by Rob Maylor
Throughout my apprenticeship, Craig and I continued to knock around together even though we had separate careers. One day he invited me on a pig-hunting trip with a mountain of a man called Jim Hales. He had a tattoo of a star in the web of each hand and slicked-back hair. He had a very tough looking exterior but he turned out to be a lovely bloke.
He too had a New Zealand Army and boxing background and was as strong as an ox. In his pig-hunting prime around Tokoroa, he was reported to have carried two pigs out of the bush at a time. I’m guessing he would wear one like a backpack by tying its legs together and then drape the other over the top–quite a feat considering the pigs weighed from 30 to 70 kilos each.
Our first hunt took us to a private property just outside of Kaiaua, on the eastern flats of the Hunua ranges not far from South Auckland. Jim had two working dogs for tracking and bailing up the quarry–Adam, a bloody nut case, and a labrador/pit bull cross which resembled a fit looking lab with a large head. I can’t remember what her name was but I eventually ended up with Sid, one of her pups.
Anyway, off we went and soon, legs pounding and lungs burning, Craig, Jim and I were nearing the crest of a steep and heavily vegetated hill when in the distance we heard, ‘Yap! Yap! Yap!’
Feral pigs are very strong and are as hard as nails; they can carve a dog up with their razor-sharp tusks quite easily. They use them to gore and cut like a pair of scissors. The dogs hang onto the pig’s ears to hold its head down, which stops it from running off, but either way it’s a little too close to their adversary’s weapons. We had to get there quick.
Over the crest and running down the steep hill, it wasn’t long before my body started to travel faster than my legs. I could see where the ground dropped away in the distance and tried to stop. I was kidding myself! I tried to grab a Ponga trunk (a tall native fern) to stop me, but on impact the rotten trunk exploded into dust and I kept on going, straight off the small cliff landing face first in the soft undergrowth.
Craig who was behind me, fell over with laughter. Jim just kept on running towards the commotion. I picked myself up, quickly threw a few obscenities at Craig and continued with the chase. The barking became louder, and suddenly through the thick green foliage we could see the two dogs had a nice looking Captain Cooker bailed up in the creek line. It was a sow, 40 odd kilos. ‘Good eatin’ size,’ Jim said as he burst through undergrowth and crashed the 2 metres into the trickling creek.
He rapidly closed onto the rear of the black feral animal; with the dogs at the front, he grabbed its back legs with huge hands that looked like a bunch of bananas and twisted the sow so she fell on her back; knife in hand and with a swift movement Jim had severed the carotid artery and cut into the trachea. Brightly coloured blood pumped by a rapidly beating heart gushed and bubbled from the throat. We watched on as her movements became gradually less aggressive until she lay still.
It took Jim only seconds to show us how to dress the animal and prepare it for carriage out of the bush. He tied the trotters of each side together with baling twine and turned it into a very heavy and uncomfortable pack. Craig was first up to start the extraction of our Sunday roast and it wasn’t long before Craig’s back, bum and the tops of his legs were covered in blood from the carcass. He did extremely well to carry it as far as he did, then with great relief Craig handed over the ‘backpack’ to me. ‘Fuckin’ hell, this is heavy!’ I muttered under my breath. It wasn’t long before I was in the hurt locker but I wasn’t going to show the other two that I was struggling. It was about 3.5 kilometres to Jim’s home-made VW ute but the terrain for the first 2.5 kilometres was through pristine native rainforest as thick as jungle. There were times when I would walk 3 metres uphill, but then slip back five; I’d pick myself up and give it another crack.
Downhill presented different challenges as it was quite treacherous under foot and I took a few bruises to the back of my head where the pig’s jaw cracked me every time I fell backwards. All the time both front trotters were putting direct pressure on each clavicle, and my legs started to tire by the minute. ‘Surely we aren’t far from the car by now!’
