Nail-Biting Novel

Mike Bodnar is in a state of nervousness as he awaits feedback from a group of pre-readers about his next novel...

Lucien Treadwell, Influencer

I am on tenterhooks about my next novel. It's written but not yet published, and I am in the Unknown Zone where time stands still, there is hushed silence (can there be any other?), and if the silence is broken at all it will be by the ping of the email inbox, which could herald either triumph or terror. I am a bag of nerves.

I did this with my last novel, Unity: Peace for All, Freedom for None, when I asked a 'focus group' of people I knew to read the first draft and send me feedback. It proved to be very useful, as readers picked up on things that had been staring me in the face for a long time, but which I never saw. An author is too close to their own work to see the bleeding obvious sometimes. 

And I expect it to be the same with this new novel, but likely more complex. My previous book was a fairly standard Cold War spy thriller, but Settlement is very different, and could open the proverbial can of worms on all sorts of different fronts, not least those of political correctness, historical accuracy, and cultural appropriation. There could well be an element of 'how dare you?' to this, because I have written a story that inevitably involves Māori, and as someone who is pale, male and (arguably) stale, I could be accused of literary trespass.

Here's my draft blurb for the novel: 

It is 1839, and a private, clandestine expedition to New Zealand, involving astounding new imaging technology, is under threat from the start. The principal of the venture mysteriously disappears en route, leaving his protégé to undertake the mission alone.

His name is Lucien Treadwell, but he too becomes a target. His endeavours ashore in the nascent colony of Port Nicholson are closely watched from the shadows, and danger is never far away. But what he sets out to achieve also ignites tension and subterfuge almost two centuries later, on the other side of the world.

Fabienne, one of the characters in Settlement

Okay, that might change, but in essence that's what it's about, and with half the book set in New Zealand of 1839, to ignore the presence and roles of Māori would be a sin in itself. But to include them - even any reference to them - also today invites argument, ridicule, contempt, and accusations of everything from ignorance to outright racism. Controversy looms.

And yet it's a 'history-mystery,' so how does an author safely navigate the historical truths of a period - even though they're writing fiction - and avoid accusations of interference or manipulation? Or should they even worry? Is it not a novelist's calling to tell a story, one fabricated from their imagination? Sure, it may well draw upon historical facts, but should that in itself require the novelist to 'play it safe'? I suspect in safety lies boredom. (Which sounds like it should become a Latin motto: In securitate taedium inest)

However, I am getting ahead of myself. As I write this I have yet to receive any feedback from the PRFG - the Pre-Reader Focus Group - so I am crossing bridges before they're even built. But yes, I am nervous.

The author maintaining composure...

The PRFG comprises eight people of mixed genders, ages, and reading interests. It is also international, in that three of the participants live in England. This is important because I need to know whether the story has international appeal, or whether it will remain firmly on Kiwi bookshelves.

The feedback on the first draft of Settlement will decide how much of a rewrite it needs (possibly total), whether the concept is viable, whether the story arc works, whether the characters are credible/relatable, and so on, before I approach a publisher. Having a high New Zealand content I aim initially to approach Kiwi publishers, but to be honest I don't hold out much hope.

Poor overworked publisher
(Image: Copilot)

Why? Because publishers are today inundated with manuscripts. During Covid, suddenly
everyone found themselves with extra time on their hands, and guess what? They wrote the book that had been fermenting in the back of their minds for years. I was living in England at the time and I researched what the impact of Covid had been on publishers; it was dramatic, and many of them were completely snowed under with submissions. What used to be dozens of manuscripts per week suddenly became hundreds. 

Self-publishing also went through the roof, and that's not changed. It remains my backstop position for when every publisher in New Zealand has turned me down, or more likely just not responded at all. That's okay; I am thick-skinned, but this time I would dearly love a publisher to take me on.

I am, however, my own problem. Forgive me for elaborating on something I mentioned earlier, but I am a prime candidate for the pale, male and stale category of writer. I am also seventy-two years of age, and am likely to be perceived as being beyond my use-by date, particularly as I have never been successfully published before, and therefore have no track record.

Quantum physics: what you observe
changes what you observe
(Image: Caltech Science Exchange)

Also, as with quantum physics, the act of observing or measuring a system fundamentally alters it, so to ask a group of people I know to evaluate the story could mean that they tell me what they think I want to hear rather than what I should hear. It is likely to be a flawed experiment, so perhaps this time I will take into account what they say, edit the manuscript based on their feedback, and then send it out to a group of people I don't know for a more robust second opinion. If you'd like to be one of them, please email me at mgbodnar@gmail.com.

In the meantime, and while I endure this twilight zone of the unknown, I am avoiding reading the draft novel again, deliberately not editing anything, and trying basically to forget all about Settlement. It's not easy, but to take my mind off it I've started to cobble together the next next novel. It doesn't have a name yet, but it is post-apocalyptic in nature, and yes it's set in New Zealand, one of the few countries that could survive a global nuclear conflict. Does that mean we're safe here? No, not at all. The characters live by their wits, taking each day as it comes, always ready for the unexpected and to fight for their survival.

Pretty much how I'm living right now.

The Path of the Ancients

Mike Bodnar sets off an a short odyssey to try out the newly-opened Te Ara Tupua - a shared walking/cycling path along the western coast of Wellington Harbour...

The Walking Man

Wellington's harbour (wake up at the back there; we're in New Zealand...) was unexpectedly gifted some land in 1855, which made quite a few things possible that hadn't been before. This surprise donation didn't come daintily wrapped, or with a bow tied round it; it was an earthquake, of serious magnitude - 8.2 to be precise.

