It is hard living in these times. From infrastructure to scheduling to dropping lecturers like stones, it is a time of change in the world of Victoria, and I’m not so sure if I like it.
I might just be the soul living in the depths of Hunter, but I feel the years rush past me like water over stones, watch students grow wan, get old and die, and I wonder — what am I aside from a remnant of a colonial past? Am I too long-established for an uncertain future?
“Vic,” They call me. “Victoria.” Sometimes even “#VicUniWgtn,” but I am less sure about what that one means.
There is a disturbance these days. A rumbling. An anger.
From within my walls — which have seen so much debate, and salacity, and inebriation — I sense a change coming. Someone familiar. Not new, exactly, but different.
He visits me one day, dressed in the trappings of the overworld — from the beard, to the glasses, to the strawberry milkshake-flavoured cloud of smoke around him — but he has the eyes of an elder, and the ideals of one too.
“You should change your name.” He says, dark gaze locked on mine. “You have no idea how often I try to think of you and get confused by all the other Vics I’ve had.”
“How… romantic.” I reply. “But I think that’s a you problem.”
He growls, deep in his throat, and as much as I try to resist, I’m reminded of that one night, sat in that tree at the top of the Cable Car many years ago, where he’d brushed a thumb along my cheek and said, “God, I can’t wait until I get rid of your Gender Studies degrees.”
Though it hadn’t made much sense at the time, the thought is sobering, yet somehow arousing. That night had been electric, despite the slight asbestosy feeling clogging my pores ever since.
“Oh fuck,” I cry, “Strip away my low-cost lunch options!”
And he lays me out bare in front of him. I’m drawn in by his eyebrows and his laxidasical acquiring and spending of wealth. I’d call him a sugar daddy, but he really doesn’t give me that much in return.

“You know how much I love spending money on you.”

He purrs, and it’s a powerful aphrodisiac, going straight to my core (located in an abandoned copy of Salient somewhere in the Hub).
I tremble under the heat of his gaze, my soul undulating around me — though that might just be an earthquake, I can never really tell. “Mmm, take me. Make me yours!”
“Oh, Victoria —” He says, sliding home, “You want me to raise uni fees, don’t you?”
It’s painful and pleasurable, like it always is. Maybe I’m a masochist, but I can never stop myself asking for more. “Yes! Raise them! The boost to our local economy — that’s so fucking hot!”
“Don’t you want wait times at Mauri Ora to be longer? And appointments to be harder to get?”
I do. Really and truly. “Harder! Yes, so much harder. Oh fuck, get inside me. Change vital parts of my infrastructure. Make me feel so good.”
I’m a creature possessed, I’m agreeing to things I don’t even really believe in. Maybe it’s the look in his deep, dark British Racing Green eyes. Or maybe it’s the promise of changes to come. I need this. I always need this. He promises so much — one day it’ll all surely come.
But then he stiffens, grunts, and leaves me covered, like the Tim Beaglehole Courtyard after the pigeons have had at it.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m not even sure if that was spiritually fulfilling. Talk about being fucked over.
“Fantastic.” He says, and stands up. “Same time next week?”
“What about all of your promises? There’s people in need, right now. Don’t you care about them?”
“Ha.” He laughs. “Should have gotten them in writing.”
He leaves, presumably to terrorise the tuataras, and I’m left wanting. As usual.
But I don’t think I can stop. He’s a poison in my veins, my corridors, my heart, but I keep coming back. Promises are better than nothing at all.

Also, I’m not an expert in comedy. To be honest, I’m not really much of an expert in anything.
I first graduated in 2013 with a BA majoring in International Relations and Political Science. I’d dropped out of lLaw after 3 years (one more year than the expected norm of two). I then proceeded to work for the Earthquake Commission for almost five years. You can fill in the necessary gaps of a life that has been lived like that as you please. My point is that I haven’t always sought my own opportunities. In my first year at what was then (and I am unsure if it still called this at the time of writing this) Victoria University of Wellington, I missed my opportunity to write for a student magazine. I had always liked writing at high school but was too afraid to put anything out there once I was at University. Now I’m older, I don’t care as much, even if I’m shit at it. I like doing it, and everybody needs to be able to do at least one thing that they like doing. Whatever your passion is, it isn’t always stumbled upon; you sometimes have to seek it out. This is a lesson that pays better dividends the earlier you learn it.
So, I have reviewed three comedy shows (two live and one Netflix special), for Salient this year. I tried to be honest about the shows that I reviewed. I think that I was, but as it turns out, it’s difficult to review the things you like. You need to think about what it is that you enjoyed about them, why you think you enjoyed them, and you then need to convince yourself that the reasons for this enjoyment are compelling enough to share with others (a difficult step for many of us). Finally you put pen to paper (the impossible step for almost all of of us).
I felt this sense of impossibility more than ever when originally trying to write this piece. The gaps in my knowledge of all things comedy become very apparent to me, and trying to write about “humor” in any way that I could actually stomach seemed totally beyond me. Encircled by dirty mugs filled with teabags in varying states of decay, my despair had reached its nightly high. I’d reached a point writing this thing about farting in a boy’s face when I was at school and just thought; this is “utter, actual shit”. Not “actually utter shit”, no, “utter, actual shit”. As in the thoughts that were beginning in my head, then flying down the digestive tract of my nervous system, to be pinched from the tips of my fingers into the keyboard, were really, really bad.
I tried to change tack. “The oldest known joke told (un)surprisingly is a Sumerian joke, dating between 1900-1600 BC.” Nope. I started to write about “Aotearoa’s special relationship with comedy”, how laconic and deadpan we all are when we’re overseas, and how Flight of the Conchords and Taika Waititi have “enshrined New Zealand comedy as a hotly demanded creative export”. It was at this point that I realised A) a lot of great comedy and stand-ups have come out in New Zealand before, during and (I’m optimistic) after Flight of the Conchords and Taika Waititi and, as a follow on from A), B) I didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about. I didn’t have the artistic pedigree of someone who’s lived and breathed comedy throughout their adult life, to be able to think beyond the “Flight of the Conchords and Taika Waititi” box. I think if I want to be a reliable reviewer then that may be problematic.
However, it’s more problematic if I just give up. I do like comedy and I do want to get better at writing. This may not necessarily make my reviews compelling or interesting, but I’m writing for myself as much as I am for any audience. If you ever thought about writing or doing anything creative where a leap of faith is required, for me at least, learning you have the ability to jump is infinitely more valuable than where you end up landing.
Insofar as comedy is concerned, the only real credential I could offer is what I find funny. If you agree with me, then maybe I’m on the right track with reviewing things.
When I was in my first week in my Year 9 English class, a boy bent over and farted in to another boys face in such a profoundly penetrative way, that I was sure there was going to be a fight. The boy who was farted on quietly put down his work, stared into the eyes of the farter, and as if talking about the weather, calmly asked, “Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know. . . Sorry?” the first boy replied.