When we broke out of the bush and onto the rolling cleared pastures I could see how far away Jim’s ute was. 1 kilometre to be exact, but it seemed bloody miles away! Jim let me struggle for about another 500 metres before he took the pig off me. I did say, ‘Nah, it’s okay mate, I’ll take it.’ But Jim insisted; he was probably concerned about the painful look on my face. But I reckon it was a personal test of his to see if I was tough enough to be invited back.
Jim threw the pig onto the wooden tray at the back of the ute and strapped it down with more bailing twine. Even though it had gone four in the afternoon, we sat on the grass next to the VW and ate our cut lunches. Jim asked me where should we hunt next weekend. I had passed the test!
I continued to hunt with Craig and Jim as often as I could until I travelled to England. Jim was an absolutely magic bloke and very down-to-earth; he called a spade a spade and if he said he was going to do something he would. One time he got sold a dud from a dodgy car yard; they told him that if he wasn’t satisfied with it over the weekend to return it and they’d give him his money back.
When he did they welshed on the deal. Jim said, ‘If you don’t give me my money back I’m going to drive the car through your showroom window.’ The salesman didn’t take him seriously. He should have. Jim drove the ute through the huge glass window, hitting a couple of cars before he stopped. The mechanics from out the back heard the crash and came out to investigate then started to fight with Jim. Bad idea. He knocked most of them out.
The court found Jim guilty and ordered him to pay $10,000 in damages, but he was an absolute champion. He died while he was out hunting. He was in his late 70s. He just keeled over and died out in the bush; active to the end–he wouldn’t have had it any other way.
After John was sacked the atmosphere in the small workshop steadily got worse. I approached Bob’s competitor, Frank Malia, who had a similar workshop down the road. He was keen to take me on and tried to transfer my apprenticeship to him. Bob was far from impressed by this and slowed the process down so that I actually finished my apprenticeship with him.
During this time I had made some good friends through the Manakau Technical Institute, which we had to attend every Thursday night as part of the apprenticeship. We all shared something in common: an enjoyment of alcohol. We smoked a bit of pot on the odd occasion but never really got into it; beer was the drug of the day and we loved it! It did have its side effects like any other drug and turned me into an obnoxious slob. But every weekend was a big one. We’d all get together after work on the Friday whether it was at a party, pub or at someone’s house, then proceed to get as drunk as possible.
We would talk a lot of shit and spent hours crapping on about which chicks we fancied, and how other blokes we knew were fuckwits, and the way we would bash them if we ever saw them again. Of course it was all talk and just for show, but in reality, I had become that ‘fuckwit’ we were all talking about!
We would do stupid things like spend all afternoon in the Thoroughbred Tavern in Takanini, and then, heavily pissed, drive somewhere else for a beer. One Saturday afternoon at the tavern we found out that Billy Idol was playing at Mount Smart stadium. ‘Let’s go!’ one of the lads said. ‘We don’t have any tickets,’ replied another. ‘Fuck it, we’ll jump the fence!’
We were all in our work clothes. I was wearing a blue and white chequered work shirt, jeans covered in grime and black oil, and dirty steel-toe-capped boots. Paddy drove there in his old Holden ute. Jase, Gaz and myself were topping up with DB draught, a local beer, while getting buffeted by the cold wind in the open tray. Those days we used to drink from the 745 ml bottle and it was not uncommon to easily polish off a dozen by yourself. It was also cheaper than the cans and stubbies; you got more beer for your buck.
As soon as we parked the car at Mount Smart, and after a welcome piss against the side of the ute, we
conducted a quick reconnaissance of how to get in. The perimeter fence was wire mesh and of poor design; it stood 2 metres tall and ran straight past a large row of bushes. ‘Perfect!’ We then watched the security guards to quickly identify their habits and routines. Once happy we’d figured out their patrol route, the plan was to scale the fence from the bushes and run straight into the crowd inside the big tent.
Next thing I knew, two of the lads were on top of the wire and just about to drop onto the other side. I didn’t waste any time and started to scale the fence. John Martin dropped onto the opposite side right in front of me. It was then I knew I had a problem; my boot was caught. I knew the security guards would arrive any second and started to panic. ‘John! John!’ I screamed. He stopped and turned. ‘My fuckin’ boot’s stuck. Push it out!’
