!”

  Gill turned an exasperated look on me (it’s one she’s had plenty of practice with). “Tony, did you just give that snowman a snow-boner?”

  “I did! I figured, he’s all on his own, so he might as well play with himself…”

  “Oh God! We can’t take you anywhere.”

  Just then a gaggle of customers pushed their way through the supermarket doors.

  “Shit!” said Gill. “No time to do anything – leg it!”

  So we beat a hasty retreat down the road, and stopped to chuckle in the shade of the video rental shop.

  “Did you have to desecrate Roo’s first ever snowman experience?” Gill asked me.

  “Ssshhh!” Roo hissed. She was peering back down the road, listening intently. “They’ve found it!”

  All ears focused back towards the supermarket, where we could hear a woman saying, “Yes, he’s a very happy snowman, isn’t he?”

  “Mama, can I sit next to the snowman?”

  “Of course dear! Would you like me to take your picture with him?”

  “Ooh yes! Tell me when to smile, mama!”

  “Smile!”

  “Mama, why’s the snowman holding his pee-pee?”

  “OH DEAR GOD! Come away from there!”

  Our pornographic snowman lasted most of the week – penis and all – because the temperature in town was perfect for it, and the local kids must have found him amusing enough to leave him be.

  And because, even for the sake of decency, who’s going to touch a snowman’s pee-pee?

  Ruapehu Alpine Lifts

  Our first day of work was the source of much trepidation.

  As far as we knew, most of the staff did this all the time – some even followed winter around the world, moving from here to Japan, from there to Canada or the US, and from there to Europe. It was a way of life; working hard, partying harder, and hitting the slopes hardest of all.

  There was a lot to recommend it.

  But the job, predictably, wasn’t one of them.

  We showed up for the Staff Induction, all three of us together again. It was like old times, and as we were all ‘outdoor’ staff, we stayed together through the presentation about Mount Ruapehu’s history (it was used as Mount Doom in the Lord of the Rings films), and that pointless slideshow they always show you at the start of these jobs, where they tell you about every different job there is. Presumably to rub our faces in the fact that we’d picked the worst ones…

  Then we sat through the Q&A, and that’s where I got the first inkling of just how foreign a field we had stepped onto.

  Because everyone around us was asking questions – I didn’t understand one of them.

  “What about the rules on hot-laps?”

  “What’s the back-country policy?”

  “How deep is the base?”

  “How much snow do you make?”

  “How often do you bomb?”

  A-R-G-H.

  I was clearly in over my head. Again. This time in snow, which gave the appearance of being softer – but which, as any hardened snow-sports addict will tell you, was considerably more dangerous than it looked.

  Here then, for the uninitiated, are the answers to those questions:

  Hot-laps were banned for the first few weeks. It turns out, this is a clever trick used mainly by lifties, whereby they take it in turns to actually run the lift they’re working on – each person doing two people’s jobs, while their partner takes the lift to the top and skis or snowboards back down again. Then they take over running the lift while the first guy goes up. It’s a great way to get a sneaky bit of extra riding in, and is generally overlooked by bosses – so long as each person manning the lift is capable of running it on their own.

  I was not.

  Back-country was everything outside the boundaries of the ski-area; it was not to be trifled with, for fear of avalanches. The base (snow-depth) was two metres, but by the time we’d been there a while it rose to four (requiring much digging-out of cars and buildings in the process); snow was ‘made’ every single night, to supplement the snow that fell naturally – there were gigantic cannons stationed all over the mountain for this purpose, each capable of shooting tonnes of misted water skywards. The resulting snow was granular rather than powdery, but meant the mountain could be open for skiing whether it snowed overnight or not. And the bombs? These were exactly what they sounded like. Explosives, detonated by the expert ski-patrollers, to set off potential avalanches in a controlled manner.

  Whew! There was a lot to learn.

  Not about the job though.

  Our Lift Supervisor, who told us all to call him ‘Boob’, took us up, down and around every lift in the ski-field. We followed him like a string of ducklings, waddling
through the knee-deep snow, until by some minor miracle we found ourselves back at the base – a wet, sparsely furnished staff building called ‘Tor One’.

  “So now you know the lifts,” he informed us. “Bet you can’t wait to get started, eh? See you all tomorrow! And don’t drink too much tonight!”

  And that was it – just like that, training was over.

  I’d never pushed a button. I had only the flimsiest concept of how a ski lift even worked, much less how to fix one if something went wrong.

  I didn’t know radio etiquette.

  I didn’t know my job description.

  I didn’t know how many things I didn’t know – but one thing was for sure; there were plenty of them.

  “So, what do we actually do?” I asked the bloke sitting next to me on the staff bus taking us back down the mountain.

  “Search me,” he said, “I’m new here. I’m Keith.”

  We shook hands.

  “I’m Tony, nice to meet you. This is shaping up to be an interesting week!”

  The first part of the job was something I could understand – if not quite believe. The next morning we assembled in our staff room, did a quick roll call, then armed ourselves for combat and headed straight out again.

  Our opponents were the lift chairs, which overnight had turned into fantastic frozen sculptures. The relentless weather, coupled with dramatically sub-zero temperatures, transformed the humble steel and wooden frames into a series of massive ice-monoliths, layered and carved by snow and wind into intricate abstract shapes.

  They were breathtakingly beautiful.

  They were also a pain in the arse.

  Every chair was filled with ice, taking up the space where three or four paying customers would need to sit. Foot-long icicles hung in thick rows from every surface, sometimes melding together into trunks the size of a human leg. The steel cables groaned under the weight of it all, thousands of kilos of ice outweighing even the hundreds of customers who thronged the lift on a daily basis

  Our mission was to remove all this ice from the chairs – by beating the shit out of them with baseball bats!

  The bats were known as ‘yeti sticks’ – presumably because, in the instance of a mass-invasion by abominable snowmen, they would be our weapon of choice. What good they’d be against an eight-foot-tall science-defying monster was beyond me, but they worked a treat for their primary purpose, which was wilful destruction of company property.