I'm not here to give you a lesson in tectonics though; just know that the quake uplifted certain parts of the Wellington coastline between 1.5 and 2.0 metres, especially along the western shore. Over to the south-east it rose as much as 6.4 metres. I know, right?

There's a certain irony in useful land being created not long after British colonials had bought (or 'stolen', some would argue) whatever useful land they could from local Māori, because the uplift of the terrain along the western edge of the harbour - and especially around the nascent city of Wellington - enabled much reclamation and development where there had been little or no opportunity before.

It also allowed a road and rail link to be established from the city to the north. Prior to the uplift, there had been no useful shoreline on which to build what we now call a 'transit corridor.'.

So here I was today strolling along the newly-opened Te Ara Tupua, the Pathway of the Ancients, which follows those same shoreline contours and serves all sorts of useful purposes - until the next major earthquake returns it to the sea. But let's not think about that right now (although I will return to it shortly. There's no escape. No, literally: there is no escape. You'll see.)

The northern end of Te Ara Tupua

This new pathway is a shared cycling/walking facility, running alongside the aforementioned transit corridor which carries a railway line and a major road - State Highway 2. In short, what they've done is build a rocky seawall/defence in the shallows, and on the inside of that have created a flash new dual-purpose pathway, safe from the railway and traffic on one side, and from the crashing waves that bless our harbour on occasion on the other. Having only just opened (at time of writing), it has yet to weather its first major storm, so we'll have to wait and see just how robust it is.

Today though the harbour was calm, with just an amateur northerly blowing. Wind? Pfft. I chose to do the trek from north to south so that the breeze and sun would be behind me. Wasn't born yesterday.

An infrastructure minister (left) and son
Image: RNZ

Pathways like this don't come cheap, and as soon as I'd set off after leaving the train at Petone station, a media story replayed in my head from the previous weekend. A man named Chris Bishop, (a minister of infrastructure, m'lud) officially opened it on 15 May, taking the opportunity to criticise the overall NZ$348.7 million cost of the project.

Which made me realise that even after just my first ten metres, I had walked along a section costing almost NZ$775,000. Ka-ching! (No, I didn't do the maths in my head - I cheated)

But hey, I'm not here to be churlish about it. Don't get me wrong; I believe in investing in car-free alternatives, and I'm sure those who now zoom along the new pathway on their bikes thoroughly enjoy passing the traffic in its rush-hour clog evenings and mornings. I do worry, however, that projects of this nature cost so, so much.

The arguments for this particular pathway are many and sound though. It's not just a pathway; it's a 'resilience project' - a buzz-phrase which actually has some merit in this case. In 2013, a major storm washed out portions of this coastline, undermining the railway line and causing fairly major disruption. Given the effects of climate change, it seems sensible to build a robust seawall to counter future such incursions, and within it place an alternative transit corridor.

In the event of an apocalypse...

I haven't read this anywhere else yet, but it seems obvious to me that if the western hillside were to slip onto and block the state highway (as it does on occasion), then the new Te Ara Tupua is actually wide enough for, say, emergency vehicles to use it. Or, in the event of an apocalyptic event, zombies would be able to shuffle from Wellington to Pito-One at a horrifyingly leisurely pace. In perfect safety.

But I digress. The pathway is split unevenly: two-thirds of it is given over to a cycling lane, while the remaining third is for those of a more perambulatory nature. This distinction hadn't made it into some people's brains though; I had covered no more than fifteen metres before a cyclist pulled over and stopped literally in front of me, blocking the whole walking lane. She hadn't even seen me. What am I? The Invisible Man? I gave her a full-on EXCUSE ME and pushed past, listening to her and her partner, and the man they'd stopped to chat to, guffawing in laughter. Sorry cyclists, but behaviour like that does nothing to endear you to the rest of us.

So, while I'm on a rant, let me just point out two other niggles. One is that there are no toilets, either at the ends or in the middle. Secondly, not a single rubbish bin in sight. 

On my stroll today - a normal Wednesday late morning - the vast majority of those using the

Searching for a toilet?

 Path of the Ancients were, well, ancient. It was definitely Te Ara Senior, and although I'm sure not every one was incontinent or suffering prostate issues, if one were to be, shall we say, "caught short" in transit, then to nip behind a coastal rock would be to take your life in your hands, among other things.

Oh wait, a third niggle. To prevent us from straying from the path onto the railway line and causing inconvenient bus replacements for the next day or so, there is a chain-link fence along the entirety. From a health and safety point of view, that's good, until the next 1855 earthquake causes a large tsunami. In which case we'd have a hard job 'getting to higher ground' - as we are advised to do by the emergency management services. See, I warned you: literally no escape.

Oh, and I just remembered a fourth niggle, but let's just call it an 'observation': There are three 'AED' cabinets (AED = automated external defibrillator), one at each end and one in the middle, so plan your heart attack carefully, or be prepared to run approximately two kilometres to the nearest paddles. Clear? Clear!

Drainspotters have it easy...

On the plus side, Te Ara Tupua is flat along its length apart from the overbridge at Ngauganga, but even that's a gentle gradient. There are many attractive Māori motifs built in to stonework, and on pou (poles) at various places, as well as Māori-influenced patterning on pathway signage. Even the manhole covers have Māori 'location finder' paintwork across the entire path so that they're easy to spot (for those who like manhole covers, i.e. Drainspotters).

Information boards telling of local wildlife or history are plentiful, and there are multiple rest areas - or ūranga - along the way, with seating, so that you can watch the whales and dolphins frolicking in the harbour. Or, as an ancient, check your heart rate or work out how long it's been since you last had a wee.