Part of the wire had wedged itself under the steel cap as my boot parted the mesh and pushed through. John ran back and to my relief freed my foot after a brief struggle. In a flash I was hot on his heels heading for the tent opening. Inside we found ourselves under the steel frame of the terraced seating and began to work our way to the front of the concert. Unbeknown to us we’d been seen and the security guards were in pursuit. We did get to watch some of the concert before being thrown out though.
About then I started to realise what an idiot I was becoming and decided to start changing the lifestyle I’d slipped into. I thought about it long and hard and came to the conclusion that although you personally have a good time, and don’t see anything wrong with it, you don’t see what effect it has on your character and performance and on the people close to you. I reckoned I was probably on the verge of alcoholism. I enjoyed it but wasn’t dependent on it. I still enjoy a beer to this day, and sometimes do drink to excess, but I don’t let it ‘consume’ me!
Anyway, it was time to make a change.
2
Marching Out
Some of my mates–John Martin, Willie and Clive–were planning to go to the UK. Their idea was to base themselves in or around London then find temporary work and when they’d saved a few bob travel to Europe. This sounded like a good opportunity for me to get away from Auckland and start fresh. The thought of travel also excited me.
So I spoke to the lads and we agreed that I’d meet them in England after visiting relatives in Cheshire. I also needed to shed some unwanted kilos that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. ‘How did I get that bad?’ I thought. Suddenly it was just like I’d woken from a bad dream, and I decided to clean up my act.
I sold my two-door MK1 Cortina and started riding my bicycle to work. I bought a punching bag and started a routine of press-ups and sit-ups. I’d previously been a member of a martial arts club before I became pisspot, so I incorporated that into my fitness routine in the garage of my parents’ house.
The fitness program took a while to get up to speed and by the time I was in full swing my apprenticeship had finished and I was a free man staring at the tarmac through a window of an Air New Zealand 747 awaiting its departure from Auckland airport.
I sat next to a couple of German blokes who were keen to tell me all about their adventures in New Zealand. I was 21 by now but they had seen more of the country than I had. I was quietly jealous and listened intently. All their stories intrigued me and I wanted to get out there and experience it all for myself. We got absolutely blind drunk on Steinlager and their English deteriorated into a gibbering mash. At Singapore we shook hands and parted to find the gates of our respective flights. I think I slept the rest of the way to Heathrow.
It was good to meet all my relatives in Cheshire and experience their way of life–and their pubs. I stayed with my grandmother, ‘Nan’ Maylor. The pubs in the UK are the centre of their social lives and you end up spending a lot of time in them while physical exercise takes a back seat. All my good intentions fell by the wayside. I quickly put on a bit of weight–a winter coat–without realising it.
Soon after Christmas I met up with the Kiwi lads in Banbury, Oxfordshire. They were renting a tiny, damp, two-bedroom flat above a hairdresser’s shop. I slept on the floor. The boys were in and out of poorly paid jobs and working all sorts of silly hours, so it wasn’t long before we decided to head off to the Continent. I had a little bit of cash I had saved up but was rapidly drinking through it. The others were in the same boat. John Martin and I decided we had to get ourselves back into a bit of shape and started doing exercises and running before we went away.
We had paid for a train ticket valid for a couple of months, anywhere in Europe. After a bout of bad weather John, Willie and I decided to head south leaving Clive behind. We initially travelled from Banbury to London then across on the underground to another station that would take us to Dover, where we would catch the ferry across the English Channel. But first we had to exit this station and take a short walk to the underground.
Out of the train station the air was cold and it was raining again. The roads were incredibly busy, and also quite narrow for a major city. The footpaths were also busy so we had to watch where we were walking as it was easy to catch someone with your pack as they zoomed past. I was starting to get annoyed at their lack of manners. This was the first time I had been on foot in London and I had a lot to learn. We finally entered the staircase that led down into the underground. Fortunately Willie had been in London before because he was the only one who could understand the coloured diagrams of the different train lines.
