by W.S. McCallum
Stranger
In A Strange Land
For me,
many a sedentary moon had passed in Wanganui and the urge to venture back out
into the wide world and travel grew ever stronger with the passing of the days.
But where to go? As a well-travelled man of the world, I had already had my
fill of the usual exotic destinations. Lounging with lemurs in a tropical
rainforest, the hubble-bubble of Egyptian hookah cafés, running with the bulls
in Pamplona, or the thrill of surviving in a Turkish prison no longer held the
appeal they once did in years gone by.
I needed a
different sort of travel experience, something that would take me back to my
cultural roots as an inhabitant of a remote corner of Polynesia. Yes, I needed
to find the source of... Tiki culture.
According
to the oracle...
… it all
started in a land called Cali-for-nia.
I needed to
go there, but I had to be properly equipped:
The journey
would be an arduous one - California was a land of bears...
and the
tribes of Cali were renowned for their savagery:
In addition
to which, their paramount leader was a fierce warrior chieftain:
It was said
that the people of that strange land were vehement in their beliefs, and that they
worshipped a confusing array of pagan idols, none of whom should be idly
mocked:
I thought I
was ready, but would I really be equal to the rigours required of a California
Tiki Tour?
Stay
tuned...
Part
One: I set off...
At Auckland
Airport, a friendly Customs officer took me aside in order to explain the
inadvisability of taking a machete to California. While it was true that the
citizenry of that land did indeed regard it as a God-given right to bear arms,
it was, he said, a right that they guard jealously for themselves and do not
see fit to bestow on outsiders, whom they look down on as
"non-citizens" or even as "aliens".
What's
more, the friendly Customs officer explained, there was an elite body of
guardians protecting California who call themselves "Homeland
Security" who make it their special job to isolate outsiders who they
might consider to be "undesirable aliens" or even "enemy
aliens" and subject them to inquisitorial practices above and beyond the
criminal fingerprinting and mug shots they normally subject all foreigners to
on the wise grounds that, being foreigners, none of them can be trusted in the
slightest. Any such non-citizen foreign alien type person found in possession
of a machete would doubtless at the very least undergo the arcane ritual known
as the Anal/Rectal Search and would be kept under close scrutiny until he
passed stool, which their seers would then examine closely for signs of
portents from the Gods. If the reading was not good, the suspect traveller would
then be incarcerated in one of Cali's many rapidly-expanding penal
establishments, where he would make interesting new friends and would likely
receive the opportunity to become personally acquainted with the California
Bear lifestyle on an intimate basis...
I gulped,
thanked the good man for his sage advice, and left my machete at his counter.
It was an
arduous Pacific crossing, fraught with turbulence, spilled cocktails, and
perilous toilet use. Regarding this incident, I need not say more.
My contact
in San Francisco, my port of arrival, was Ms. Nouméa, who was to serve as my
guide and interpreter. Whilst she had grown up in the land of Cali, she was
nonetheless descended from New Zealanders and, although their good stock had
been diluted through several generations of intermarriage with indigenes, and
her family had long since lost contact with their gentle land of origin, down
through the generations they had nonetheless managed to retain some vestiges of
the speech and mannerisms of their ancestors. The upshot of this was that, when
conversing with Ms. Nouméa, I had at least a 50/50 chance of understanding her
weird utterances and, with any luck, could prevail upon her in fractured pidgin
to request a Mai Tai or other essential provisions from one of the locals who,
I suspected, would consider my vocalisations with much the same attitude of
bemused intolerance that they would adopt when dealing with the local village
idiot or a passing Canadian.
Ms. Nouméa
was aghast at my explorer's clothing, and professed amazement that Homeland
Security had not automatically "ARSed" me based merely on my
appearance the moment I had disembarked. Thus I came to learn the critical
importance of "profiling" and blending into one's environment in
order not to arouse suspicions. She told me that if I was going to enter tiki
bars dressed like THAT, then my chances of successful interaction with the
natives would be very slim indeed, if not impossible. I was told in no
uncertain terms that I would do better to burn my uniform whilst she set about
acquiring accoutrements which she referred to as "hipster's gear".
Dressed in this apparel, strange though my mannerisms may be, locals would
assume I was merely a dreadful bohemian rather than an undesirable alien, and thus
I would only be the butt of occasional derision and drollery rather than the
target of suspicion or even outright hostility. "And", she added
"you're not going anywhere till you grow a matching goatee!"
