Manpower

"...and the last line on his post was: 'Dude, I'm chill as f@ck!' Can you believe this guy?" "Hey Sikes, that's what you should do when your sitting around bored: go on Craigslist, find the craziest and weirdest people looking for a rideshare, and then drive 'em around and write about their stories". BW is never short on brilliant ideas. On this dark rainy fall night in Oregon, we needed ideas badly. Six grimy high-minded and low-budgeted alums of House Alive sat around BW's table in the hipster haven of SE Portland feasting on magnificent culinary creations that only a desperate genius could concoct. The man is a mushroom hunter and knows how to fully exploit the fruits and fungi of his meanderings. Back into the civilization which he damns he is also a champion knitter, preserver of harvests, earthen oven builder/educator, bowmaker, slackline walker, plasterer, beer aficionado extraordinaire, and barefoot runner. Also gathered at the table were earthen home builders, troubadours, felt artists, beer brewers, tango dancers, bike tourists, raconteurs, and a chap who made a grain mill out of an old bicycle. All geniuses, all free, independent spirits, all leaders of a post-apocalyptic society where knowledge, skills, and work ethic will once again trump corporate stoogery and dogmatic obedience to societal norms as the path towards enlightenment and salvation. I was humbled to be in their presence. As for myself, I had been told that I need to go off fruit immediately in order to save my soul from eternal damnation (or my intestines from chronic inflammation). As the late Sam Kinison once said, "If salt and sugar kick your ass, the game's pretty much over". "Once again BW, you're goddamn right. I need a change of perspective, to look at situations as opportunities instead of obstacles...I need a story to tell!" Inspired by this council of bearded barefoot bohemians, I set off for some well needed action...

* * *

"The kazoo is a very versatile instrument...with practice, you can play a symphony!" Wednesday after Election Day 2010; proposition 74 was dead in the water much to the chagrin of snowboarders statewide. I came to Plan B to quench my metalthirst, but quenching a thirst for anything else would be a tall order as there was exactly one employee cooking, cleaning, busing, serving, and bartending, leaving hordes of ill-dressed scruffy young men leaning anxiously over the filthy bar clutching tattered dollar bills with eyes full of hope and yearning. I was one of those gents when the chap with a porkpie hat and Ghostbusters shirt wanted to subject me to his chosen instrument. "Actually, it sounds more like a marching band." But none of us, even Capt Kazoo (who later said "I saw Billy Joel back in Jersey before he had great hair") came here for plastic cups of beer and plastic instruments: we wanted to be pummeled into submission with 5 megaton blasts of blistering metal. First up was the female-fronted Cull, who lured us into a false sense of security with their 5 minute compositions of brutal beauty. Nothing could prepare us for the Trees and their seemingly random, rhythmless blasts of terror. Gigantic amplifiers hurled bowel-churning drop-tuned masses of sludge at us while the drummer, who probably supports himself by winning Charles Manson impersonation contests, pounded on the skins with a violent ferocity. Most distressing, however, was the haggard vocalists, whose reverb-drenched caterwauls were the very essence of hell, like he was channeling Satan in the way that generations of death metal vocalists have attempted to do. This fellow, who probably mops the floor at Starbucks during the day, annihilates those poseurs convincingly. Their set was 25 minutes of continual destruction. The audience was silent, save for a woman who was intensely involved in a game of Family Guy pinball. Evidently she was quite successful as the constant noise emanating from her machine accentuated the silences between the carpet bombing of noise, rendering the whole spectacle slightly ridiculous. Nobody knew quite what to make of it, and at the end of the set we all threw on our jackets and went outside for a smoke in a stunned silence. The most-spoken word for the next 10 minutes was "interesting". Next up: Monarch!, who came all the way from France to make us their loyal subjects. Louis XIV could not have been more abusive. Their music matched the Trees in intensity, but with the added benefit of rhythm and ethereal female vocals, whose sweet wailing nothings floated above and around the concrete explosions of power and fury. The guitarist, bassist, and drummer (incidentally the same drummer as the Trees) communicated via hand and head signals, leading us to believe their act was at least partially improvised. Their 30 minute set really ignited the crowd, all of us jerking violently in time to the carnage, cold cans of Olympia in hand. The "music" entranced us, while the rumbling distortions tickled your organs if you stood in the right place. Even the doorman peeked his skull-tattooed face through the fogged-up door to catch a glimpse of the harbingers of the onslaught. Once the noise was over, I realized I was starving, body completely drained of everything but cheap beer. I rushed out the door and biked to the Cart Pods on 12th and Hawthorne, celebrating Portland's culture of mobile cuisine with a deep fried chicken pot pie. The picnic tables were uncharacteristically empty tonight, save for a few punks and a guy walking around with a rubber chicken on his head. This being Stumptown, this was not seen as odd.

* * *

Brutal metal gave way to Hank III and classic rock anthems as my Jetta sputtered along Highway 26, onwards and upwards towards the high and mighty highlands of Bend and beyond. My accomplices (besides my constant companions Procrastination and Doubt) on this journey were J and P, one an actual German and one who is aspiring to be one. Like the great George Dibbern before us, we were on a Quest to fulfill our basest and noblest aspirations through a long dialogue with Nature. Unlike that particular German refugee, we were going to hang out at Smith Rock State Park, a rock climber's wet dream and high desert refuge for those of Portlanders who don't find the moldiest city in North America's eternal dampness to be "soothing". This was advertised as a "Man Trip", where carriers of the Y-chromosome are given free reign to express our authentic masculinity without kowtowing to the demands and expectations of the fairer sex.

