The First Busking Mission

Lugging my keyboard, fold-up chair, keyboard stand and amplifier out of the Pit and down the narrow staircase was a brutal test of endurance. The only way to my car was down a bony metal stairwell of 3 flights - I felt like a lumbering pack-mule as I began shuffling down, certainly as awkwardly as a pack-mule. Spilling out onto the street, I re-adjusted my luggage, and marched onward to the Emerald Wagon. 

The time had come to do my first busking mission to Queenstown!

Busking in Queenstown was to be my primary source of income throughout 2018. It was the centrepiece of my ‘master plan’, the heart of what would keep this lifestyle I was building alive. After loading my gear into the Emerald Wagon, I hopped in behind the wheel, and headed on my way. I can’t waste any more of this day, I thought, appreciating the weather’s warm splendour which had made the Emerald Wagon like an oven. The perfect day for busking.

And so, out of Dunedin I went, speeding down the highway in the Emerald Wagon with excitement welling up in my chest and music spinning out from the speakers. My first busking mission! It was exciting indeed. I loved busking - from the very first song I played on the Queenstown waterfront in January, I knew I wanted to make it a big part of my life. And now I had. My plan was to head from the foothills of Dunedin into the mountains of Queenstown to earn my money - akin to the folk in an earlier-Dunedin who made the same journey across Central Otago to pan for gold in the gold rush. I had found my own gold rush; the gold nuggets were stashed in the wallets of tourists. A bit of emotion stirred into my piano music could pick them out, with any luck. Needless to say, I was plump with confidence that I could earn enough ‘gold’ from these missions to fund my lifestyle. 

The day was so spectacular, it was as if the God’s favoured my decision to become a busker. The sun gave life to the whole of the land, leaving not a corner untouched. The Clutha river was scintillating every time I came close enough to glimpse it. Deeper inland, the mountains seized the sky, rock faces appearing to gaze down at me. The passage to Queenstown had me feeling more optimistic about this busking mission than was probably necessary. What small doubts that still remained - telling me I could never make enough money through busking to survive - were squashed and completely erased when I stepped out into the throng on the Queenstown waterfront. People. More people. So many people! And the day… It seemed like all of Queenstown were out enjoying the sunshine. The most perfect day for busking!

Wasting no time, I parked in the closest park I could get - which also happened to be halfway through town. It would have been okay if I didn’t have to carry my gear… I pulled the keyboard onto my shoulder and the stand above it, hooked the chair over my free arm and grabbed my amp. Then I marched. Onward, to the waterfront! One..step…at a time. My quick steps became plods, and before I even reached the esplanade, I had to stop and unload. So brutal… I wasn’t even half way. Sighing my fatigue away, I loaded all the gear back onto my body, and marched forward again, this time having to weave and dodge the pedestrians. My breathing got heavier…

In the flash of a second, two girls sitting on the promenade caught my eye. They both held signs. One sign had ‘FREE PRAYER’, and the other had ‘FREE HUGS’, both in bold lettering. I stopped and half-collapsed with my gear next to them. “A free Prayer!” I exclaimed. “Yes that’s exactly what I need!” They leapt up the moment I came over. “Do you need help with your stuff?” One of the girls asked, already trying to grab for my amp. “We can help you. Where are you going to?” The other said in an accented voice, her blonde hair flowing like the tip of a paintbrush. “Please, I would really appreciate that if you could.” They both smiled graciously. “We are happy to help! That’s why we are here.” They each grabbed a piece of gear, and we headed along the esplanade to my favourite busking spot. Angels… I was beyond grateful; the keyboard on my shoulder wasn’t so heavy by itself.

“So you are here to play music?” they asked. A big smile caught my face. “Yep! I’m here on a mission - to earn enough money from my music to survive the next two weeks or so. How about you? Just out here giving prayers to people?” I asked through the light babble of lake and people. “We are on a mission too! We are Christian missionaries from Germany, here to spread the love and kindness of Jesus Christ,” the girl with the golden-blonde hair said. “Well it’s working!” I said when we reached the spot, laying down my keyboard. “It was so kind of you to help me, really. Thank you.” It was the most genuine thanks I could muster - their smiles were brighter than the sun.  They placed my gear next to the keyboard, and both put a hand on one of my shoulders. And then they prayed for me. They prayed that my mission was a success, and that my music touch people’s hearts. I couldn’t quite believe it… And the next moment, they were gone. 

I was a little bit dazzled by what had just transpired, but set up my rig no slower. My Casio Px5s was warm out of the bag, as if it had been cooked in an oven, which made me a bit concerned about its guts of wires and plastic. But nothing was amiss when I started playing, the sound of piano washing over the waterfront, a breeze of harmony and melody. The lake sloshing against the balustrade behind me made for calming background ambience; my case wide open, fingers automatically finding their places on the keyboard, I launched into my busking performance.