Thus my
fate was sealed. I was to enter California's tiki kingdom disguised as a
hipster...
Part
Two: My first sortie into the wild
Holed up in
Ms Nouméa's gritty pied à terre in Oakland (one of the nation's murder
capitals, so I am informed), I waited and let nature take its course. Stubble grew
to facial hair which grew to a beard-like protuberance that was hacked and
beaten into shape until it passed Ms Nouméa's exacting quality tests.
She taught
me that unlaboured pose, that loitering insouciance so characteristic of the
Bay Area hipster. In an endeavour to rid me of my proper English, I had strange
expressions like "don't 86 me" drummed into me until I could flick
them off at the drop of a ciggy butt with just the hint of an uncaring sneer on
my lip.
I studied
useful on-line "teach yourself how to be a hipster" literature:
http://www.buzzle.com/articles/how-to-dress-like-a-hipster.html
And I was
shown special videos to assist me with assimilating myself into my new
environment; Oakland:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CzkoeyhAAdk
I was a
dedicated pupil, and it was not that long before I had (I thought) mastered the
basics of hipsterdom.
By that
time, I was raring to go out: "What about the Stork Club? Can't we go
tonight?"
She rolled
her eyes. "The Stork Club!?! Ever heard about not running before you can
walk? They'd eat you alive down at the Stork Club!"
"Well I
can't stay here forever - surely there's somewhere I can go?"
"I've
got just the place."
And that
was how I got to visit the local branch of Trader Joe's and saw my very first
Californian tiki:
Elated by
this momentous event, and breathless from the excitement of returning intact
from my first foray into the wilds of the Bay Area, little did I suspect then
that even greater things were to come...
Part
3: Do You Know The Way To San José?
"So
why are we driving to San José again?"
I was bored
with the endless concrete vista offered by the freeway, interrupted
periodically by more concrete shaped into various sorts of buildings.
"Because
it's temporarily a center of tiki culture." Ms Nouméa was slightly annoyed
at having to answer this question yet again.
"Temporarily?
What does that mean?"
"You'll
see when we get there."
The freeway
turned into an off-ramp which turned into a main street, lined with various
ethnic restaurants, and soon we were downtown in San José.
Then there
was a side street and an underground carpark. Followed by a lift, and a short
walk around in circles in the town hall until someone behind a desk helpfully
pointed us in the right direction, and then we were there:
"This
is the guy whose works were reproduced on all those tiki restaurant menus and
matchbooks etc." said Ms Nouméa. "And these are the original artworks
they stole from."
I read on:
Then there
were the murals themselves; so big I could barely fit them in the camera frame:
"Native
Dwellings of the Pacific Area" mural.
"Native
Means of Transport in the Pacific Area".
"The
Fauna and Flora of the Pacific".
"Hey, look
at the cute animals for New Zealand!" exclaimed Ms Nouméa:
And then
there was the "Peoples of The Pacific" mural:
"Hey,
look at the Maori warrior!" she exclaimed:
"Hold
on," I grimaced, "that doesn't look right. Why is that crazy Maori
stomping up and down on Te Waipounamu? That's sacred land - the source of Ngai
Tahu greenstone! The site of Mount Aoraki! Has that Mexican painter no
respect?"
Ms Nouméa
was starting to get annoyed: "So what's your problem?"
"Well,
I don't see no Native American stomping up and down on Mount Rushmore over in
YOUR country, do I?" I said, gesticulating at the appropriate part of the
mural.
Ms Nouméa
looked skywards, further up than the top of the mural even.
But there
was worse to come – “The Economy of the Pacific” mural:
"So
why has he painted it so it looks like that sheep is pooping on Auckland? And
what's with the cow's butt? And what on earth is going on with that fish
swimming straight towards the cow's butt? With a faint smile on its face
even..."
Ms Nouméa
was not impressed: "You're crazy! It's just a painting!"
"And
why is the cow standing on Mount Aoraki too? Did this Covarrubias guy have some
sort of anti-New Zealander thing going? I feel I ought to know...."
"Nuts!
Completely nuts! I'm going back to the car!"
And so
ended our trip to San José.