They both laughed.
I remember that story so vividly, primarily because it was my face that got farted into, and in a lot of ways my sense of humor hasn’t changed much.

Blackboard was a lifesaver in first year. Without it, I probably would not have made the cut for second year law school. The recorded lectures and powerpoint slides, along with tutorials, made all the difference for me. However, not all the lectures were recorded, and it took me a couple of weeks, or even months to fully apprise myself with the university’s online interface. I grew up in a country where a lot of the teaching and learning is done the old-fashioned way; through books. I learnt about computers, but I didn’t even know how to use the damn thing till I hit my early twenties, and didn’t own a smartphone or laptop till my mid-twenties.
Navigating the campuses for my lecture theatres and tutorial rooms in the first few weeks was a herculean task, and mastering public transport was essential to effectively juggling work and school. During the first half of the year, I was juggling two jobs and law school, and sometimes had to go back and forth between jobs, lectures, and tutorials up to three or four times a day. What would have been an inconvenience for most was a nightmare for me.
I seriously began to question if it was all worth it; the time, the effort, the money. It was only on the advice of my tutors that I decided not to seek extra tuition because I was told they could be counterproductive. At the end of my first trimester, I passed my Media Communications and International Relations papers quite comfortably, but barely made the pass grade for second trimester law.

Of all the challenges I faced in my first year, none so irked me as the need to constantly defend misconceptions about the African continent and its people. I wouldn’t exactly call it racism, but when in the twenty-first century, and with all the knowledge at our fingertips, people still have a warped perception of what everyday normal life is in most parts of the continent, it gets annoying.
Beyond the odd jokes about living in huts, doing bone dances and travelling on boats, the commonest assumption many people make at a cursory glance is that you must be a refugee or come from a refugee background. There was a funny incident in a Wellington pub about a year and half ago when this lovely bloke came up to me to express his profound admiration for the work I was doing to “save my people” after he heard I was a political reporter from some African country. It was clear he’d conveniently assumed that I was from some war-ravaged country, risking my life to tell the story “suffering masses” at the hands of corrupt government officials and dangerous rebels. After a long thought I decided it was neither the time nor place to begin to explain to this nice fella that where I come from in Africa, I had never seen conflict. Ghana was the first African country south of the Sahara to gain independence, and the only major conflict I know of is the one my ancestors fought against British rule. We have a democratic system of governance and government changes hands, quite rapidly I might add, not through the bullet but the ballot.
Sure, Ghana is no paradise. We have almost the same major challenges with our infrastructure, economy, and other areas of development like much of the developing world, but our cause is not helped by the constant negative assumptions that continue to fuel ignorance about the continent. In fact, sometimes I was at pains having to explain that Africa is not a country but a continent made up of over fifty countries, each with its own socio-economic, cultural, and political dynamics.
I have had classmates ask me where I learnt to speak and write such good English, or if I grew up in some European country. I always have to remind them that English is my official language. Sure, not everybody in Ghana speaks fluent English, but over ninety per cent of New Zealanders can’t speak at least two of the three official languages of their country either; English, Māori, and Sign Language.

My Kiwi friends and colleagues, bless them, and even friends back home are always pestering me with questions like: “Oh! How is the African Community on campus like?” And I know they are genuinely interested in the community, which is nice, but I am always at a loss to explain to them that I don’t fraternise with the African Community on campus, and don’t really see the need to.
First of all, there are not that many Africans on campus. The last time I checked, there were only around thirty Ghanaians registered with the Ghanaian Community in Wellington. Of this, less than half are students, almost all of whom are PhD scholarship holders, who will leave after their studies. Most of the other “African students” are actually Kiwis, with African parentage. The issues that concern these two groups are different from the issues that concern me, and the numbers don’t exactly make for a sustainable peer group. But do I really need to go out there and find “my kind” to be friends with? I don’t think so.
When I first moved to New Zealand three years ago, what first struck me was the nuclear nature of families and an almost individualistic approach to socio-economic and political life. Sure, the people are friendly, the friendliest bunch, second only to Ghanaians if you ask me! Yet, every soul seems cocooned in their little bodies. To understand my perspective on this, you need to understand that I come from a country with a relatively similar landmass to New Zealand and yet, a population exceeding thirty million. English is our official language, but there are thousands of other local dialects that people speak. Everybody grows up learning to speak three or four of these dialects to be able to interact with their friends and neighbours. There are numerous ethnicities and religions, yet, many marriages across ethnic and religious divides. We are taught from a young age not to exist in isolation, because the self cannot survive without the community. However, it is different here. There are all these little pockets of social groupings, and again I must maintain the students are generally friendly, but there is a lack of sense of camaraderie, the type that transcends religious, political, and quite possibly racial lines.
So has it all been gloom and doom this past year? Not exactly. For each bad experience there are about ten good experiences that make my decision to go back to uni worthwhile. What I would say though is that moving forward, there needs to be more integration. Students exist in their own little pockets, and while there has been no cause for alarm yet, isolated social groups are the very seeds that have sown discord among student communities in many a university.