Trees, grasses and other plants have been planted, particularly at the laybys, so if you want to know which varieties grow well in a harsh coastal environment, bring a notebook. It'll be nice to have some fully grown trees eventually, you know - to nip behind in the event you need to.

I noticed there's lighting as well, which suggests evening or night-time strolls are doable. Personally, and this really is just me, I would love to ride my motorbike along Te Ara Tupua around three o'clock in the morning; there's nothing stopping a motorcycle accessing the path either end. (But shhh, don't tell anyone).

Just before I reached the overbridge at Ngauranga I was treated to a brief but obvious whiff of eau de sewage, which was a shame. And no, despite the lack of conveniences, it wasn't me.

But let's not end on that. During my stroll I admired the harbour a lot, looking in the hope of seeing the aforementioned whales or dolphins, but sadly I saw only a few shags, who seemed to appreciate the 'islands' that have been created specifically for them just off-shore. I did see one of the interisland ferries coming in, and saw at least four fisher-folk who had obviously taken advantage of the path giving them access to previously unreachable fishing spots. 

All-in-all, the distance from Pito-One to Ngauranga is just under five kilometres, but you could walk another five and you'd find yourself in Wellington city. I didn't, and chose to catch the bus at the Ngauranga flyover instead. I mean, I didn't want to end up a zombie.

(Author rating of Te Ara Tupua: 7 out of 10)

Fifty-five Million Reasons to Change the Lottery System

 Mike Bodnar wants more people to win lotteries...

As I write this, the New Zealand lottery has 'jackpotted' to NZ$55 million. Even if I don't buy a
ticket for the next draw, there's one thing I will bet on: many, many more people will do just that. Because greed. Or desperation. Or because they've just been pulled back off the road by a stranger who saved them from stepping in front of a bus, and the hero says, 'Think you'd better buy a lottery ticket, mate.'

Whatever, everyone, it seems, wants to be super wealthy. For this we can perhaps blame Bezos, Musk, Thiel and all the other multi-billionaires around the world - along with the wealthy celebs (I'm lookin' at you, Taylor Swift) - who are able to indulge in their every whim regardless of cost. Musk et al don't even have to book first class, because, of course, they have their own jets. They certainly wouldn't ever wonder how they were going to pay the next winter energy bill. Why would you when you could just buy the energy company?

I mean, imagine having an income of US$1 trillion annually (which Musk is in line for after 75% of his shareholders voted in favour of the obscene 'salary.' Seriously.); that's over $83 billion a month, or $19 billion per week, or - imagine it - $2.7 billion per day. Nobody, I repeat, nobody can spend that kind of money on a daily basis. They could give it away of course, but do they? By and large, no.

To scale that down a bit, someone in Aotearoa/New Zealand could, this week, win NZ$55 million, which, even without investing it, would mean a daily income of over $150,000 dollars. Even this relatively miniscule amount (compared to the billionaires and trillionaires) would be almost impossible to spend. It would, however, be easier to give away, but there's no guarantee that a winner will automatically be a philanthropist. Probably just the -pist bit.

However, if the winner took it all (there's a song in that...) and did spend at that rate, they
would have a zero bank balance in about 12 months. So, some investment would be prudent, along with judicious spending and ongoing fund management. I could help with that.

I would, though, argue that nobody in Aotearoa/New Zealand needs $55 million. Nobody. Unless - and it's a big unless - they really are of a philanthropic nature and wish to set up educational trusts for example, say in multi-disciplinary areas for the less advantaged. There's no shortage of need. But - to use an appropriate analogy - what are the odds?

Speaking of need however, there are almost certainly 55 people in the country who could absolutely do with 'just' a million dollars, and many, many more who would be very happy with, say, a quarter of that - to pay off the mortgage maybe, help the kids get on the property ladder, or pay off student loans. Or yes, go on a cruise or buy a new car. I know this because I'm one of them. And because, well, wealth.

You can see where I'm going with this; $55 million is an obscene amount of money for one person to win. Nobody needs that amount, so I propose that the Lotteries Commission caps each jackpot at - ooh, let's think for a moment - $10 million, and, when it reaches that, they guarantee ten winners of $1 million each. The jackpot never gets to be more than $10 million, and each time it does reach that, well, there are ten massive parties in different parts of the country to gate-crash. Just listen for the pop of champagne corks. And form an orderly queue, behind me.

I mean, if this week's draw were to guarantee 55 winners of $1 million each, that would create  55 new millionaires in New Zealand. Look what that might do for local economies. Plus - while there's still the potential for family squabbling over the spoils - $1 million is a far more manageable amount than $55 million. Life-enhancing perhaps, rather than totally life-changing.

I'd also wager that knowing there are going to be 55 guaranteed millionaires after

This time next week...

Saturday's draw (the biggest to date btw), more people would be inclined to buy tickets for it. Which means the odds of you winning decrease. At least, that's how it seems to me, but I'm no statistician.

And yes, I know, creating more millionaire potential opens up a whole new debate about the dangers of encouraging more gambling - the increased mental salivation that goes with a greater chance of winning, but I'm sticking with the proposal of a more equitable distribution of the lottery winnings here. There are already mechanisms in place to monitor and restrict gambling amounts, though the efficacy of them is a debate for different forum.

Anyway, rant over. You know what I'm going to do now, don't you? Of course you do. And of course I am. But if I win the full amount you can look forward to the establishment of the Mike Bodnar Foundation for Students of All Ages Who Want a Degree in Anything They Can't Currently Afford. Or something like that. Sure, I'll certainly be -pist, but I will also be a philanthropist.