Part
4: San Francisco
"San
Francisco is a mad city, inhabited for the most part by perfectly insane
people.”
Rudyard
Kipling
I could
hardly go to the Bay Area without visiting its hub, the home of...
Emperor
Norton:
Oofty
Goofty:
Mammy
Pleasant, the Voodoo Queen:
Jim Jones:
The Zodiac:
The Trailside
Killer:
O.J.
Simpson:
... and the
most notorious of all; Zippy The Pinhead:
Finally,
the big day came; I was to be let loose in the streets of Frisco.
Ms Nouméa
grimaced as we drove across the Bay Bridge towards our destination: “Don’t call
it Frisco!”
“Well that’s
what they call it in the songs – “that mean old Frisco and that low down Santa
Fé!” as Muddy Waters used to sing."
“You’re not
in the 1940s now - call it “San Fran”!”
She spent
the rest of the passage across the Bay Bridge explaining to me the many
differences between Oaklanders and San Franers...
“And don’t
call them San Franers!” she reprimanded. “They’re San Franciscoans.”
“That’s
long winded – could I just call them Friscoans?”
“No!”
Anyway, I
learnt from her that, unlike Oaklanders, the hill people of San Francisco live
in a land of perpetual fog and that they are lacking in various hallmarks of
advanced civilization such as driveways, stand-alone letter boxes, and street
parking. I was sternly warned that living cheek to jowl with each other all
crammed together in little boxes on that tiny peninsula meant that they were
all stir crazy and were unpredictable at the best of times. I was advised to be
on my guard and to say as little as possible, as the charlatans and tricksters
amongst their ranks were legion. And although the locals were used to having
foreigners in their midst, they were frequently only interested in them as a
potential source of pecuniary gain...
Our first
stop was the Fairmont Hotel’s legendary Tonga Room...
Which
turned out to be closed until happy hour started somewhat later in the day.
Back on the
street five minutes later, I suggested Chinatown as our next destination:
“I’ve
always wanted to see one of those opium dens!”
Ms Nouméa rolled
her eyes skywards: “They don’t have opium dens in Chinatown!”
Which
turned out to be true; although we did find one at the Musée Mécanique on
Fisherman’s Wharf.
I did however
revel in the exoticism of the Chinatown, and wondered about the supposed
multi-culturalism of my homeland; a country that has had Chinese immigrants as
long as California has, but where the Powers That Be made sure that nothing
resembling Chinatown survived; to the extent that its despised Wellington
equivalent (complete with opium dens, gambling houses and brothels) was
eventually bulldozed out of existence in the 1930s:
http://chinesecommunity.org.nz/documents/0000/0000/0037/Haining_Street.pdf
Somewhat at
a loose end, we wandered and then drove around the streets, taking in historic
spots, such as the corner of Washington & Kearney Streets (the site of the
very first topless bar in the United States - 1885):
The house
where Charles Manson lived (at 636 Cole Street at Haight) during the Summer of
Love:
And the the
bank that Patty Hearst robbed when she was with the Symbionese Liberation Army
in 1974 (on 1450 Noriega at 22nd Ave):
Finally, Ms
Nouméa finally had an idea that saved the day: a visit to the de Young Museum!
Which happens to have a world-standard collection of art from Papua New Guinea:
Fortunately,
by the time we had finished perusing the artifacts, the museum was about to
close, and happy hour at the Tonga Room was about to begin...
Part
5: From San Francisco to Emeryville
The Tonga
Room both did and didn't live up to its reputation. The décor was wonderful -
the Polynesian village at one end of the "lagoon" and the sailing
ship smorgasbord area at the other; the periodic thunder and lightning
accompanied by a tropical downpour; and the diners.
A couple of
tables across from us were three generations of males from the same family (or
at least they certainly looked related) - grand-dad, dad and junior (who would
have been about 12 years old). All three were wearing conservatively-cut suits
with slightly overstated shirts and ties, and the Tonga Room was obviously a
family ritual. Classy - they fitted the place perfectly, unlike the sloppy
tourists in their track pants etc. Ms. Nouméa and I were also dressed formally
in black evening wear; she was in a very nice black dress, while I wore a black
Italian suit, with a white Pierre Cardin shirt, a black patterned Burberry tie,
and a trilby, which I had the good manners to remove when I passed through the
hallowed portal, unlike various philistines roaming around in baseball caps.