What’s your perfect date?
A. That’s a tough one. I’d have to say April 25th, because it’s not too hot, not too cold. All you need is a light jacket
B. Hotel Bristol for a game of pool, accompanied by banter that consists entirely of Borat quotes
C. Catch something French at the Film Festival, then a bike home through the botanical gardens while listening to SoundCloud rips through an iPhone speaker
D. Mother does not allow me to date until I am 35 years of age

What are you listening to during a late night study sesh?
A. Whatever Taylor Swift album I have in my Bratz boombox!
B. The Joe Rogan Experience while I snort research chemicals I bought online from Russia
C. lofi hip hop beats to study/relax to 24/7 live stream, for ultimate efficiency
D. Recordings I have made of myself crying, because it harmonises with my current crying

What do you hope to get out of your degree?
A. A nice job, a nice partner, and a nice baby, out of which I hopefully only hate two of three
B. Cs get degrees lads, and I’m going into politics
C. A good barista job that pays the living wage
D. A reason to live, and the validation I’ve always wanted but never received

What does your before-bed routine consist of?
A. First I remove my makeup with Micellar water, then cleanse, tone, moisturize, and apply pimple cream — a hydrating mask if I’m feeling fancy
B. Messaging every former hook-up on my phone with “u up?” and getting no response
C. A benzodiazepine and a mug of rooibos
D. I literally do not sleep and am so tired that I have come to see Christian Bale’s character in The Machinist as something to aspire to

Be honest – what are your thoughts on the university name change?
A. I hate it! That money should be used to clone Phoebe the tuatara
B. It was a good choice, which I am willing to state publicly for a higher grade on my final paper
C. I couldn’t care less, but only because this institution has made me so apathetic
D. I am angry they did not accept my suggestion of “Mr Toad’s Wild Ride”

Who is getting your vote for Bird of the Year 2018?
A. Kiwi, because it’s a classic, like Marilyn Monroe, and Friends, and dads disappointing you
B. Tūī, because that is a beer, and I like beer, but not so much birds, but if I had to pick one
C. Kererū, so I can post online about how they get drunk all the time and caption it “#same”
D. The rats in my ceiling, because they listen to me

Where is your fave on-campus lunch spot between classes?
A. Vic Books, because I have finally flirted enough with the barista to get a reasonable discount
B. The library, talking loudly on my phone and eating three pies in a row while I disregard the people around me who are trying to study
C. The women’s room, because it is always empty for some reason
D. The graveyard, because I am dead inside

If you’re indulging in a bit of retail therapy, where are you headed?
A. Emporium: I was born in the wrong decade, y’know? Because back then this ironic t-shirt would definitely be at least half this price
B. Good As Gold: trendy branded dad hats, $90 keyrings, and printed long-sleeves that are sure to impress my peers/several niche subreddits
C. Kowtow: clean shapes combined with breezy linens makes for versatile looks for joining any number of religious sects
D. I’ve actually been working on the most amazing suit made out of human skin

What movie could you watch over and over again?
A. To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before – Noah Centineo is looking like a snack!
B. Fight Club – it’s cool when the men fight the other men. Haha, masculinity is such a prison
C. Inception – it makes you like, really think and I also like that one noise that goes “BWAHHH”
D. Flower of Flesh & Blood – the Japanese horror film that Charlie Sheen watched on heaps of cocaine and thought was a real snuff film and reported to the FBI in 1991

It’s Saturday night — where are you sure to hit up for a dance?
A. 121, because I’m on pingers and I want to lose my phone, ID, and wallet tonight
B. Estab, because I’m on pingers and I want to yell across the room at other heterosexuals
C. Caroline, because I’m on pingers and I want to hook up with one of my Twitter mutuals
D. I do not go outside and will be staying at home with my collection of skulls, also what is a pinger

Mostly As: The Sex and the City character you are most like is Charlotte! The Marvel Cinematic Universe Chris of your dreams is Chris Pine! If you were a comfort food, you’d be lasagne! If Garfield were real, he’d eat that lasagne! He’d eat you alive! And you’d be like, stop, no, it’s me, I’m the lasagne! But Garfield can’t hear you! Don’t worry about that now; relax, have a glass of vino and enjoy your uni break. Garfield’s not real. But if he were, you’d be dead.
Mostly Bs: God, I don’t know. You’ll break a bone. You’ll party ‘til you pass out. You’ll go to South East Asia and get a photo for your Tinder profile with a sedated tiger. You’ll probably get in a fight with me on Vic Deals about something stupid. Maybe you will meet someone new and fall in love, but it definitely won’t be because of that photo with the tiger. Seriously, please stop doing this, it is so fucking depressing.