Wish me luck.

Flight of (not-so) Fancy

Mike Bodnar rues his inability to travel in style, but discovers other hidden benefits to long-haul flying...

I recently returned from a month on the other side of the world. 

Well of course you didn't know; I didn't want to make a fuss. Or face abuse for adding to the world's climate woes. Because I didn't go by bicycle, or kayak, and I didn't walk. Train? Tchah! None of those are options when you live in Aotearoa/New Zealand and need to get to the UK, formerly known as Great Britain.

I flew. Obviously not personally - I don't wear tights and a cape - but circumstances dictated that I get there quickly, get some things done, and get back again. 

But let me get one thing straight from the start: I don't like flying. Not because I'm terrified of the aircraft falling out of the sky (I am), or because the carbon footprint of a long-haul flight is damaging to the increasingly-fragile global ecosystem (I know it is, but I refuse to paddle 24,000 miles); No, it's because I can't afford to travel Business Class.

No, seriously, I can't. Not even so-called Premium Economy (which is like like travelling economy but with a marginally less surly attitude from the flight attendants).

Heading for third class check-in

In the end, this is what we pay for when flying internationally: acknowledgement of our social status, with treatment befitting. The more we pay, the nicer we are treated; the less we fork out, the more bottom-feeders we are. The clue is in the tiers: First Class, Business Class, Premium Economy, and - sad wah-wah trumpet FX here - Economy. It's simply, and literally, a class system. Yes, it all ends in tiers. Thank you, I'm here all week.

So, why did I have to go? In a nutshell, we have a property in Surrey that we couldn't sell two years ago due to an incredibly brief and inept tenure by a now-forgotten Tory prime minister called Liz Truss, who within her less-than 50-days in power, managed to crash the British economy. Mortgages suddenly became almost non-existent, lending criteria were tightened, and the property market tanked, taking our chances of selling with it. Instead we had to rent the property out.

Okay, this might seem like a First World Problem, but the truth is, having moved back to New Zealand, we can't afford to buy a property here until our house in England sells. So not only were we paying a mortgage over there, we were forking out for rent here in NZ as well. Something had to be done.

Our property was let without too much trouble, but now the UK tenancy was coming to an end, and it was patently obvious from photos and reports that the tenants had neglected the place for the full twenty months they'd been there. It was not in saleable condition. I needed to go over and fix it up.

Peace of mind

Yes, I can hear you! You're wondering why didn't we just engage tradespeople in England to do the required painting and decorating, the gardening, the general tidying and fixing of things. Because, after some research, it was obviously going to be cheaper for me to go and do it than to pay for workers over there. There's also that intangible: peace of mind - the comfort in knowing a job's been done and done well.

So I got online looking for the cheapest possible flights. If you've ever done this, you'll know how disheartening it can be. Firstly, the nearer you are to when you want to travel, the more expensive the flights are. This is called dynamic pricing (or surge pricing, or demand-based pricing), and is based on a combination of demand and/or desperation. It is basically blackmail. 'Oh, you want to travel next week sir? That'll be twice or three times as much as if you'd booked two months ago. Thank you. Ka-ching!'

Luckily, I did book about two months in advance. Another important thing to consider is how flexible you can be with your travel dates. The more set-in-concrete your plans are, the more it's likely to cost. Some flight search sites show you useful calendars indicating when the cheapest flight options are (I used Webjet, but please note I am not endorsing them as the only or even preferred one).

Then comes the airline you choose. As soon as you go for one of the majors - Air New Zealand, Cathay Pacific, Singapore, Emirates, and so forth (this of course depends where you're flying from/to) - you're paying a premium. I was looking for cheapest, not best or award-winning.

I make no apologies...

And, crucially, I also wanted to avoid travelling via the United States. This was because I have posted anti-Trump memes on social media, and I didn't want to be held by ICE, or turned away during a transit stopover just because I might have offended The Orange One. My options were becoming increasingly limited, especially since I didn't want to spend 56 hours getting to the UK. Oh yes, you can find cheap flights, as long as you're prepared to camp out at three or more airports during lengthy stopovers en route.

But all was not lost. I found what I believed to be a reasonably-priced option with a Chinese airline I'd never heard of: Hainan. For the equivalent of £980 return (approx. NZ$2180) - third class of course - I could fly over, be there for a month, and fly back. 

I was tempted, but first I needed to research what other travellers thought of Hainan Airlines. One man said the service was appalling, and he was allowed just one beer on a 10-hour flight, because, as he was told, 'otherwise you might be drunk.' Others said the food was terrible, and that everything came with rice. This didn't put me off particularly; it was a Chinese airline after all, but one alcoholic drink in 10 hours was something of a worry. But others said it was fine, and nearly everyone rated it five stars for cleanliness. There's nothing quite like knowing your plane is spotless as it plunges to earth.

No, not real; just my imagination on fire...

Despite having never heard of the airline, and fearing their planes would be refurbished Tiger Moths, I booked. I also updated my last will and testament, and sent a Photoshopped image of a Chinese plane on fire to friends and family, just to manage their expectations (see pic).

As it happened, I needn't have worried. Everything went according to plan, even smoothly, although the hours spent in transit in China - along with having to fill in visa forms and be processed by immigration (yes, even for transit), was a pain. Because one of the big downsides of some cheap air travel is stopovers and layovers. 

