Working class heroes

The beautiful town with it’s immense body of water closed by the snowy mountain tops. An outdoor adventure paradise with paragliding, rock climbing, snowboarding down the slopes to end the day in one of the many bars. Nightlife is vibrant and non-stop, week days do not exist for a town where the retirees and the backpackers live side by side. A town of the rich and famous next to the poor hard working European travelers. Middle class houses who can’t cope with the winter cold. The town of sponsorship’s in longing for that ticket that grants permission to the lands.

The daily 5 O’clock happy hour extending into a blur. Mornings slow unsteady stumbling out of the comfort warm into the ice cold winter mist. Head aching carrying a numb body to it’s seat, staring at the pulsating fluorescent light with wavy view. Time moves so slow I can see the dust assemble on my desk. Lunch breaks the day the cloudy vision on it’s recovery. The pores ventilate last nights vague memories. A quick sandwich or a pie with the clock on guard. Unwilling driving along the front line of the blue mystery. For my green card, for them, for the queen.

Entrapped behind the bars of social circles. In the spirit of the rhythm, the beat of the drum, the mind numbing. Rolling wheels round and round. Five O clock happy hour, plastic and paper call insufficient funds. The wheelbarrow will take me on. Too many, too snug to go home. The Tuesday lorry will fill my vault. Go on deep into the Saturday night, waking surprised in my own bed. Relax, stay in bed, can’t deal with people today.

A rude and noisy alarm interrupts a long needed rest to return to the fluorescent fly trap. A garage box shared by the four heroes of the rectangle display. Silent, always silent, pretentiously working, running fingers over the keys, hoping for a human interaction. A little spark of excitement when the phone rings, not enough to light the fire. A little visit for a common issue, have to work fast there are dollars on the clock. Changing the invoice to my inner voice calling for justice. The officials received my application it can’t take long anymore this is only temporary.



Mail arrived says my notification, you received the green light to stay in our country. Relief fell over me like a cold shower. Released of the burden not released from the tasks. Resign and quit this unfulfilling lifestyle, I felt for the man who gave me the opportunity and tried again to make it work. A morning months after the good news I pick up my phone to drown in sorrow. I have to be honest I can’t do this anymore. Returning the borrowed clothes and tools not much was said. Not even a goodbye, a thank you for your service. I broke down, locked in the bubble not able to get back on the train.

Get out you’ve been here long enough! I’d been living in the bubble and when bubbles hit the rock wall they burst. Packing up what I could carry surprised by a celebrated goodbye. The many beautiful souls, the many friends from the many social circles. Truthfully waving me goodbye. I still love Wanaka, the place where your always welcomed, the friendly people, the great social atmosphere.

The depressing thoughts have made me look different at the world. I am thankful and forgiving for the life I had chosen. Would I have done it different, perhaps, perhaps not, everything happens for a reason as they say. Everything is a lesson, a class chosen by myself. Now weary of the hole knowing that there is no more treasure to be found behind the bars. 40 hours a week in silence staring at a computer screen, infused with the narcotics of nightlife, the combination which painted the town black.

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