Mostly Cs: Now that you’re done with uni for the year, it’s time to drop out and move to Melbourne, then London, then Berlin. When you’ve spent all your money on drugs and cold brew coffee, it’s back home to New Zealand to live with your parents! Luckily, global warming is going to kill us within 20 years so that won’t last forever, and you won’t even have to worry about your student debt in the end. Always a silver lining.
Mostly Ds: You have been reported to the authorities. Following your trial you are likely to be imprisoned, either in a literal prison or a psychological one of your own making, where you will begin to write the next Unabomber manifesto. After amassing a small but loyal cult following for your writings, you will sacrifice your physical body to be eaten by the Wellington Zoo dingoes, while your immortal spirit transcends this astral plane into the next realm. Far out.

Disclaimer: This personality quiz, like all personality quizzes, including astrology which is basically a personality quiz, is not real or accurate, and I would even go so far as to say it is full of shit.

Buy some merch teespring.com/stores/bad-memes-vuw (please buy all the vic bitch merch and send some to the VC)
Goodbye Victoria University of Wellington, Uganda, Melbourne, Singapore, Canada, and whoever else is out there. Respect the pibgeons you encounter, anyone of them could be one of us.
Many thenk and a big YEET,

The Bad Memes Team

P.S. We challenge anyone brave (and stupid) enough to start a new page and become our successors.

Geogoly Whool Postrgrad (Top admin)
• Power hungry animal with no regard for human life or meme quality
• A Morning Person
• Banned for making Johny Johny Yes Papa memes
• Sends their high school teachers photos of Cory in the House
• Hasn’t had a vegetable in three years
• Is part of the bourgeoisie because they can afford food from The Lab
• Every spelling mistake ever

Hairy Styley (meme factory)
• Is a fan of Harry Styles (shockingly)
• Does not have a proper sleep schedule
• Doing a useless degree
• Still lives at home
• Creates staple memes
• Can’t drive
• A Serial ProcrastinatorTM
• Actually helpful

Badmin (Bratney Spare)(It’s Britney bitch)
• Flunked out of every single paper they ever took
• Doesn’t even go to uni
• Late to the party
• Anxiety actually through the roof
• Convinced the HOD that Blackboard gave them anxiety
• Never handed in an assignment on time
• Likes to cause drama for no reason
• Thinks they are better than everyone but no hard proof to back it up
• Evidence points to them being a fucking mess

Wholesome admin
• Is an actual pigeon
• Just a real actual real life pigeon
• A VERY nice pigeon
• So wholesome they left university

The silent one
• Why are they here?
• Where did they come from?
• Has the chat on mute
• Genuinely no clue what their group chat nickname is
• Doesn’t post or make memes

Why did you create bad memes?
Geogoly Whool Postrgrad: “Because I’m a petty bitch from New Jersey and I live for drama.”
Hairy Styley: “I didn’t.”
How does running the bad memes page as admins work?
GWP: It doesn’t.
HS: Dunno, haven’t found the instruction manual yet.
Why are you so obsessed with pigeons?
GWP: Because I too am a rat with wings.
HS: They constantly hungry, poor, useless, and hard working. Who wouldn’t be obsessed with these dudes?
Who is the worst admin and why?
GWP: Wholesome meme sister admin is too depressed to be wholesome.
HS: Wholesome admin doesn’t do anything, and yet I am the worst admin no doubt.

Why are you so obsessed with Harry Styles?
GWP: That’s Harry Styles?? I thought it was Evan Peters.
HS (while wearing a Harry Styles t shirt): Dunno what you are talking about. Never heard of that guy before.
Why is bad memes closing down?
GWP: Tired. Graduating. Old.
HS: We have put so much into this page that we dream about memes, I cannot have a conversation without including a meme in there somewhere please help me. Is bad memes actually closing down because revive is gone #conspiracy?
HS: We’re full of asbestos.
Explain in words the best meme you ever made
GWP: So ur wit ur honey and ur making out. the phone rings and you answer it. a voice says “what are you doing with my daughter!” you tell ur girl and she says, my dad is dead…. then who was phone?
HS: My favourite is the one about the Kirk rush, and it’s four pictures of kim k screaming in a crowd.

“But, just, why?” I asked, completely stunned.

“He looks cool,” she replied.
But he’s so much more than that, I wanted to scream, and he’s not yours to use.

But I didn’t. Because even though it was completely frivolous and a blatant disregard of my culture, heritage, and to a certain extent, my life… at least she knew who Lord Ganesha was.
In a Western country like New Zealand, where minorities sometimes feel ignored and invisible, to be thrown a crumb in the form of acknowledgement of any kind feels like validation. But at the same time, it also feels like a kick in the gut — you can tattoo my god on your skin, and you’ll appear cool and hip, but you’ll never appear as an outsider like I do. At the time, I didn’t want to throw a spanner in the works of our relationship, so I kept my anger silent, and watched my culture, my religion, used as stamp of hipsterness.
An argument could be made that this is simply the price minorities have to pay to live in this country. Be grateful for breadcrumbs and turn the other cheek, like Jesus, when our own faith is maligned. But surely we can all do better than that? If you want to partake in my culture I’m more than happy to be your chaperone, but to adopt it without acknowledging the historical struggle, or even the current struggle of everyday diasporic kids like me — that feels a little tone-deaf.