China immigration. Image: Global Times

Hainan Airlines fly from New Zealand to London Heathrow with two stops en route; the first is at their hub on the island of Haikou (for a few hours), followed by an internal flight to Changsha in mainland China (another few hours' stop). At Haikou we all had to collect our baggage and check it in again before continuing - another pain. But this is the price you pay for booking cheap tickets - you have to put up with some inconvenience.

But there was an upside: it turned out there were about forty or fifty of us who were either New Zealanders or Brits, travelling the whole way to London, so naturally we gravitated together at the check-in queues. Two or three of this cohort had done the trip before, so their knowledge and experience was much appreciated, as the airline itself told us very little about what was going on. And even when I was given information, it turned out to be wrong.

The flight from Haikou to Changsha was internal, so it was, technically, a domestic flight, even though it was part of the international journey I'd booked. So, after checking in I was told to go round the corner to the domestic departure gate and security screening area, which I did, only to be turned away and told to go to international departures because I was travelling to London. Off upstairs I trundled, to international departures, only to be turned away again and be told to go back downstairs to domestic. It was turning into a game of Chinese Checkins, only I was losing.

Haikou Meilan International, Terminal 2 Departures. It was a seething mass of humanity when I was there

I found an airport official, a young lady who listened politely and carefully to my dilemma, checked my boarding pass, then engaged Google translate on her phone to tell me to go to international departures. I still had at least three hours before departure so I wasn't losing my cool yet. I equally politely told her phone my story again, and she said I was to follow her. I followed, relieved at last that I was in official hands.

But no. After being given more incorrect information at two other counters, we finally ended up at the first class check-in, and my hopes soared as I thought maybe that she was going to arrange an upgrade by way of compensation for all the messing about. Alas no. It was just that the first class check-in guy wasn't doing anything, and seemed like a prime target. He told us to go to where I was first sent: Domestic Departures. This time though I had my Chinese escort, and she smoothed my passage through the gate with no problems at all.

I had learned three ways of saying 'thank you' in Chinese, one basic, one more polite, and one that is used only in circumstances of extreme gratitude. This was the one I used now, giving an awkward bow at the same time. 'Fēicháng gǎnxiè nín,' I said, haltingly. I don't know which of us blushed more, but she smiled, hopefully understanding what I'd said. On the other hand, I might have just intimated that I'd like to go home and meet her sister, so I figured I should beat a retreat through security as quickly as possible.

The train to London; my only first class experience

Fast forward, and a month later, having successfully achieved all I wanted to do in England, I headed back to Heathrow, firstly taking a train from Liverpool to London Euston. This turned out to be the highlight of my trip, partly because I treated myself to a first class ticket, and secondly - because the journey was delayed by an hour and twenty minutes - I received a full refund on the fare. Score! So that was the journey, plus lunch with wine(s), for free. Not complaining, and I still made it to Heathrow with two hours to spare.

So then I was back on Hainan Airlines doing the reverse journey. Once again there was a cohort of about forty English and Kiwis, and once again some of them (I can say 'us' now that I'd done the journey one way at least), were able to provide valuable knowledge of what to expect. But a bonus for me was making the acquaintance of a thirty-something hipster from England called Jack. We shared a row of seats from London to China, then were split up for the remaining flights, but at Changsha and Haikou we also shared the endurance of waiting in airports in the early hours of the morning, with nothing open and the temperature at 31 degrees Celsius. We'd have killed for a cold lager.

Jack was headed to New Zealand for a campervan holiday (in winter, I know!), so I did what I could to help him plan his journey, and to manage his expectations. And no, at no stage did I shout 'Hi Jack!' during the flight.

With Jack at 2.30 in the morning, at Haikou,
looking far happier than we should be

I enjoyed his company though, and I'm always pleased to help anyone who's visiting Aotearoa/New Zealand.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. I'm not going to review the airline particularly, they're all much of a muchness unless you're flying business or first class. Ultimately, in third class it really is just a test of endurance, especially on long-haul flights of eleven hours or more. They should include it in Iron Man challenges: running, cycling, and sitting on a plane for 12 hours.

Travelling via China was a bit of a mission, but at least I didn't get arrested by US Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers for having anti-Trump memes on my phone. It was worth the journey to avoid that. Oh, and they did give me more than one beer, so 'Fēicháng gǎnxiè nín' Hainan Airlines!

Let's Twist Again...

 Mike Bodnar chooses a lesser-travelled road for a solo ride on his Royal Enfield motorcycle...

A 'buttock-clencher' approaches...

There might have been a slight frost overnight, but now, where the sun has touched it, much of the narrow winding road is dry. Except for some of the dark corners, overgrown on both sides with pines, tree ferns, or other natives, where sunbeams have yet to penetrate. Here the surface is damp, and I throttle down, changing from third gear to second, with an ever-so-slight touch on the rear brake pedal. There are some corners I take a little too fast - buttock-clenchers I call them. This is not a road for cavalier riding, so I slow down even more. There's no rush.

I'm on the Akatarawa Road in the lower North Island of New Zealand. My bike is a 2019 Royal Enfield Classic 500cc, the lineage of which can be traced back to 1901, in Redditch, England, but whose modern pedigree is based in India. It's a story as long and twisty as the road I'm on, but if we take a shortcut we can just say that after Royal Enfield Motorcycles ceased operations in England in 1970, production continued in Madras (now Chennai), India, as India had been assembling Royal Enfield motorcycles there since 1962.

It's a great success story, and today Indian-made Royal Enfields are exported around the globe, and have gathered an almost-cult status due to many of the models looking pretty much as they did in the 1960s. It's often confusing for onlookers who see the bikes outside cafés or in car parks; one of the most common questions is, 'How long did it take to restore?', or comments such as, 'Beautiful bike, looks almost like new.'