Then there
was the party of Polynesian ladies beside us, who also fitted in perfectly.
They were dressed in style; island style, but not garishly. They commented that
the Tongan royal family dined there when they visited SF (sorry "San
Fran"). I tucked into my smorgasbord fare with the assurance that if the
place was good enough for Tongan royalty, then there was no reason for us
palangi commoners to worry about cultural correctness.
But, alas,
there were down sides too. The Maitre D that night was a bit offhand to us.
Having dined in Parisian restaurants where condescension is part of the
evening's entertainment, I did not find this off-putting, but others certainly
would. And, sadly, I found the food and drinks disappointing, which is why we
ended up reversing our last-minute decision made at the door to have a full
meal, and opted for the happy hour food and drinks option instead. The drinks
were OK, and so was the food, but there was definitely a gap between the level
of the décor and the level of what we were served that evening.
Overall,
the tiki restaurant that impressed me the most in the Bay Area was the newly
remodelled Trader Vic's, in Emeryville. I have already commented in the TV
Emeryville thread about my first meal there, so here are some photos taken
there instead:
Whoops!
Wrong Trader...
That's
better...
Part
6: Las Vegas
We were somewhere
around Barstow, on the fringe of the desert, when the sugar began to kick in. I
remember saying something like “I feel a bit lightheaded – it’s just as well
I’m not driving!” Twelve hours on the road from Oakland, dodging the hellish
mayhem caused on the highway by a lemming-like rush of both nuclear and
extended families deciding to take their seasonal vacation, had by now taken
their toll.
There was
an incessant roar all around us, the road full of oncoming SUVs and people
carriers, swooping and screeching and driving too damn close, on a two-lane
road with only the faintest suggestion of median road markings.
“Holy
Jesus!” I exclaimed. “Who are these goddamn animals?”
But I had
come prepared: I had two bags of trail mix, a box of chocolate peanuts,
seventy-five chocolate gold coins of the world in a little string bag, five
slabs of industrial-strength artisanal fudge, and a whole array of chocolate in
various forms, from some of those little cherry-flavoured foil-wrapped jobs,
right through to bars of the hard stuff:
Not to
mention the dregs of a bottle of Fanta, a maxi-sized cup of Sprite from a
roadside chain eaterie which shall pass unnamed, and the remains of a burger
and fries takeaway meal settling uncomfortably in my stomach. Not that I needed
all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious sugar collection,
the tendency is to push it for all it’s worth. The only thing that really
worried me was the fudge. There is nothing in the world more depraved than a
man on a fudge binge, and I knew we’d be diving into that head-spinningly
sugary stuff pretty soon.
As we
approached, the shimmering lights of Vegas grew ever-brighter on the horizon
until, finally, we were in their midst. Whilst remonstrating with Ms. Nouméa to
keep her eyes on the road, my gaze too was drawn to their glistening promise of
sleaze, hedonism and moral depravity. Fighting their siren call, I looked at my
watch (it was well past midnight), guzzled some more chocolate and slouched
down in my seat, hoping their tendrils would be unable to grasp me. In my
reckless quest for tiki culture, had I finally come too far?
The morning
brought bright sunshine and the most tropical mid-winter’s day I have ever
experienced in the Northern Hemisphere. A quick breakfast at the Golden Gate
diner and we were off to see the sights. And there were interesting sights to
see. Being stuck in traffic on the Strip seems to usually involve vistas such
as this:
“Imagine
that!” I exclaimed: “Girls... that want to meet ME! Someone must have told them
I had arrived.”
“Yeah, I’ll
bet they’re all psychic,” commented Ms Nouméa.
Our first stop
was the Atomic Testing Museum, where we learnt about how clean, safe nuclear
weapons kept the world free during the Cold War.
And yes,
while the powers behind the museum did admit in their informative displays that
the bombs were indeed exploded on Indian reservation land, just 65 miles away
from Vegas, and that once the tests went underground, they also created the
possibility of radioactive materials leaching into aquifers, there was clearly
nothing to be worried about, because they’re all infallible scientists and they
know exactly what they’re doing. Ms. Nouméa was so shocked afterwards that she
felt nervous about even drinking the local tap water. I told her not to worry –
as casual visitors in town for just a few days, we were fine; it would take
years of drinking the local water before there was any possibility of hideous
mutations developing.
