TRIP REPORT: When a Beach is a Desert

There is a popular ad on TV down here addressing the age old question: When are togs (speedos) actually undies (tighties)? I thought this classic debate an apt starting point for a description of my last trek: the three night, Cape Reinga Coastal Walkway on the very tip of the north island.

The walk was amazing, handled perfectly well in flipflops or barefoot, but growing increasingly hardcore due to intense and unending sunshine and a scarcity of water. With pack on back, walking along the empty sandy beaches I started to wonder if perhaps this wasn't a beach at all, but a desert instead.



Just what are our necessary conditions for beach? I supposed that access to beer, bright coloured floating toys, women, and towels could be eliminated without damaging our definition. Other luxuries like access to shade and water were also dismissed, because these too were conditions only for a "nice" beach. As I swayed back and forth, stepping over kelp and jellyfish, feeling the hot sun on my body, I discovered that none of the aforementioned items were in sight, and my ideas about beaches began to shift. "So its not a nice beach."


But were these beaches at all I pondered? Surely the meeting of ocean and sand is enough to classify this as a beach... not so. As I sucked plastic water bottles into deformed modernist sculptures the thought of a dip in the cool Tasman sea became completely unattractive. Sure it would be cool for a minute, but that swim would mean I'd have to put on another thick layer of sunscreen and would contribute to increasingly thick layer of salt I'd have to sweat through. By the end of the second day of walking I had decided that it was in fact desert I was walking through, the cool blue water to my left, merely mirage.

With this shift in mindset the walk became quite enjoyable. By day I'd walk, smelling the hot manuka bushes, taking pictures of the lush coastline (imaginary) and pick muscles off the rocks (imaginary), by night I'd camp on empty sand beaches greeted by a cosmic paint-spill of stars, supervising the boiling of water from impotent streams. The days were hot but eating fresh seafood and being tired from walking felt good.

Other highlights included:

1. Cooking lessons for muscles from man on beach.
"Hey man, you don't perhaps know how to cook muscles, do you?"
"Do ah evva! E'm cooken' sim rit niw."

2. Crawling out of tent at 2 am and being overwhelmed by the number of stars.

3. The following night (using a book) making astrological sighting with new friends from Calgary (new constellations down here!) including a comet!

4. Oyster lessons from another old-timer on the beach.
"Ya just crack 'em n' slurp 'em up. Delicious."

5. Witnessing yet another domestic incident involving Mr. Tasman Sea and the inappropriately named, Ms. Pacific Ocean.

Pictures to follow.

MJPH

Hitchin's like Fishin'

Hitchin' is like fishin' : You outfit yourself with the right tackle and rod, (you shave, look clean and keep a compact bag). You choose a location where the fish are biting, (a stretch of highway where the driver can see you they have space to pull over). You exhibit monk-like patience as you wait, deciding never to take it personally if no fish or driver likes the look of your tackle. Then, at the end of the day with all your preparation and patience, when you're standing there with your rod in your hands or your thumb hovering above the pavement, it all comes down to luck.

I spent the last two weeks living the code of the thumb, travelling about New Zealand's North Island with a bag, some camping gear and a pair of flip flops, (jandals for you kiwis). Listed below are some of the highlights catches of the trip. Some were large kingpins of the highways worthy of grand stories, myth and lore, others were tiny throwbacks, but always, without fail, they were entertaining...

DRIVER: Dan, the Transport Coordinator for the New Zealand Army
DISTANCE: Levin to Sanson
TOPIC OF CONVERSATION: Problems with Achilles heels. The meaning of backcountry,
QUOTE: "Eighteen days in bush. THAT'S tramin'!"

DRIVER: The Floor Sander
DISTANCE: Sanson to Bulls
TOC: Sanding hard wood floors.
QUOTE: "Its a shame about carpet."

DRIVER: Tom, Irish Crane Op
DISTANCE: Auckland to Kerikeri
TOC: Travel, women, handjobs.
QUOTE: "To tell the truth, I got addicted to handjobs."

DRIVER: Hot Maori Pharmacist Driving PIMPED!!! Lexus
DISTANCE: Obscure State Highway turnoff back to Kerikeri
TOC: Differences between Maori and Pakiha families (she's both.)
QUOTE: "Pakiha are the slaves of time."

DRIVER?: Drunk Teen in a van full of drunk teens
DISTANCE: > 1 Km.
TOC: BIGDAYOUTISGONNAFUC*INROCK! (Screamed while taking a shortcut through a small alley driving 140 bottoming out shocks.
QUOTE: "Oh my god we're gonna to die you looser."