Once on the right platform I looked around and wondered just how the hell everyone was going to fit on the one train. I knew it was near as there was a cool rush of air caused by the train as it charged through the tunnel system. When it arrived it was everyone for themselves and there was a mad rush to the open doors, which created lot of pushing and shoving to secure a place, but we all managed to squeeze on.
There was a lot of tutting and shaking of heads as we took up valuable space with our packs. I wasn’t used to all this city madness and felt well out of my depth. I was starting to get very angry and anxious to get as far away from the place as possible. We passed through several stops before getting to ours and it was a relief to get off that bloody train. So, wearing my woollen black and red checked Swandri bush shirt that I brought over from New Zealand and carrying the cheap and nasty backpack I’d bought from a camping shop in Chester, I stepped onto the wooden escalator to take us to another platform.
We had been on it just a matter of seconds when this bloke wearing a dark suit started shouting and swearing at me. That was it, I cracked. I swung around and said quite nastily, ‘What’s your fuckin’ problem!’ He quickly ducked into the gap I had created when I turned around muttering something I couldn’t understand, and then ran up the rest of the staircase. If I hadn’t been tilted off balance by my pack I would’ve grabbed this bloke and asked him why he was being such a wanker.
John realised what was going on and said to me, ‘You need to stay to one side mate, so people can get past.’ I quickly looked around and realised I was the only one standing on the right side of the escalator. It would have been handy if the boys had given me a heads up on the unwritten rules of the underground, and even London for that matter, as I was now quite pissed off, but also embarrassed as I was the centre of a bit of a scene. The steep learning curve had begun.
The train ride to Dover didn’t take too long and before we knew it we were boarding the ferry bound for Calais in Northern France. When we arrived we decided to push on while the travel bug was still fresh and active inside us. From Calais we took a two-hour train ride to Lille and got there at dusk. One of the boys had a Lonely Planet travel book that suggested certain backpacking hostels to stay in so we played safe and followed the prompts from the book. Right now, being able to speak French would’ve been a huge help. I shouldn’t have been such a dickhead at school and actually taken the opportunity to learn while I could. But we quickly picked up some of the essentials like pommes frites and bière (French fries and beer).
Shortly after w
e settled into the backpackers’ hostel we all went for a bit of a look around the town for something to eat. Funnily enough we found ourselves in a little bar sampling the local beers. Conscious of our lack of funds, we downed several each and then turned in for the night ready for the four-hour journey to Paris.
The train ride was very picturesque but we had to change to a city line on the outskirts. When we got off we were met by some ‘street people’ who make their living by fleecing strangers any way they can. They prey on the young and unsuspecting and we stood out like dog’s balls. Fortunately we were forewarned. We had heard stories of tourists having the bottom of their packs slashed causing most of their possessions to fall to the ground. The thieves then had a brief chance to sort through the gear and take what they could before you’d realised what was happening. So we kept a close eye on them and got through unscathed. But this was the way it was going to be until we returned to England.
Our first stop in Paris was McDonald’s, which wasn’t too far from the Arc de Triomphe and on the perimeter of a large roundabout called Place de la Concorde. There wasn’t much concord happening. I can’t remember how many accidents we saw but it seemed like just as the two parties from one prang stopped arguing with each other, there was another.
We found a hostel and dropped off our packs then headed for the Eiffel Tower and a truly amazing view of the city. After that we walked to Trocadero, which is to the north-west and is a large museum-type building where we admired the sights in awe. We noticed several black North African fellas selling trinkets on a small blanket, when all of a sudden they all hurriedly wrapped up their wares and ran off with the police hot on their heels. I’m guessing they were either illegal immigrants or selling their gear without a licence, or both. But they must have had someone out to act as early warning.
The darkness quickly descended upon us and Paris was transformed into the city of lights. As we walked the streets we were approached numerous times by street peddlers trying to sell us hashish, cocaine and marijuana. One even covertly produced a small sample. We weren’t interested but every time we said ‘No!’ the bloke dramatically reduced his prices. In the end he was practically giving it away.