But there
was no denying that as the result of the tests, Las Vegas was a zoo, full of
mutants. These second-class citizens, shunned by the more fortunate locals who
have not developed hideous deformities, are reduced to working in menial
occupations such as being doormen:
Or even
panhandling, for want of any other means of making a living in a society that
shuns their kind...
But enough of
such sad matters – I came to Vegas in quest of tiki culture. My first sign of
it was Tiki Lee’s joint at the Charleston Antique Mall:
And there
were even signs of tiki culture to be witnessed as we wandered around the mean
streets near Charleston Boulevard:
And mean
streets they were. We were walking to El Cortez Casino when I overheard the
following tale loudly being retold by a homie to his bro walking just ahead of us
on the sidewalk: “So there I was man; he was lookin’ at me and I said “Well I’m
packin’ a gun, and you’re packin’ a gun, so whatcha gonna do now?””
I didn’t
wait to find out the outcome of the story. I steered Ms. Nouméa (who hadn’t
heard a thing), across the street and well away from them. It may have been
broad daylight and they may have been in a jovial mood, but I didn’t want to
put it to the test.
In spite of
it being in the process of receiving a facelift, the Downtown area still had
rough edges that had not been smoothed off. One ground-floor apartment we
walked past had a large sign taped to its window stating “THIS IS NOT A DRUG HOUSE”. There were
handwritten notes taped to street furniture advertising pharmaceuticals, and
even local landmarks bore the traces of violence. The Atomic Bar, which closed
late last year due to gangsta violence:
Atomic Bar
bullet holes:
Still, for
most, Vegas is a land of fantasy, and we too pursued it. I was intrigued by
some tiki shot glasses from the Mandalay Bay Casino that I saw in the
Charleston Antique Hall, and we found some traces still left from a more exotic
past when we walked around the giant complex:
There were
function rooms at one end of the complex with South Pacific names that hinted
at a more tiki-oriented past, but apart from the occasional mural, there was
little other sign of such things.
Indulging
in another theme, we decided to dine at Red Square while we were there.
Who
wouldn’t want to dine in a restaurant with a giant headless statue of Lenin
outside, and that had a waitress who was so authentic-looking that I initially
mistook her for a Russian hooker when I entered the joint? Not to mention the
wonderful food, and absolutely outstanding cocktails, out of which The
Chernobyl was the high point.
Wobbling
our way back along the Strip to our hotel, we marvelled at the supersized
surrealness of it all. Las Vegas is an endless giant spectacle; a town you need
never leave because they have created a version of the entire world along this
one street. We laughed at the silly things we saw:
And gasped
at the monumental architectural reproductions:
We watched
the cops and villains at play:
And even
came across a bit of tiki culture:
But the
high point of our time in Las Vegas was Frankie’s:
Frankie’s
was perfect – the décor was just right, the drinks were great (and prepared
phenomenally quickly), they had the coolest bar jukebox mix I have ever come
across, and the ambiance was very relaxed – the perfect way to end an evening
after navigating through the oversized craziness of The Strip.
But before
finally leaving Las Vegas, there was one last place which could not be missed:
We pushed
our way through hordes of ghastly little tykes dragging along their
long-suffering parents, and shielded our eyes from the period Hammer Horror
circus design nightmare that was the building’s interior, forcing ourselves
ever onward until we finally reached it:
Only to find
that it was now a soda shop. Well, there was no booze, and definitely no Hunter
S. Thompson, but we did see this guy:
Part
7: Los Angeles
L.A.
offered the ultimate tiki challenge: we only had 24 hours in that city. Could
we get to the heart of L.A. tiki culture in just one day?
We kicked
off what was shaping up to be an all-day bar crawl by paying homage to the
master barfly himself: Charles Bukowski.
The
Huntington Library in Pasadena was holding an exhibition devoted his life and
works called "Poet On The Edge" and it was too good to miss.
The
exhibits included his typewriter, an old wine glass, and even the radio he used
to listen to when he was doing his writing.
From there
we had quite a distance to drive to get to Huntington Beach - you'd think the
library and the beach would be closer together given they have the same name...
On the way a fleeting glimpse was caught of one of the original Golden Arches:
We reached
Don The Beachcomber in time for a late lunch, in a nearly empty restaurant,
with just one other table occupied.