After about 40 minutes, I stopped and glanced down at my case. A number of coins were scattered across, some gold, some silver, but far fewer than I had hoped for. Many people smiled as they passed, but only the odd straggler in a group would toss in a coin. Smiles are nice, but they aren’t going to pay for my rent… Suddenly, the two Christian girls appeared before me as if by magic. “Hey!” Surprise pulled me up from seat and threw my arms wide. They gave me those warm smiles again. “Your music is so lovely,” the sun-haired girl began, “and we wanted to give you this.” She held out a 50 dollar note. “What! Are you serious?” I was incredulous. They both giggled. “We felt that Jesus Christ wanted you to have this.” I reached for the 50 dollar note slowly; when it was in my fingers, I was even more shocked to see that it wasn’t just 1 note… It was 4. “Two hundred dollars! No… That… You…!” Speechless. I wasn’t sure how to respond, or whether I should take it at all. “Thank you!” It wasn’t enough. I didn’t feel like my music was either.

I guess I helped their mission, and they helped mine.

— — —

3 hours later

I sat in the Emerald Wagon, gazing out at Lake Wakatipu. The day was blessed. I counted my earnings: $225 from an hour and half of busking. It made me happy. $200 was the biggest tip I ever got, and likely the biggest I would ever get. But things like that didn’t happen. They just didn’t… Maybe once in a blue moon. It certainly made me feel confident in my Quest; in my journey to pursue music. If those two angels believed that Jesus Christ wanted me to have 200 dollars for my music, maybe I was doing something right. 

But… I couldn’t help but ignore the fact that without their generous gift, I only made $25 for an hour and a half’s worth of busking. Could $25 pay for my rent? Or even my gas to get back to Dunedin? Behind my sense of reverence at what seemed like a miracle, there was this nagging feeling that the mission was doomed to fail. It pulled the smile off my face, and started to orchestrate a storm in my belly. A feeling of anxiety… of worry… of FAILU… “NO!” I turned on the engine of Wagon, and drove from my perch. “I refuse to fail now. I’ve only busked once!” I voiced aloud. I turned into a wooded carpark near the base of Fernhill and parked up. “Now, to find a place to sleep.” 

I couldn’t afford a hostel, I knew that much. I needed to save every dollar. So, there I was, scouting the woods around Queenstown looking for a place I could pitch my tent undisturbed (and for free). In the dimming daylight, the thick woods felt forlorn. Pine needles matted the ground, and the trees themselves reached upward as if to intentionally dismiss my presence, their branches poking out crudely. I found a place for my tent. It appeared to be another campsite’s grave: an old tent sagging into the pine needles, a piece of clothing or two hanging on gnarled branches, and a muddied-yellow pillow rotting in the under-brush. The smiley face on it looked far from happy. In the dying day, I had no choice but to pitch my tent here. So I did. And crept in to go to sleep as quickly as I could. The ground was a mattress of needles, hardened mud and lumps; I rolled around for what seemed like hours, only to check my phone to find that barely 20 minutes had past.

It was a long night. If the day was blessed, the night certainly was not. 

— — —

The next day

After a brutally uncomfortable sleep, I was hasty to pack down my tent and hurry out of the woods in the morning. It felt lonely in there. The anti-thesis of Queenstown. Within a mere 10 minutes, I found myself back in the town.

My belly moaned. And groaned. And grumbled. And… I need food dammit. I found myself opening the door to a cafe. I should have planned this better, prepared some food perhaps… The cabinet was overflowing with scones and cakes and salads and baked goods and food and more food and .. “I’d like one cheese scone please,” I said to the lady. “Did you want a coffee too?” No.. “Yes.” I handed her 10 dollars worth of coins. The clanging sound of the till made me cringe. I needed that 10 dollars! “Oh well,” I said when my coffee and scone arrived, eyes lighting up. I had a bit of a cafe addiction… One of my weaknesses. “Eh, I can probably afford it in the long run,” was my excuse. The scone was delicious!

The sun felt good on my arms, but it one glance upward showed that rain clouds were about to usurp the blue sky, and send pedestrians scurrying indoors. Time to busk was running out! I slurped the rest of my coffee, and hurried back to the Wagon. A fair few people were meandering the waterfront. Enough, hopefully. Without even thinking of the challenge of carrying my gear, I picked it all up and marched to the waterfront. Within the minute, my keyboard and amp were humming with life, and I let my piano music trickle into the waterfront. It was lovely at first; the act of playing music outside to strangers is always pleasant. I was lolling in that mood for a good 20 minutes, until my fear of failure crept in and soiled it. Something switched within me. A few people had given me coins, but I wasn’t noticing those people anymore. I only noticed the people that didn’t give me money. My music was no longer relaxing and entertaining, but instead felt strained; tasted like desperation. My whole plan depended on busking - this whole lifestyle I was building depended on earning enough from these Queenstown endeavours to survive. Now it was all crumbling to pieces right in my fingers. 

And then it started raining.

— — — 

When I returned to Dunedin the following day, I calculated my earnings from 3 good busking attempts (the third of which I was left bedraggled after a torrent of winds sent me indoors). A total of -20 dollars saved, after expenses. And it would have been -220 dollars had I not received that blessing from the Christians.

I PAID to go to Queenstown. I suppose that’s what most people do anyway… Carrying my gear back up the metal staircase was almost mockery. 

I had been defeated.