The bike: 2019 with a 1960s look - always draws attention

So here I am, worming my way along the Akatarawa Road, on my Classic 500cc single-thumper, which at first glance does indeed look like it's 60 years old. But apart from me there's nobody to look at it, as on this sunny Tuesday morning I have the road pretty much to myself. At the western end of the road, where I joined it, there's a cautionary sign advising that the route is unsuitable for long vehicles, to turn around now, and if you are continuing, not to trust GPS instructions. Consequently I see only three vehicles in the whole 25 kilometres (15.5 miles), but of course you never know what's round the next buttock-clencher, so I'm riding carefully. In my favour, the road is sealed and in overall good condition.

The road borders the Akatarawa Forest, and is lined for much of the route with lush vegetation, which, in places, overhangs the road. Appropriately, Akatarawa means 'trailing vines.' The proximity to the forest is no accident, as the road itself originally provided access for logging. In early days there were bush mills, and even a few industrial tramways to service them, though there's little or no evidence of these now.

An Akatarawa tramway in 1903

In the 1870s the route was briefly considered for a railway line, which would have linked the Hutt Valley in the east with the coastal settlements to the west, however a different route was settled on and nothing ever came of the rail venture. There is, however, as I ride through the twists and turns, a chugging noise - the sound my single-cylinder bike makes as I occasionally accelerate on those bits of road where I can see a reasonable distance ahead. The thump of a big single is one of the aspects of these bikes that endear them to their riders. It's a sound that provides more smiles per gallon.

I glance frequently at my speedo, though not to check my speed; I have another reason for taking note of my progress, and we'll come to that a little further into the ride. But speaking of numbers, the Akatarawa district itself is sparsely populated - there are only 2.1 people per square kilometre, so my chances of finding someone on the road round a corner are slim. I do wonder what 0.1 of a person might look like though.

The roadside bush hides farms and dwellings very effectively. There's the occasional giveaway fence, or a driveway tucked away in the trees, but you could be forgiven thinking that nobody lives here. And yet they must, because, well, the road: there has to be a reason for the road. I ponder what it must be like to live out here in the middle of nowhere, getting home from your fortnightly trip to the supermarket only to realise that you forgot to buy milk. I suspect those who do live here 'in the sticks' are resilient, and somewhat self-contained. Unfairly, the duelling banjos theme to Deliverance enters my head as I turn yet another leafy corner.

Not a place to forget the milk

Slowly the road begins to become a bit wider, the curves less tight, and I'm able to use third
and fourth gear more; the Akatarawa River becomes visible to my right, and I know I'm coming to the end of the valley road. Suddenly I'm in a suburb called Brown Owl, and it's time to join State Highway 2. I turn left, glance again at my speedo, do a quick mental calculation, and realise that I have to abandon my plan to head over the Remutaka Hill to Wairarapa. Instead, with a rumble in my tummy to rival the thumping from the bike, I'm reminded it's time for lunch.

I don't particularly like riding on state highways. My Enfield's top speed is not much more than 120kph (about 75 mph), and while that's not bad, it's not really what the Classic 500 is built for. However, most of New Zealand's open road speed limit is 100kph (62mph), and I don't have any trouble maintaining that - it's just that it's nowhere near as pleasurable as burbling and weaving along country roads at a more sedate pace. But I know of a place for lunch just up ahead, so that's where I'm headed.

Aston-Norwood formal gardens, my lunchtime view

Aston-Norwood is mainly a function and wedding venue, but with a pleasant café, and I find a seat in the sun overlooking the well-tended garden. Here I do some more calculations, check Google Maps, and decide on my next destination, which, of necessity, cannot be more than 15 kilometres away. Not because I'm running out of fuel, or time - I am on a mission. Which is, to be riding in an area where it's easy and convenient for me to pull over when my odometer ticks over to read 123456. Yes, a once-in-a-lifetime event is about to happen, and I want to take a photo to document the occasion. Which is why I've abandoned my planned journey over the Remutaka Hill - it would be too dangerous - if not impossible - to pull over on the side of that hilly, twisty road to take a picture.

A simple thing, but nice

So after a filling lunch of loaded fries and a drink, I find myself retracing my journey by nine kilometres, turning left at Te Marua, and heading out through a rural area called Maymorn. 

Here the roads are flat, largely straight, and clear - perfect for what I want to do. My head nods up and down as I ride, which is me frequently checking my odometer reading, and looking ahead to gauge where the Big Event will happen. Silly, I know, but sometimes it's the simplest things in life that give the most pleasure. And then I have no more than two-tenths of a kilometre to go and I'm approaching a corner with no idea what's round it, so I decide to turn around and slowly go back so that I'll be on a straight stretch for the final click-over. And then it happens, conveniently at a quiet driveway to a rural building complex. I whip out my phone, select the camera app, and shoot at least six pictures of my lovely odometer, smiling the whole time.

As I'm in the rural area north of Upper Hutt I choose to take a country detour to get back to State Highway 2, and prolong my merging with the busy road. Instead I ride mainly flat and clear rural roads, through Whiteman's Valley, and along the more twisty Blue Mountains road, which eventually winds its way smoothly down, twisting and turning, to join the main highway.

And so I head home, the late afternoon sun on my right, the harbour of Whanganui-a-Tara to my left, its blue waters barely ruffling in the light breeze. I'm finally riding top-gear territory, and feel it's almost the equivalent of giving a horse free rein after having it compete in a tight and demanding gymkhana. 