Everything
was looking very festive. The foyer was very cheery:
Lunch was
kicked off with the best Mai Tai I have ever have, followed by some tasty Asian
cuisine, which included the hottest chili pepper I have ever had the misfortune
to inadvertently swallow. Copious amounts of water and three glasses' worth of
ice later, I had stopped literally seeing red and was able to stagger around
the place snapping lots of photos:
The Waitiki
7 and Robert Drasnin (Mr Voodoo himself!) were scheduled to play as part of the
Waitiki New Year's Festival that evening, and we were lucky enough to hear
their music drifting through the premises as we dined. That's Mr Drasnin in the
back of the room:
Don's is an
absolutely incredible venue - so much space, so many facilities, and fantastic
decor, but it was only the first stop on our L.A. tiki tour...
Ms Nouméa
did sterling work getting us from point A to B in one piece. Our next stop was
Whittier Boulevard:
I was just
as impressed by their collection of artifacts as I was by the range of goodies
they had on sale.
From
Whittier, we moved on to Rosemead:
Any place
that has an anti-aircraft gun at the entrance is bound to impress me, so all
the fish tanks inside were like the icing on the cake.
While the
decor at the Bahooka was great (one of a kind!), the drinks were watery,
although not unreasonable for the price, as we arrived during happy hour.
The night
was still young in any case, and there was more to see yet. It was time to head
over to Hollywood...
... and
visit the Tiki Ti's bustling, cosy bar.
Apart from
the incredible variety (around 90) of the impeccably made drinks, I was
particularly impressed by their zombie puffer fish:
What topped
off Tiki Ti for me was the fact that they were playing Neil Young's album
"On The Beach" in the background, which may not have been tiki, but
was perfect for that particular time and place.
Trying to
get back onto the freeway to get to North Hollywood, we accidentally stumbled
across this treasured tiki landmark:
Somewhat
disappointed that they were no longer offering "live naked girls" on
their shingle, I decided it was time to move on to North Hollywood.
Tiki No was
the polar opposite of the crowded, jostling Tiki Ti; a quiet place where you
can go and sit and chat. We took up position at the bar and admired the view.
And they
had a nice collection of carvings up the back which gave the place some
atmosphere.
The drinks
were fine - I had a Blue Hawaiian that hit the spot nicely. What I liked about
Tiki No was that they were taking an old formula and trying something new with
it. Not a place to suit everyone's tastes, but a sign that tiki bars in L.A.
are still coming up with new approaches.
Having not
only driven over a hundred miles, but also having visited four bars and been
drinking intermittently over a period of several hours, it was definitely time
to have dinner, so the day was rounded off with a visit to Ernie's Taco House,
where I sampled a culinary legend: the Skylab Burrito.
Before:
After:
Thus ending
what has to be one of the finest days in my life: thank you L.A.!
Part 8:
Alameda
Alameda is
a wondrous island that stands apart from the rest of the Bay Area. Crossing
over from Oakland is like travelling to another country; a strange place where
things seem more civilized than what surrounds it. It has long been a hub for
shipping and naval operations departing for and arriving from the South Seas,
so it is little surprise that, for example, it is the only place in the US with
a New Zealand tavern, where you can dine on real mince pies, although at a
price that would be alarming in their country of origin.
Alameda was
to be the last stop on my Tiki Tour of California, ending in style at Forbidden
Island's Tiki-lypso New Year's Eve Party:
The
soundtrack that evening was provided by DJ Tanoa, who spun hits from the 50s
through to the (shudder) 80s and 90s, and there was live music from the duo
Apocalypso Now:
The
smorgasbord food was very tasty and filling, as were the drinks. After 3 or 4
of Forbidden Island's superb drinks, admittedly, the quality of my photography
started suffering:
I do
however recall meeting Suzanne, our host for the evening, and presenting her
with a tiki calendar.
So my trip
came to an end, with great sadness and some regrets. There were many places I
missed (I didn't even get to San Diego), but nonetheless, my expedition in
quest of the beating heart of Californian tiki culture turned out to be
successful.
To close, I
offer big thanks to Ms. Nouméa for putting up with me, and without whom none of
it would have been possible.
© W.S. McCallum 16 January 2011 - 3 June 2011
Web site © Wayne Stuart McCallum 2003-2017