It is perhaps fitting that this, the 100th post
on this blog, is being written from the White Star Chalet at Broken River Ski
Field in New Zealand. It is also fitting that I don’t have internet access here
and that I’ll have to take my computer on some kind of road trip to actually
post this to the blog. My journey of skiing, climbing, committing social faux
pas and generating strong body odors effectively started here, and it is at
once immensely satisfying and deeply disappointing to return to where things
all began. Satisfying because coming back to Broken River, with its strong sense of community, ramshackle facilities and diabolical skiing feels like catching up with an old friend - one with a crazy beard, faded jacket and determination to get rad. And deeply disappointing because
there have been a number of changes in the staff here, and I don’t know the new
cook or ticket office person.
You might be saying (although it’s incredibly unlikely,
since you probably know nothing about Broken River and its staff) “John, many
of last year's staff are still there – you still know Doug the snow safety officer, or
Barrett the ski patroller, or Dan the guy who fixes the grooming machine all
the time even though no one seems to ever intend to use it”. And you’d be
right, those people are still here. It has been great to see them and I’m
looking forward to various forms of shenanigans with them during the season.
But to truly know and master the beating heart of a ski field there are two people you must schmooze above all. First is the
ticket office person (which is a euphemism for ticket office lady, which is a
euphemism for ticket tart), for they hold the power to charge you for things,
to ensure you pay for everything in advance rather than building up a large
tab, and to save you a bed if the accommodation fills up and you haven’t made a
booking because you’re an idiot. A good relationship with the admin person can mean turning up just before a storm and knowing that you'll get a bed. A bad relationship can mean spending four days in a 14 bunk hut with 13 high school boys from Queensland who balance their raging homophobia with bouts of late-night wrestling in their underwear*. Second is the cook, because the cook controls
the food. A good relationship with the cook can mean scrubbing dishes like a
high school dropout and eating like a prince. It can mean that extra loaves of
bread or bottles of milk find their way to the dodgy hut with the cheapskate
guests rather than to other less worthy places. But a bad relationship means that no
matter how many vegetables you chop or cakes you bake you will never taste the
wonders of BBQed chicken or hot muffins while night skiing.
It is also very handy to schmooze the ski instructor,
because they can provide you with helpful ski advice for free. But in the grand
scheme of things having somewhere to sleep and something to eat must take
priority over video analysis of your turns even if that analysis is very
helpful.
It was, then, with some dismay that I learnt that neither
Giuliana, the ticket office person, nor Ray, the cook, would be returning from
last season. I have to start all my schmoozing from scratch – a grave and
concerning situation.
Also of concern, it appears that Broken River has made a
concerted effort to have more women at the ski field. Last season, Giuliana was
the only female staff member for most of the season. This year, the ski
instructor is also a woman, and there seem to be other women just hanging
around – possibly even as guests. Women choosing to be at Broken River for
employment is understandable, but their presence here in a recreational
capacity suggests something is amiss. Barrett recently informed me that earlier
in the season he was at one point the only man in the daylodge (I can only
assume from his tone of mixed awe and terror that he was not alone in the
daylodge, because that would not be at all exceptional). The prospect of there
being multiple women at the ski hill, some of whom are not staff, is unfamiliar
and unnerving. After so many months of non-stop sausage partying, the thought
of the party ending in one of the sausageiest places I’ve ever been is like
returning to your home after a long absence to discover that, unbeknownst to
you, your best friend from childhood is in fact imaginary, and that everyone
has been humouring you all along.
I should probably say that I look forward to meeting all the
new staff members, but most of you know me better than that. I am of course
completely terrified of meeting them and having them dislike me. I would
desperately like for things to go well, and indeed have a considerable emotional
and financial investment riding on a positive outcome, but lack the capacity for
self-deception required to believe that this is likely.
Wish me luck people – I don’t want to be expelled from here and
end up spending the season at Mt Cheeseman.
*Thanks Giuliana.
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