That Bitch Stole My Adaptor/ On Top of Mount Victoria/ Why White People Aren’t Good Gospel Singers

Originally uploaded by scrunt.

Friday was another quiet day…. actually the rest of my trip was pretty quiet by all accounts. I didn’t really have much planned, and didn’t really feel like going out to any shows, so I stuck to touristy things.

I started out my day by attempting to find my adapter for my hairdryer. I knew I had it when I left Queenstown… and sure enough I found it sitting inside of one of the girl’s backpacks that I was staying with. So, I took it back, locked up all of my stuff in storage and tried to get my own room for the night. That really ticked me off, because it was my last adapter that I had, and it had to last me when I got back to Auckland too because my other adapter bit it just before I left. But, crisis averted, I found it, and ended up going into my single room without any problems or confrontations.

After that incident, I started my day out by going to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It was, of course, pure genious. But, what was most entertaining were the two 13 year old girls who went to see the film and were self-professed “Johnny Depp fans”. I think, in this case, fan was an understatement. They stood in the front of the line bugging the door guy until we were let into the theatre, then they were seated beside me (as fate would have had it!) and they were going on and on about how hot Johnny Depp was. Like I was going to argue with them. They were quite funny, they reminded me of when I was that age. They were making big deluded statements of what they would do when they met Johnny Depp, because he was filming a movie in Japan, and they were going to buy tickets to go “visit” him. I asked them what they would really do if they met him, “For real? Like I really don’t know.. I’d scream, for sure, like totally freak out, then jump him and then probably faint”.

But seriously, anyone who says that Johnny Depp isn’t imitating Michael Jackson in that film is off their effing rockers.

Next trip was up Mount Victoria by bus. The trip was nice, and the view was gorgeous. At times it reminded me of the view from my aunt and uncles in Nanaimo.


Again, one fo those moments where I felt remarkably at home.

And then I met Mr. Cat who was in need of attention. And seeing as how I had 15 minutes to wait for my bus, I didn’t mind hanging out with him. He ended up leaving me for a piece of warm concrete.

In the evening, I went to see this marvelous Gospel Choir at Old St. Pauls. This was the concert that I bought the ticket for that was a whopping $10.

The place was absolutely packed. Luckily I got there early, so I got a decent seat in full view of the music and the choir. I ended up talking to the couples sitting in front of me… one couple was originally from St. Louis, and another was from Taupo. As the concert drew closer to starting, the conversations got louder because they had a cash bar at the concert. So here I was, decked out in my dressiest duds I had (which weren’t that dressy), drinking wine in a church and getting a bit tipsy. It felt wrong. But the pastor said it was okay, so it must have been.

Then the choir came on. Seemed like mainly Samoan, and WOW could they sing. But for some reason, the concert organizers kept putting on these white people who just paled by comparision to the Samoan singers… and after a while, it became clear this was the case, as the one group, a barbershop quartet, ended up doing three encores at the insistance of the audience. They were amazing as well.

I wanted to believe in the power of gospel. I loved the music. But there is something bizarre and awkward about watching a bunch of white folk attempting to clap along to Gospel music. I don’t know how to explain it other than they have no rythym. And I’m no different, I realize, but I try to refrain from yelling out “Amen Brother”, as, again, coming from a honky it just loses any cultural currency that it might (*might*) have held.

Overall, the night seemed like it was a recruiting night for the local church, but the music that was made overcame any seedy conspiracy theories that I might have had. I walked home through downtown, wandered into my room and fell asleep after attempting to read “Treasure Island” – a book that I exchanged at my hostel in Queenstown. But, I quickly realized that I didn’t really like the book at all, and ended up giving up and going to sleep with my headphones on.


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