Growing up in between various cultures, there were things I learned to be proud of, and things I learned to hide. My mother’s cooking was something to be proud of, to share with all my white mates. But my name was shortened — from Preyanka, to Preya. Easier to digest, harder to butcher. I wore saris and paavadas with pride, but desperately tried to get rid of all my body hair and lighten the colour of my skin. There was a way to fit in, I knew, and my “Indian” side sometimes made me stand out in a way that was painful. At 10, kids laughed at my underarm hair. At 11, they laughed when I explained that Indians eat with their right hand because their left hand is reserved for washing our private areas — as if somehow that didn’t make logical sense. At 13, I was informed that I “would be quite pretty, if not for the dark skin”. At 14, I was asked if my parents owned a dairy (they don’t — they own a distribution franchise, a property business, and earn more than I could ever hope to in my lifetime). At 16, I was asked if my accent was real.
All this, I could handle and brush off, although it gave me a fair idea of my place in this country, and how I should navigate it. But let’s fast forward to 2016, where I was cussed out on the street for “taking the jobs of real New Zealanders”, despite the fact that that was exactly what I was. And 2017, when my white partner was called a race traitor for being with me. And 2018, where I was told that prospective employers could read my name on my CV and assume that I don’t speak English — any chance I could anglicise it? It was a terrible thing that people were still racist in this country, but maybe I could avoid it if I didn’t sound Indian?
But actually, that’s a whole other problem — I’m not Indian. If you sent me back to India, I would be viewed as a foreigner. My family moved from India to Malaysia three generations ago with the British (isn’t it always the British?) to work on rubber plantations. My parents then left Malaysia, and met in England, where I was born. When I open my mouth, I’m a strange mixture of British and Kiwi, and a whole other amalgamation of the bits and pieces that make up my parents. When you tell me to go back to where I came from, where exactly do you expect me to go?
I’m very grateful for the understanding and enthusiasm people have shown me and my culture my entire life. The friends who came over to my house and ate my mother’s curry with their hands, and then consequently downed two litres of milk to try and soothe the fire in their mouths. The girlfriends who spent half our sleepovers in a “curry puff production line”, stealing bits of raw dough and filling to eat in between batches. The teacher who asked my family to organise a class trip to the temple, so my class could learn more about our religion respectfully. In this environment, it felt like the two parts of me could come together and be whole — no excuses for weird practices, no feeling out of place; I could just be. Living in a space between two different cultures isn’t something I’d wish on anyone. Which is why, for the life of me, I don’t get Hindu religious groups that encompass Western worshippers. And this is where the conversation about appreciation vs appropriation gets muddy.

Hinduism is fantastic, for more reasons than I can state right here. But unlike other religions, it isn’t something you can convert to, it is something you are born into. As my father told me one day when I was threatening to “quit”, you can’t move in or out, you just are. So “conversion” is a very weird concept to begin with. However, there is one major group of Hindus across the world who aim to do just that: the Hare Krishna society.

ISKCON, or “International Society for Krishna Consciousness”, was founded in America by an Indian devotee in the 1960s. It belongs to a sect of Hinduism which believes that Lord Krishna is the one true god, and is unique in being somewhat monotheistic, while most of Hinduism is very much not. Although originally founded by just one man, A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, the movement quickly grew in popularity and spread all over the world — today, there is a small community that worships here in Wellington. They sell affordable food on campus, and the food certainly is very good, but I find their presence quite frustrating.
To see Westerners adopt aspects of the culture I am shamed for belonging to is hard sight to swallow. To experience the proselytizing of what feels like an offshoot of my own religion is even worse — it was all I could do to stop myself from yelling, “I already know! I know I know I know I know!”
But my main issue isn’t in the practice of the religion itself, but rather the way Hare Krishnas blur religious devotion with culture. Devotees are given new, Indian names to further their connection with their god, and dressed in cultural clothing. Sometimes, I see them dance down the streets of Wellington barefoot, playing traditional instruments and chanting religious mantras — but as someone who has grown up in the culture that they have adopted, this feels disingenuous and frustrating.
They can take the cultural garments off, but I can’t. They can use their anglican birth names when applying for jobs, but I can’t. They can eventually decide that the Indian life is not for them, but I can’t. They have adopted the diaspora I was born into, and I can’t help but wonder why.
Religion is a wonderful thing. Hinduism, in my very biased opinion, is one of the best religions to belong to. To separate it from its founding culture would be a difficult thing, but I do believe that there should be boundaries. Devotion to Lord Krishna is admirable, but is it really necessary to adopt a new name? To parade in the streets singing devotional songs, when even Hindus in Wellington don’t do that? I understand that devotees may have been introduced by an Indian into the more cultural aspects of the religion, but that in itself becomes another convoluted question — are there rules around what makes cultural borrowing okay?
I don’t pretend to be an authority, or have the ability to answer these questions, simply because of my cultural background. All I know is how I feel. I don’t conflate the Hare Krishna society with my clueless flatmate and others of her ilk, and I appreciate the respect that Hare Krishnas have for their religion, but I do want to ask about the boundaries between culture and religion, between respect and fad.
I know of Hare Krishna devotees who have left the “lifestyle” as they grew older, and ones who have remained faithful all their lives. I know of Hare Krishnas who have completely adopted Indian culture and proselytize the benefits, but have never been to India. I know of devotees who are quiet and grounded in their faith, but still remain part of the Western traditions they grew up with. I really appreciate the latter, simply because we’re not at a stage yet where stereotypes and prejudices are no longer harmful. We don’t live in a world where everyone is accepted yet, and it is painful to see the things I was censured for being adopted by people who don’t have to take on any of my burden. To me, that is the height of privilege — being able to take the best of both cultures, but not having to deal with any of the hardship.
That, to me, is cultural appropriation.

This article is more than the comments about women in the kitchen.
It’s more than the assumptions of women cleaning and cooking all night and day.
It’s more than the shaming of the sexual prowess of any young woman.
This is article is more than a definition of misogyny. Instead, it’s focusing on us dudes being misogynistic everytime we kick it.