DRIVER: Boring German Girl
DISTANCE: Te Paki to Kaitaia
TOC: ----
QUOTE: "I want to see the sand."

DRIVER: Garth the Sailor
DISTANCE: Paihai to Aucklack
TOC: Everything to do with sailing; did you know that the word POSH comes from travelling by ship to India? The coveted cabins on this hot journey were (P)ort (O)ut (S)tarboard (H)ome. A fathom is about 6 feet or the average reach of a sailor's arms and a knot was originally measured by hanging a piece of rope with knots tied in it from the bow of the ship.
QUOTE: "Hey whoa there before you go hanging yourself...Captain Cook is a bloody genius!"

DRIVER: Merv the Bulldozer Collector
DISTANCE: TOO SHORT!
TOC: This guy was like 80, happy as all hell, drove a sort of dump truck and narrated a photo album of all the bulldozers he's restored and collects. He's also a filmmaker and videographer and was keen to inform me that DVD is his preferred method of archiving these days.
QUOTE: Too many.

DRIVER: Robert the German Bee Keeper
DSITANCE: Ketachi Parkinglot to Turangi
TOC: Bees, honey and healthy immune systems.
QUOTE: "Yah. I come from small town. When I go back I want have people say: 'He the bee keeper. I want to be the beekeeper.'"

Without question it has been one of the most interesting and satisfying experiences of my trip so far. There is so much knowledge and experience floating around us at all times. By wandering, and exposing ourselves to these new relationships and perspectives we can learn heaps! Looking forward to a few days of hitchin' back to Christchurch, and the development of my ideas for the OUTERNET.


MJPH

The Auckland Hotel Juliet

He is an Irish crane operator at the helm of small Mazda flatbed. Me is a dirty hitchhiker cradling a home computer on his lap. Cans of Redbull roll across the dash while maps and receipts practice for their pilot's license.

He: Do you like Kiwi women?
Me: Yeah, well, one anyway.
He: She beautiful?
Me: Oh yeah.
He: In bed or out?
Me: Uh, well... She's, she's beautiful in both I suppose.

Me adjusts the computer on his lap uncomfortably.

Me: How about you?
He: How about me what?
Me: You like Kiwi women? You go and fall in love with a Kiwi beauty?
He: I pay for them.
Me: For Kiwi women?
He: Yeah. Message yaknow? Massage with happy endings.
Me: Oh yeah, what''s the goin' rate these days? Expensive?
He: $60, $100. Depends.
Me: Is that including the massage or just the happy part?
He: That's all inclusive. She'll work your back, shoulders, legs and arms, then she'll flip you over and work your feet, quads... and you know she'll work her way up. Its a natural progression.
Me: So how do you go about asking for it? You have like some code or something?
He: Na man, its included. Its up front. (He drinks some Redbull) Yaknow troof magazine?
Me: Troof?
He. Yeah. Troof. In Auckland. T. R. U. T. H. Its a newspaper, like a locals thing.
Me. Oh, Truth. No I don't.
He: Well they got this whole section in the back. You call, you make a time, then you go over to her house, she give you a massage, give you the handjob, then you drive away happy.
Me: Right.
He: So you ask is she beautiful...when you get the handjob it doesn't matter. Its just a handjob right? Is not like I'm in love.
Me: Right.

(He honks the horn at a passing car.)

He: To tell the truth, there was a while there I was a little addicted.
Me: That so...
He: Yeah, well I was working the cranes right? Hard work and I'd get home and my back was hurtin' so I'd make a call and drive over and an hour later I'd feel great. Got to be that I was goin' three or four time a week. I had a diary going too, a black book and I'd keep track of who I went to and how they were. Gave then a rating from one to 10 and my scale included both quality of massage and the ending. Problem was that half these girls will only get a 3 or 4 with the massage. They're not dedicated to the craft of the massage. Listen: when I get a massage I like a MASSAGE right, like, "get those fingers into my goddamn back right?" but half the time they'd have really weak massage, and then there's the hand job, but after a crappy massage, its not as good. It went on for months like this.
Me: But you don't go anymore?
He: There was this one girl. Sarah who I called by accident because my number 7 girl was busy on a trip to the Coramandle or something but she was Chinese see, she knew how to massage. After the first time I would actually have to start bringing a towel to bite down on. To make matters worse she was hot too, I gave her a ten and after I got into her that diary didn't mean anything anymore. I tossed it. Once you had Sarah's fingers working you you never wanted it any other way.
Me:Quite the lady.
He: Suppose. That's all behind me now.
Me: Too expensive I guess.
He: I'd have paid. I was layin' out like $500 a week and lovin' it, but she had just finished her law degree and was about to start articling or something and she just couldn't do it anymore for fear it would damage her professional image. She disappeared and I tried to find another 10, but after months of her the 3's and 4's started to feel like 1's and 2's. I decided to cut myself off. I stopped.
Me: Wow. How long?
He: Like eight months now.

