Womad 2014: A Cracker

I was 12-years-old the first time I went to Womad. I cried when my parents told me that I had to go with them. 

My 12-year-old self despised the thought of spending three days listening to World music and dancing with dirty looking, harem pant-wearing people. But obviously, I had little say in the matter and had to go anyway. To my surprise, I loved every minute of it and vowed to one day return to the quirky and eccentric New Plymouth festival. But I would never submit to the harem pant wearing culture.

Fast-forward to 2014 and now aged 21, I decided fulfill that vow by attending Womad’s tenth anniversary festival. I packed my sleeping bag, left my shoes at home and prepared to forget to shower for the next few days. Despite the looming presence of Cyclone Lusi, myself and 44,000 others made the long journey to the  - very far away from everything but very beautiful – Taranaki region for a weekend of music, art and culture.

Ode to the Night Train

As we stumble carefully through the Thai country-side we suddenly start to understand what it means when poets and parents and people who look down on us 

all swear that it's not about the destination

 but about the times that we have while getting there. 

Up until now such prose has been nothing more than melancholy cliche

but there's something in this warm oriental evening that turns our heads and bites at us as if to say 

'you will never quite make it, but that is beside the point'. 

As this freshly apparent truth starts to sink in we grow silent in the realisation that the utopia we yearn for is already here 

and that paradise is in the now 

and no matter how many years we live, nothing will ever be as good as what we are  living in this exact moment. 

The journey; 

the freshness of youth; 

the liberating freedom that is the search. 

Golden

Sometimes I feel golden.
I'm a glimmering speck floating through space and time. 
A tiny gold star in a far away but beautiful patch of the sky.

In these moments I am absolutely certain that nothing 
– not life nor death, not hunger or nakedness, 
not heartbreak nor all the misfortune in the world - can stop me. 

In these moments I do not merely feel strong or courageous,
 but I am all together certain that I am nothing short of invincible.

These moments usually come late in the day.
 As the sun prepares to clock out something in my veins begins to radiate
 and the sensation takes me over.

In the dead, grotesque, empty areas I rapidly come back to life. 

I feel as though the soon-to-be-sleeping sun sees me. 
And I have not a doubt that she understands how I feel. 
Taking pity on me she casts a spell upon my soul 
and she watches with pride as my eyes once again begin to sparkle 
and the hairs on the back of my neck start to dance 
in a frenzy of excitement.

All at once the sky explodes, my mind following in it’s nuclear path 
and now all I can think of is the fact that we are young and free 
and if God is for us then who in the world can possibly stop us.

I start to breathe deeper than I ever have before, 
gulping and gasping selfish and glutinous breaths. 
Visions of the night ahead flash through my young mind 
and at once I understand that for this night there is no map, 
no plan, no prescribed method. 

For this night there is only freedom 
and there is nothing in the world that could not or may not take place
 if we so will it.

As I watch the sun sinks deeper into the rich, warm earth. 
My heart races ever faster and my skin burns ever hotter.

As the great lady of the sky retires into darkness, my mind is further illuminated. 
It’s as if she’s decided to lend me her glow for the night 
 - a blessing far too great to ignore.

I hop into the car, start the engine and drive quietly into a great perhaps.

My friend, these are the golden days.

Yellow

Yellow ran through our hot blood

on the day that we shouted “piss off” and “get lost”

to school, and parents, and mowing the neighbour’s lawns

for fistfuls of loose change and cold glasses of orange raro.

Yellow flashed in our eyes

as we escaped towards the freedom of Manu Bay,

my fresh drivers license tucked safely into the glove box

and Fat Freddie’s Drop bursting from the tinny speakers

of Davie’s 1987 Toyota Corolla.

Yellow possessed us like a friendly demon

and took us far from home,

where the ocean stood down dusty pine tracks.

We came to rest under a pine tree by the sea and Davie said

 “it’s not that great” and I said

“neither is home”

and we both laughed our possessed laughs.

 Yellows’ shine beat down upon back and bone,

but somehow, the first burn of summer never came.

Yellow became a thing of recklessness without consequence,

a thing of carelessness without the aftermath.

It was not crimson or violent or inflamed or scalding,

It was golden and passive and lovely and glowing.

Yellow was warm sand on toes,

cold sand on sleeping bags.

It was the pages of the phonebook being torn by bold hands

with bright faces and dancing eyes.

It was a thing of moments of ecstasy without artificial stimulant

- because there was nothing artificial about yellow.

Yellow became the God of those who abandoned comfort

to doze like dogs down by the fire side.

It grew strongly in those whose eyes opened with the tides.

And somehow, we knew that those who lay safely tucked in the heat of their tight beds would never even catch a glimpse of yellow’s beauty

- and we pitied them. 

Image: concreteplayground.com.au

Secondhand Junkie

As I walk into the fluorescent lit room, palms sweating, my worn down $2 sandals scuff the ancient lime green lino. A small crowd of ‘junkies’ turn to watch me enter, as my sponsor pulls a hard, plastic chair into the circle for me to sit on. I park my backside onto the chair and as I sit, the zip of my 50c skirt stabs me in the lower back. Eight expectant faces stare at me. As I open my mouth the saliva suddenly drains away. “Hi, my name’s Almaz and I’m a secondhand junkie”.

At this point in the daydream I shake myself awake, refocus my blurred vision and head towards the counter of my friendly neighborhood Salvation Army to purchase that ‘must have’ cardigan that screams ‘previously owned by an 85 year old man’. 

Bottega Louie: A Diamond in the rough

I'm not going to lie, downtown Los Angeles is not my favourite place in the world. Over all it's smelly, dirty and actually a wee bit dangerous. But ask any LA native about the best place to satisfy your sweet tooth and the answer will be unanimous - downtown Los Angeles may be a bit shabby, but downtown's Bottega Louie is most definitely a diamond in the rough. 

Cancun: Paradise on a budget

Mexico is well known for its tequila, moustaches and trigger-happy drug lords. Sadly, many people focus on the negative side on Mexico, forgetting it is actually an awesome travel destination that is rich in culture and history.

During a visit to the United States last year, my sister and I spontaneously decided to head down to Mexico and we were lucky enough to discover Cancun - one of the safest and most beautiful cities in Mexico. Cancun is a vibrant city in southeastern Mexico, located on the Caribbean Sea. With its idyllic beaches and warm tropical climate, Cancun is a favourite holiday destination for thousands of tourists every year. One of the great things about Cancun is that a lot of locals speak English, making it easy for kiwis to explore this exciting city.