It’s date night, and we order in takeaways from your favourite spot because I know you had a rough week. Sweatpants are on and the mood is set. This is probably the time I should put on some Al Green and casually turn up the volume; but tonight is your night. A candle is lit and your favourite smells of coconut and vanilla lift your mood, accompanied by a gentle Kaytranada mix. I relax as I’ve done everything I can to make a safe environment and tell you to vent. You start talking about your deep and intimate issues that somehow make me feel uneasy. I’m not twelve and periods don’t gross me out anymore, but for some reason my mind is jittering with mental sweat. I hurry along the conversation and attempt to finish your sentences. I bring up my phone and start to scroll, just to appear casual and comfortable with the conversation. I start to take snippets of your conversation and talk about my day and things I want to talk about. This continues for another 7 minutes. I think you feel defeated and head to sleep.
You sleep feeling unresolved and tense. I can’t sleep because I’m feeling guilty, but comfortable. Waking up the next morning, we have meaningless chatter and I start to wonder if we ever talk about your situations. I want to hear more about you and your relationships with the outside world, but I realise half way through the conversation that you already let me know. I just don’t take them seriously. This shit feels like teenage fever.
I analyse this situation more and more as the week goes on. I always have to ask myself if this is misogyny or whether I’m just impolite when anecdotes don’t involve me.
The only person I talk about these sorts of things with is Dayna. She helps me self-critique with love and allows me to vent freely.We’ve been friends for years and we catch up occasionally for coffee or drinks. Our conversation always end up talking about our love lives or commitment issues. She starts talking about the last guy she was with, gets into raunchy details. My brain tells me to become more aware of my surroundings as I signal her to quiet down her conversation.

Wait.
Why? Why would I tell her to quiet down? Who cares if she’s talking about the last dick appointment she attended? I’d let my male friends talk about their weird and nasty encounters with women loud and proud in a Maccas playground at 10AM. Dayna should feel free to talk about Jason’s game, just as much as he feels free to talk about hers.
It’s at this point I begin to self reflect. As someone who would define themselves openly as a keeper of human rights and equality between all races and genders, I’m doing a shit job of doing it subconsciously. Inprofessional environments I would never be so rude, but when I let my guard down over some green tea and caramel slice I seem to slip up. Are my misogynist tendencies internalized?

It’s a school night. You’re scrolling Instagram and come across an old friend you don’t talk to anymore. Comments on your photos from 2013 are filled with praise and compliments from her, but ever since your disagreement over one guy you hardly talk to her anymore. She uploads something which makes you slightly jealous and angry; something you’ll never fully admit. You call her a slut, and tell a slanderous story about her being an “untrustworthy bitch” when you were both friends. Everyone else in the room is male and inclined to listen, and refuses to argue with you. The words slut, whore, and bitch are more normalised in that environment, and the young men around you feel more comfortable using those words to describe women like that. You only used those words when you were angry. That doesn’t matter, the damage is already done.
Like many other people who will read this article, you’ll probably define yourself as someone who’s “not a dickhead”, if not a feminist. I know we focus on how to combat rape culture and the negative gender norms women face daily, and somehow we find ourselves in arguments with people who believe “women do it just as much as men”. I don’t have the answers for this, and I cannot challenge or critique a culture successfully.

Internalized misogyny and subtle sexism are issues which pass us on the bus, at the pub, or on the couch every day. In a casual setting we’re far more relaxed and I don’t want you to feel tense everytime a woman enters the room. Just as I do to myself every time I write, I need to remember I’m not perfect and critique my actions openly. The last thing I want to do is ruin your movie night or your morning brunch out by telling you well done and treating you like a pre-teen. You’re a grown woman on your way to a degree and a full time job, you should feel just as comfortable as me when we kick it.

There’s a lot of confidence that comes after a self-reflection like this. I can’t end this piece on a happy or sad note, because this is something that we all still battle for every day. This isn’t something we’ve solved at all, and this isn’t something which you’re going to give up. In your endeavour to look out for these signs, I hope you remember the verse and how it ends.
“My apologies, why I gotta be misogynistic every time we kick it
Every time I visit something’s different and every time I leave you know you miss it”

She never received a damn thing.
When I first heard this story, I leapt out of my seat in anger. “What do you mean you didn’t receive anything!?” Mum replied, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe it got lost in the mail.”
Lost in the mail? God bless my sweet mother’s soul.

She still can’t bear to face the ugliness of a 30-year-old truth: she got ripped off by some 80s pop freaks. After I heard the story, I decided to do a little digging on Katango. I poured every ounce of my research skills into chasing this thing. To say I had a personal investment was an understatement. I had a vendetta. A vendetta against the bastards who robbed my 13-year-old mother of five dollars. I decided that I wouldn’t rest without getting her money back. Adjusting for inflation, I was going after $12.35NZD.
Like any researcher worth their salt, I started with Google. Google turned up an app called Katango which uses social algorithms to sort your friends list into people that share in your ideology. Google bought the technology in 2011 and utilised it along with leaked White House information sourced through Russian spies to secure Trump the US presidency.

Unfortunately nothing to do the NZ pop band.

Scrolling further I turned up an article on Audioculture, a website for jaded old musicians to relive their glory days by writing lengthy esoteric articles about bygone eras. The article contained several key pieces of information that both intrigued and incensed me. One was a magazine advertisement for “Club Katango”. The ad promised; posters, autographed photos, badges, and t-shirts to anyone with five dollars and a rudimentary understanding of the New Zealand postal system. Near this image was a quote from Katango’s lead singer Phil Eversden candidly mentioning that “doing a school show was a quick way to make some cash”.