(The road stretches out revealing the rolling hills of the far north. The hot sun heating the cab. Me rolls down his window a bit.)

He: I take it you never had a handjob?
Me: Not that I paid for... but as you were talking I got thinking that the happy ending shouldn't be limited only to the massage profession, I mean, think of the potential, chiropractors, physiotherapists, hell you know when you're rescued from hypothermia and they have to crawl into the bag with you to heat you up again... See...Potential for happy endings everywhere.

(There is a pregnant pause.)

He: Is that supposed to be funny?
Me:I thought so.
He: My ex-wife almost died of hypothermia.

(A series of trucks carrying sheep pass the mazda. )

He: Lets pick up some more Rebbull.
Me: alright.

MISSION REPORT: Gettin' North

Because I had made plans to climb them half a year ago flipping though pictures of their snow capped glory at MEC. Because I was excited beyond belief about standing on the islands highest peaks pushing my alpine standards by climbing 3 formitable peaks in two days. And because it was my entire reason for coming to the North island in the first place you will understand that dissapointment welled within me like an angry seagoddess who's learned all her salmon have been caught and gutted.


Its morning, and I'm all geared up: light food purchased and arranged neatly in the bag, layers of clothing carefully selected, alpine maps, compass, emergency gear, everything. I close the door to Suzanne's place walk for the train station but know almost instantly I wont be able to do it. My heel is throbbing with pain* being in my alpine boots and by the time I walk on the train, I have to take the boots come off.

I ride the train anyway, frustrated, not sure what to do, brain scrambling to figure out a way to make it work. Over an hour passes and I find myself standing on State Highway One, thumb freshly holstered, head craning into a stopped truck.

"Where you going?" he the Maori trucker asks.
I realize, I have no idea. That my dissapointment has completely overwhelemed me and I'm just moving blindly with no plan of action.
"North." I say. "Goin' north."
"Sweet as, mate. Hop in."

As often happens not knowing where I'm going prooves to not be as large a problem as I thought. I hoist the bag in the truck, and after several conversations, vehichles and walks along the highway a new mission begins to materialize in my brain:

MJPH'S NORTH ISLAND SUPER MISSON:
Objective: Get to the upmost tip of the island using northing but your totally healthy thumb and favouring your totally unhealthy heel. Do a three day coastal along the sub-tropical beaches camping on the beach and living off the land.

Parameters:
a) You cannot pay for travel.
b) You cannot (under any circumstances) futher injure your heel.
c) The complete and total ellimination of upperbody tan lines.

So began my hitchhiking adventure, and as the rides (15 over 3 days) lengthened and the conversations with their drivers deepened, the climbs of Mt. Ruapehu, Nagahoe and Tongariro slowly slipped from my ego's mighty grip. I found myself happy to be on the road, happy to have used my flexibility to my advantage and happy to have found a way to head into the bush.


MJPH

*See REES-DART TRIP REPORT

E-mail.

Hey. Our framwerk email server has departed on a little meditation retreat with the hopes of crawling out of its digital cocoon a better, stronger, more self-aware communication system. In the mean time any messages you sent were most likely lost and communication with yours truly shall be difficult.

Loves ya'll.
MJPHALL.

Fresh Photos #4

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The Eel, a Bird and a Hovering Spear

Perhaps its the absence of glittered trees, consumerist jingles, flashing lights, insane shoppers, traffic jams, and bad Touchstone/Disney films that allowed me to sidestep gut-wrenching nostalgia for my first Christmas away from my family. Then again, maybe its because I wake up in a tent, am concerned about sunburn, have been cooking and eating out of the same pot for nearly a week and get my water from a tap in the bushes. It can hardly be called Christmas if there's always somebody playing Bob Marley on a guitar and I fall asleep to the sounds of camp hooligans throwing gas canisters on the fire. (You just don't get used to that kind of explosion.)

Its Christmas eve and Steve, Monica and I decide that sitting around a candle is just too much of a climbers cliche. We decide to take a walk down to the swimming hole to drink cheap beer and howl at the moon.

We discover that the rumours are true.

Feral Dave, the resident camp mental patient (who would later be arrested for god knows what) had in fact found a large dead bird on the highway and had indeed attached the bird to the end of the rope swing in order to attract eels, the bloated carcass floating s on the surface of the water.