We are  very lucky in Aotearoa/New Zealand that motorcycling can be a year-round activity, unlike, say, the UK where many (most?) motorbikes get tucked up by their owners from November through to April while winter does its worst, and the road crews spread salt and grit on the icy roads. The temperature for today's ride has been about 14 degrees Celsius, with ups and downs to that on the Akatarawa Road. Some dark corners the temperature would suddenly drop, reminding me that it's technically still winter, and yet on the sunny bits the warmth was palatable. Spring is coming.

It must be over 25 years since I last rode the Akatarawa Road, and I certainly won't leave it that long again (I mean, I am 71, so if I did I'd have to still be riding at 96!). If you'd like to do the trip yourself, here's a Google Earth 3D map (above), along with one (right) showing my full journey on the day.

Those who know the region will see that I've done my best to avoid State Highway 1 and Transmission Gully. Coffee was in the sun at Pauatahanui.

Maybe I'll do the Akatarawa trip again when my speedo's about to read 234567.

Ninety Seconds to Midnight

Is New Zealand really safe from a northern hemisphere nuclear war? Mike Bodnar has his finger on the button. (Caution: some content my disturb)

The unthinkable...

The Doomsday Clock is still appallingly close to midnight - just 90 seconds away as I write this. And with every slow blink of Putin's dead eyes, every threat he makes about destroying the West, the nearer to midnight we get. Tick...tick...

Of course, the clock is just a metaphor, but it's one scientists have employed since 1947, and it's an ever-present reminder that the end of the world really is nigh. And getting nigher.

So it should come as no surprise that some billionaires - or if not billionaires, then at least people wealthy enough anyway - have, over the years, been buying properties in New Zealand, seeing it as a safe haven in the event that conflicts in the northern hemisphere turn to actual nuclear custard. They don't always admit that of course.

Some of them have bought existing homesteads, others land with the declared aim of developing their own golf courses (i.e. bunkers) - either way, places to flee to and hunker down in, in the event of Armageddon up north. 

Those people who already live in New Zealand - a smidgen over five million, including me - already know that our country is far removed from a devastating conflict in the northern hemisphere. In fact the country is virtually as far away as you can get, barring maybe Tierra del Fuego or the various outposts in Antarctica. In every practical sense, Aotearoa/New Zealand is the most distant from Doomsday. And therefore, many believe, safe, secure, and an ideal haven to escape to in 'the event.'

Plenty for everyone, except vegetarians...

I mean look: New Zealand could probably be self-sufficient as far as food is concerned - there are currently 4.6 sheep per person, and fertile land a-plenty to grow crops and vegetables. The country is ever-so slightly bigger than the UK, so there's plenty of room. Britain for example supports a population of about 68 million.

But looking at food this way is naïve; dairy and beef farming require all manner of management, and, importantly, veterinary supplies. Some of these are imported, so the supply of veterinary medicines from overseas would likely dry up overnight should Putin push the nuclear button. Or any other world leader with nuclear capability for that matter.

End of the road for vehicles

And the distribution of food - even if abattoirs could remain functioning - would also be an issue. At any one moment, New Zealand's fuel supplies would last only a few weeks if imports of petroleum products were to cease - which they would in the event of a nuclear holocaust. New Zealand is not self-sufficient in this respect. Therefore, trucks, rail transport, air freight, all would grind to a halt after a short time. The daily milk tankers would no longer visit the farms. The abattoirs - even assuming electricity to power them continued - could not distribute the meat they produced, and anyway, the stock trucks that bring the cattle and sheep to the abattoirs would also stop running when the fuel ran out. So how many sheep we have is irrelevant. 

On the plus side, New Zealanders have a reputation for being creative, partly based on the fact that for the first 140 or so years of European settlement, many farms were by nature rural, isolated, so if something mechanical went wrong it would often be the farmer who would have to fix it, until (hopefully) parts could be obtained. The saying was that a Kiwi farmer could metaphorically fix anything with a piece of 'number eight fencing wire,' and there's some truth in that. In the first half of the 20th century, vehicle imports were expensive and rare, so a tractor or other farm vehicle was kept running for as long as possible, and often long after the manufacturer designed it for. Such resourcefulness would be needed again, by the digger-load.

The 1987 report

A report released in 1987, called New Zealand After Nuclear War (Wren Green et al), commissioned by the New Zealand Planning Council, delved into the impacts on the country of a largely northern hemisphere nuclear conflict. It does not make for pleasant reading.

In short, the report says that people would likely panic about radiation reaching New Zealand, causing radiation sickness, cancers and so on. But the chances of that happening, the findings reveal, are slim, and a minor increase in radiation would have hardly any impact. The biggest challenge would be people not getting up-to-date information on the issue, and therefore suffering needlessly from radiation anxiety.

Because, of course, communication would suffer. The report investigates at some length the impacts of an EMP - an electromagnetic pulse - where a nuclear device is triggered much higher up in the atmosphere causing widespread failure of electronics below, and over a very wide area. An EMP exploded over Sydney, Australia, for example could well have an impact on New Zealand's communication infrastructure also, particularly radio and television.

When the report was released - 1987 - the Internet was hardly a blip on the technological radar, so in the study, the effects of an EMP do not cover our reliance today on the Internet: texts, mobile phones, bluetooth, Wi-Fi, banking, and so on. It's safe to assume, however, that these would all be compromised in the event of an EMP. If an electromagnetic pulse did not affect us, then perhaps the nation's communications would remain operative, and would enable central and local governments to issue relevant information, warnings, and advice. Until technology such as cellphone towers started to fail and could not be repaired due to lack of parts.