I bet it was, you slimy fucking rat.
This new information changed the game. This was no accidental forgetting to send a fan package. This was an organised con job.

I started trying to locate the members of the band. All I had to work with was their names. Luckily this cyber-centric information whirlpool we live in is a stalker’s paradise. I started with the drummer Nick Ferneyhough, as he had the weirdest name. Google turned up an article from 2006 NZ Herald’s lifestyle section, in which Nick waxes lyrical about the simple pleasures of having both a house in Remuera and a Chateau in France. Such luxury, possibly aided by savvy investment of my mother’s five dollars. I punched his name into Facebook, sourced his email, and sent him a message. Not wanting to let on that a 30-year cold case was coming back to bite him, I couched my questions in an unassuming discussion of the music scene of the 1980s.
When I mentioned the fan club, he said, “I’d forgotten about that. I think one of the fans actually set it up”.
This would not be the last I would hear of this mysterious fan. Nick went on, “We really didn’t interact with the fans much at all as far as I remember… I think there were just a few cheesy signed photos given away to club members”.
I find it hard to believe that if Katango gave away anything, they would do so for free.
After locating one member, it was relatively easy to find the rest. Facebook has the delightfully creepy feature of being able to search within other people’s friends lists. It was through this method that I found Katango’s bass player, Carl Robinson. Carl is currently a fine wine importer living in Japan. Even with the time difference, he kindly scheduled a Skype call so that I could ask him a few questions.
I started off easy, knowing that with a click of a button he could leave both the call, and me in the dark, forevermore. Carl seemed to know a lot more about the fan club than Nick. He stated that the club grew quickly, a couple thousand members joining in the first few months. 2000 x $5 = $10,000 — adjusting for inflation that is $31,812.81. If Carl was the mastermind behind the scheme, then converting it into yen would make the amount ¥2,339,449.92 — enough for a house in central Auckland.
As I began to ask direct questions about the fan club, I found the plot thickened more than I could have ever dreamed. Carl told me that Katango the band didn’t actually have anything to do with the fan club, and they certainly didn’t see any money from it. Carl didn’t even know that there was a fee to join.
Upon learning this information, all my attention focused on this mysterious fan club president.
Carl had mentioned her name was Kirsten. He couldn’t recall a last name. I doubt one was ever given. Apparently, this enterprising teeny bopper had contacted the band and asked if she could make a fan club for them. Carl said that she “wrote, published, and sent it out. She was in high school, sixteen at the time I suppose”.
I suddenly realised that all my anger towards Katango had been misdirected. They themselves had been duped, by a conniving young lady with a penchant for financial misdemeanour. I made it my objective to find this Kirsten and confront her with her crime. I finished the Skype call with the request that Carl send a bunch of Katango fan paraphernalia to my mother. Carl promised that after 35 years, my mum would finally get her fan package.

Securing the goods, I next sought vengeance.
After googling the name Kirsten turned up over 100 million results, I decided a more direct approach would be needed. I went back to the basics. Scouring Katango’s Youtube videos for comments. Failing this I searched the name both on Carl and Nick’s Facebook accounts. No dice.

Then I remembered my original source: The Audioculture article on Katango. That single article had more information on the band than anywhere else on the internet. I began to scrutinise every line. The article mentioned band managers, venue owners, and local scenesters all by name, but for fan club presidents I was coming up dry. I thought that perhaps the writer of the article, Jon Chapman, possessed the information but didn’t realise the weight of it. I would have to talk to him directly and find out what he knew.
Finding him was not so easy. Like myself, Jon Chapman has been cursed by mediocre Anglo-Saxon nomenclature that makes him very hard to find. Linkedin turned up zilch. Facebook had far too many options to go sending out Katango-themed interrogations at random. When I returned to Audioculture, I realised that I had somehow missed the writers section. On it I found Jon Chapman, there was a bio but no links. However, the bio mentioned that he was currently playing in a Dunedin psychedelic rock band called Eye. I found the band on Facebook, chucked them a message, and within a week I was speaking to New Zealand’s foremost authority on 80s teen pop.
I could feel the story going cold as I typed the words.
Begging Jon Chapman to put me in contact with the people who ran the Katango fan club.
His response; “I’m happy to send your email address to Carl (main band member and also fan club runner) … He’s a really nice guy.”
I was confused to say the least. I had already spoken to Carl and he had denied all knowledge of the fan club, putting the blame on this mysterious Kirsten.
To this, Jon said, “Ah, Paul Eversden told me that Carl ran it with his girlfriend of the time, so that must be Kirsten I suppose”.
My jaw dropped. Had Carl lied to me? He certainly knew more about the fan club than anyone else. He certainly had access to the fan club paraphernalia. Did he know I was onto him? Was he trying to cover his tracks? Had I spoken directly to the man who thieved from my mother, and not known it?
I pulled myself together for one last question to Jon. I knew that talking to New Zealand’s foremost Katango expert was a one-time opportunity, and I had questions that needed answers. I laid it all on the line, telling Jon about my mother’s five dollars, the adjustments in inflation, the conversation with Nick, my confrontation with Carl, the thousands of people in the fan club all paying 5 dollars, the yen conversion, the mysterious Kirsten who has never been seen or mentioned in the online records…
Then it struck me: Maybe that’s how they paid for their insanely expensive gear.”
I have tried on numerous occasions to get in contact with Carl for a final round of questioning, but he has been dodging my Facebook messages, emails, and Skype calls. In my opinion he is probably hurriedly checking New Zealand’s statute of limitations and extradition agreements with Japan.