Satisfactorily disgusted, we sat on the limestone shelf, watching the moon paint a silver veneer on the surface of the silent river as we talk redpoints, back clipping and new strategies for regrowing our fingertips.

"Hunting eels is a pretty boring business," says Steve after a while.
"Yep." I say finishing the last of a cheap New Zealand beer. I crush it under my foot with a satisfying crunch and stuff the flattened aluminum into my pocket. "But its safe to say that we've never had a Christmas eve like it."

I get down on my stomach, leaning well over the edge of the shelf and stare at the bloated blue and black feathered mass.

"Holy shit!"
"What iz it?" pipes up Monica.
"There's an eel!"

As our eyes adjust to the robotic blue of the headlamps we start to make out the sleek grey
movements of the eels below the surface of the water.

"There's one," says Steve.
"Oh yeah."
"And another, and holy shit look at that one."

Sure enough the mother eel had arrived for a feast of dead bird; at least a yard long and three inches thick. Its slimy flesh seems one with the water, its dead eyes like tiny luminescent televisions. They way it moves sends chills down my spine.

"We have to catch it. We'll be heroes back at the camp. Christmas eel for everyone."
"How non-traditional. Jesus. How?"
"I don't know, can you just grab it with your hands?"

I position myself further over the edge, reaching farther, breaching the surface of the water. My fingers run along its smooth back.

"Oh my god I touched it."
"Dude, not only that, it didn't even care that you touched it! You gotta grab it."
"Okay. So lets say I pull it out, then what, you smack it with the axe?"
"Right on. Its right here."

Steve pulls the eeling axe from under the rock.

I take a deep breath. I visualize how much strength I'd have to apply to keep a hold of that slimy creature. I pull it out of the water, the eel twisting and convulsing in fear, it sprays cold water in my face, and clothes and onto the limestone. I keep a steady grip, pulling it from the water, its body smacking against me and the rock. Its heavier than I expected but I have applied my rock climbing grip and Steve's coming at it with the axe to put it out of its misery, but suddenly it twists again and sends its long river fangs into the soft flesh on my cheek. I loose my balance and I fall into the river, an angry eel avenging its fate attached to my face.

The thought freezes me. My hands hesitate over the beast. The eel, with a good sized piece of bird in its fangs suddenly does a violent rolls.

"Ahhh. DEATH ROLL!" says Monica.
"Death roll!" I say. "They do death rolls?"

Then I thank whatever Maori gods are responsible for the happenings of the Golden Bay area because more headlamps appear along the shelf signaling the arrival of beer, spears and Hangdog Camp residents who have actual experience hunting eels.

And so it goes that six or seven of us spent the next few hours on our bellies like children staring down at the drama in the water inches below. Hidden in darkness we whispered our thoughts and plans for the attack, spoke to each other like we had no past and no future; just the eel, a bird and a hovering spear.

We would take no eel home with us that night for when the moment of truth came, the spear snapped, and like some message from above, the vaporous walls than held us together suddenly evaporated:
-The eel, scared for its very existence disappeared into some dark hole to recover, its fate as backwoods sushi averted yet another day.
-The climbers, tired and finished with the business of eeling stumbled home half-drunk with a broken spear, an axe and pockets full of crushed empties.
-And the bird, well. I hate to admit it, but it remained tied to the rope, none of us quite sure what to do with dead, bloated bird carcass at 2 am.

Magically there was no screaming and yelling all night long, no exploding gas bombs or chants to "BURN. THE. COUCH. BURN. THE. COUCH. We slept like babies all night and all morning, woken up by birds and sunlight and when we went to swim in the river the next morning, we found that the dead bird had happily disappeared.

Just a regular New Zealand Christmas.

New new

John watched the pale black road, and he remembered a single moment during his time away in the wilderness...There had been a heavy rainstorm over just a small localized patch of the desert, and from the patch beside it, a dust storm blew in. The sun caught the dust and the moisture in a way that John had never seen before, and even though he knew it was backward, it seemed to him the sun was radiating black sunbeams down onto the Earth, onto Interstate 40 and the silver river of endless pioneers that flowed from one part of the continent to the other. John felt that he and everybody in the New World was a part of a mixed curse and blessing from God, that they were a race of strangers, perpetually casting themselves into new fires, yearning to burn, yearning to rise from the charcoal, always newer and more wonderful, always thirsty, always starving, always believing that whatever came to them next would mercifully erase the creatures they'd already become as they crawled along the plastic radiant way.

-Douglas Coupland, Miss Wyoming