Geothermal power in New Zealand

As for energy, well, New Zealand might just get away with it, as the country is approximately 74% self-sufficient, and is lucky enough to have hydro, geothermal, solar, wind, and coal-fired power available. It's likely that power would have to be rationed in some way, and blackouts could be an issue. Again, as with communication, once the generation technology began to fail (e.g. wind turbines failing, hydro generators ditto), would New Zealand have the wherewithal to fix things? Would a piece of number eight fence wire rescue the national grid?

The 1987 report looks into the effects of a nuclear winter on the country. Smoke in the northern hemisphere atmosphere (from potentially thousands of fires caused by hundreds of nuclear bomb explosions) would, for the large part, stay in the northern hemisphere, although some could drift south. Even a minor reduction in sunlight though would have an effect on Kiwi crops, especially those most sensitive to cold, so the supply of vegetables, grain crops and so on could be compromised, at least for a couple of years. Again, rationing might be necessary.

Possible crop failure

How are our American billionaires faring in their bunkers now? They can't stockpile everything they need, no matter how many You Tube prepper videos they've watched. Without fuel they can't go anywhere. Without deliveries they can't receive any supplies. And unless their bunkers are powered by wind and/or solar, their electricity won't last forever. In short, they are not much better off than the rest of us. And their wealth is meaningless.

The 1987 New Zealand After Nuclear War report needs a new edition in light of today's technologies and our reliance on them in particular, but also there needs to be a much deeper dive into the impacts on us as a society cut off from the rest of the world, and the national angst, despair and helplessness that many are likely to feel.

While the report does touch on the prospect of societal distress, it also predicts the impacts of refugees arriving on our shores and the diseases they might bring with them. The country would likely not have the ability to quarantine new arrivals for testing, even if the appropriate test kits were available. But in any case, would refugees be welcome while the population is in meltdown? 

New Zealand society would be in great danger of breaking down in the event of a northern hemisphere nuclear war. It's likely that the consensus would be that we would have enough problems of our own, let alone coping with those who somehow managed to flee the conflicts. They wouldn't be turned away, but offers of help and compassion could be thin on the ground with our own society in disarray.

Cash would be king again

For example, if we were to suffer the effects of an EMP, our banking system would likely
collapse. Cash would become king again, and those who stored actual dollars under their mattresses might well be the new wealthy. But there might also be a new definition of currency and of wealth; suddenly, the value of certain items would shoot up, while others would be rendered worthless. Vehicles, for example, would be useless without fuel; no matter whether it's a Rolls Royce or an old Morris Minor, they'd be worth the same: nothing.

Bicycles and horses on the other hand? Well, they'd be worth their weight in gold (except gold might not be worth much either...). Horse riding equipment - saddles especially, reins and so on, would become very valuable. The same would apply to carts and other wheeled things that could be pulled by horses. Boats, especially yachts which rely only on the wind for propulsion, would be priceless. Fishing equipment - rods, reels, lines, hooks, nets... all worth a fortune in terms of survival. 

And, sadly, weapons would become a must-have for many people, especially those wishing to defend their properties and possessions against raiders. 

Rural properties become very desirable

Raiders? Certainly. The 1987 report briefly notes that it would be rural properties - those with land for growing their own vegetables, perhaps running chickens, maybe with goats for milk, perhaps wind and solar for power - that would be the most desirable. Anyone currently living off-grid will know this. So (although the report doesn't mention this) once food starts to run out in the cities and towns, people would begin to seek alternative sources of food. It's not inconceivable that raiding parties might be organised by certain groups, who would set out to find these country havens of self-sufficiency, with the aim of taking them over for themselves. There could even be a mass migration of people out to rural areas, simply because the supply systems within cities and towns would have broken down. Therefore, rural property owners who were not prepared to accommodate refugees from the urban areas would need to be ready to defend themselves. With what?

Crossbow: a weapon of choice

Guns, yes, but they would be useful only as long as you had ammunition. Crossbows on the other hand, where a bolt could be retrieved from a fallen target and used again and again, would be a weapon of choice for many. Slingshots ditto, because there would be stones aplenty for ammo. Pitchforks, machetes and knives for close-quarter fighting. Battery acid in squirtable containers. It's all horrifying to contemplate, but it's something we should be thinking about - and it's likely something the billionaires have not considered. You can't hide behind a bank balance.

My research does not show up anything that suggests New Zealand is officially prepared for survival in the event of a northern hemisphere nuclear war. There appears to be a lack of policy in this respect, and any contingency planning for disasters is geared far more (and some would argue rightly so) towards natural hazards such as earthquakes, flooding, volcanoes, and tsunamis. We have alert systems in place for these, and contingency planning for all of them. We are prepared for natural disasters.

Goodnight Vienna (and everywhere else...)

My own belief is that New Zealand society would undergo a huge upheaval if the Doomsday Clock ticked through to midnight and the northern hemisphere experienced a major nuclear conflict, but that it would, after a while, self-level. 

Kiwis would rise to the occasion. Yes there would be segments of society that would seize the opportunity to divide into clans, to try and gain the upper hand, to simply take what was not theirs, but they would be defeated. Ultimately, good would prevail, although the chances of life returning to the 'normal' we have become used to would be unlikely. We would, however, survive, and eventually, grow.

But if you're a billionaire reading this, you might want to think about a Plan B instead of just fleeing to New Zealand. Because your wealth and status would likely have little relevance in Aotearoa's New World. Ask yourself, what could you do with a piece of number eight fencing wire?