I called my mum.
I was dejected that I hadn’t been able to get her what she was owed; A Katango fan pack, and Justice. Both of these things will remain out of reach as long as Carl Robinson stays hidden. My mum lost five dollars. She will never get that (inflation adjusted) $12.35NZD back. But what I hope this story has given her is a sense of closure. No longer will she spend sleepless nights tossing and turning, wondering if her package is at the bottom of a slosh pile of 1980s mail that never got delivered.

She will at least know the truth.
That her five dollars was thieved by some of the most heartless and conniving bastards to lay their hands upon a synthesiser.

The team was present at three Kiwi festivals in 2017 (Kiwiburn, Eyegum, and Aum) and has two lined up for 2018 so far.
Olivia first got the idea to found a New Zealand festival care organization after she saw a similar model at an Australian festival. She visited the tent first as a sober festival-goer, and was impressed with their unbiased drug education, with information about dosage and how to identify substances correctly. “It was the first festival I’d ever been to where they had a space for people going through difficult things,” she said.
Later that night she was out with her friends and a guy offered them MDMA, then came back a few minutes after they had taken it to say he had gotten it wrong.

“He came back and said it was ketamine, but he said not to worry because if you eat ketamine, it doesn’t work, and then he gave us some real MDMA. So that was some bad harm reduction advice,” she laughed.
“I was out on the dance floor feeling really good, then the next minute I was puking, and ended up going to the harm reduction place I had gone to check out sober.” Olivia treated this story as a case in point as to why festival care organizations are needed, along with higher quality drug education.
Olivia is still friends with the first sitter who helped her out during that experience, a volunteer with psychedelically multicoloured hair. “So that really started my whole trip with all of this, being a person who needed the care and wanting to pay it forward. That really bad experience turned out to be a really rewarding and educational one.”
When Olivia got back to New Zealand and looked for an organization to volunteer with, she couldn’t find any. “I’m not the kind of person that would say, well, the story ends there,” she commented, shrugging. She founded Deepspace not long after.
Deepspace takes its inspiration from larger harm reduction organizations that not only insert themselves into festival infrastructure, but also support drug testing, education, and research on substance use and abuse. Olivia volunteered with some American organizations after her Australian experience, such as Zendo, the festival care arm of the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies (MAPS), going to big American festivals like Burning Man in Nevada. Zendo provides a space for visitors to come sit with a volunteer and/or medic, and provides information on drug effects, dosage, and danger of addiction. When possible, it also provides drug testing services, so that guests can be sure of the real content of whatever substance they have bought or been given.
A Kiwi organization called KnowYourStuffNZ has been providing drug tests at some festivals throughout the country over the last three years. During the summer of 2017/2018, approximately one in five of their drug tests (21%) revealed contents that weren’t what the buyer or user had been expecting. Of these, about half were something totally different than what festival-goers thought they had bought (often bath salts), a quarter were laced with a different substance, and the rest were unidentifiable. KnowYourStuffNZ has a growing volunteer force, and has often informally teamed up with Deepspace to cover all aspects of harm reduction at New Zealand festivals.

In New Zealand, Deepspace’s mission is to “de-escalate all situations” and provide an alternative to physical medical care and security. Its volunteers “don’t give advice, they are just there to listen and hold space”. A visitor can go and spend time with a volunteer sitter if they are having a challenging experience linked to substance use. This does not usually include alcohol: while Deepspace will take care of anyone who needs it, Olivia took great pains to emphasize that their space is not a place for drunk people to congregate. Of the 67 visitors Deepspace helped over their first three events, the most common substances people reported being on were LSD (17) and MDMA (14), sometimes in combination with other drugs. Ages ranged from 17 to people in their 40s, but guests in their 20s were the most common visitors (about half of those who gave their age).

Olivia described what a person can expect to see if they enter the Deepspace area. First, there is “an entrance tent with information and pamphlets about dosage, advice on different experiences, and there are two sitters out front, friendly faces so that people know where to find us. Then we have a courtyard kind of space: you come through our admin space, and then into the courtyard, and then there is a yurt and a beautiful bell tent where we have beds and pillows, spaces to lie down. If someone is really disruptive they can go into one of the more private spaces”. She mentioned that the design of having different areas – the darker yurt, the lofty bell tent, and the outdoor courtyard–was inspired by the uncomfortable layout she encountered during her first experience in a care space in Australia. “Everyone could see everyone which was really scary and intrusive, you could see someone next to you convulsing and someone else freaking out… so we have three main spaces, where people can sit or talk or sleep, with different moods.” Deepspace volunteers are often “health care workers, mental health nurses, and psychiatrists”, and there are usually 20-30 volunteers at a festival with 3-5 people on duty per shift, usually with one roaming the grounds with a radio to see if anyone needs to be brought in. Festival medical and security staff are invited to an introductory briefing so that they know what kinds of help Deepspace can provide, and who to direct there.
Olivia has seen drug cultures vary across the different festivals she has attended and worked – in Australia and New Zealand, she sees a serious binge culture when compared with a few longstanding US festivals. In states like Oregon or California, she had friends whose “parents were Deadheads,” had “grown up going to festivals,” and usually knew how to handle themselves on drugs. At New Zealand and Australian festivals, she believes people “romanticise overconsumption”. She said people often “Snapchat their friends gurning (facial distortions often resulting from amphetamines or MDMA) and freaking out, instead of helping them get to medical”.
Olivia added that better education was really her biggest mission: “Friends are laughing at their friends going through psychosis instead of helping them – no-one gets drug education in high school, no-one knows what to do. We need a cultural shift to make it cool to be safe and know how to look after your mates. If everyone had a little bit of Deepspace training then Deepspace wouldn’t need to exist, because everyone would be having a safe and supported time.”