* * *

Burgerville Sweet Potato fries were still sitting heavy in our guts when we careened past Mount Hood at sunset, where the damp dark forests of the Willamette Valley turned into the crystal clear skies and wide open expanse of the Cascades. The clarity of the atmosphere (and increasing altitude) infected us with high hopes and expectations, a near-ecstatic state of mind where anything is possible and the glass is always full, if not running over. The setting sun lit the sky on fire as the Desert spread out before us...with Dire Straits on the radio and our hearts full of the unmistakable and near-perfect joy of a soon-to-be realized fantasy, nothing could bring us down, for we were Men on a Mission, goddamn it.

* * *

Nothing deflates ecstasy like a cold slap of reality, especially when that slap comes from a headlamp introducing himself as Cliff. "I just want to make it clear to you fellas that I'm a light sleeper and will be in bed by 10 and expect you guys to be quiet...REAL quiet. Even whispering wakes me up. I just want to have this conversation now instead of later tonight...I've been here since May and I've had to have that unpleasant conversation many times. You know, the Bivouac area is a great place to socialize and play scrabble...just don't do it in your tents, OK?" "Whatever buddy". It was pitch black and we were blindly setting up our tents somewhere in the woods. It was clear that finding this spot later tonight will be a bitch. And we had the luck of pitching camp next to the biggest blowhard within 100 miles. "What sort of guy lives in a tent in a state park for 6 months? No wonder he has no social skills. Anyway, let's have a beverage before the other guys come in". Veterans of the Bum Around the World scene, the three of us knew the importance of being well-stocked and prepared for all possibilities. We had a small arsenal of Bourbons of varying degrees of drinkability and the legendary Simpler Times Lager, the premier cheap beer in North America (anyone who disagrees can contact me and will be proven wrong). P was just giving us an account of how his German driving instructor took them to Oktoberfest for a couple of liters so he can have a free ride home when a gangly man sat at our table and helped himself to some fags and hooch. Claiming to be from a climber from Prague but crashing in Portland for the time being (thereby making him the coolest living man), PP exploited our hospitality and returned the favor with some advice of his own. This was a Man Trip, and we had to discuss Manly things...spreading the gospel of masculinity as it were. Through drink and ecstatic conversations we were almost on the point of delirium when Prague asked, apropos of nothing at all, "What do you feel about abortion?" Shocked into sobriety, I exclaimed "Hey wait a minute, you aren't one of those Tea Party dudes, are you?" It was clearly time to put the festivities to an abrupt halt. Realizing that Prague was going out his mind ("and about to Wallace and Gromit", as P would say), J and P leaped into action to guide him back to his tent. Two snags to this plan: 1) He had no idea where his tent was, and 2) He quickly developed a habit of running into trees and falling down. Solution: 1) go to every tent and see if anyone was in there...his would be the empty one and 2) drag him. Being the thoughtful and industrious person I am I went straight to bed, but I was able to chart their progress through the startled gasps of "Hey buddy, this ain't your tent" echoing throughout the campground. Something told me he wasn't going to meet his climbing partner on the wall at 7 sharp as he had planned.

* * *

The next morning was achingly gorgeous: blue skies, a crisp breeze, dry air, and the sight of massive walls of welded tuff, beckoning hardy men and women to scale them. The daylight also revealed that we had camped on the edge of a cliff, and it was a minor miracle that nobody had a plunge whilst wandering around aimlessly the night prior. By early morning our companions (who arrived just in time to see Pragues' sudden collapse) were practically jogging out to try their hand and the vertical game. The rest of us, by lack of courage, equipment, and/or properly functioning joints, were relegated to pleasant day of wandering and wishing. The park is small enough to see in a day, but complex enough to give a serious climber a lifetime of challenges (the route guide is as thick as most small city phone books). Out plan was to see the park on bike, but that idea was abandoned after we embarrassingly failed to find the bike path. To ask for directions on a Man Trip was obviously out of the question, so we contented ourselves with walking around, taking pictures of climbers with particularly graceful figures, and discussing the merits of starting a brawl with the dude who was wearing a shirt that said "Fight Me I'm Irish". The highlight of the afternoon was watching three of the ballsiest human beings imaginable make their descent from the free-standing pillar known (for good reason) as Monkey Face. Our knees were buckling watching those young men smoke and joke while one false move would've guaranteed a dirt nap. More than likely they have bum jobs (perhaps even sharing a shift with the Trees frontman grinding espresso), but for a few minutes they have transcended themselves and the world below to become Heroes for the world to admire. Every man, whether they'll admit it or not, yearns for powerful ascension, channeling their impotent fury into that one moment when they have the power of a God. It is a rite of passage that few will ever know... Our pale and pasty Portland complexions deeply reddened, we went back to the picnic area for a quick snack before heading to Bend for a feed. Regrettably for everyone, Cliff was also having a bite, talking to every passerby unlucky to have avoided his gaze. A girl at the table next to us confided that her party had heard "the speech" the night prior as well and that the poor schmuck currently accosted was too much of a nice guy to tell the wannabe Ranger to go blow smoke up his own ass for once. "He made the mistake of wearing his UO sweatshirt...it's been nothing but college football for the last 20 minutes...and poor Jake doesn't even care about sports! Say, did you guys hear those drunk guys wandering around into other people's tents last night? That was pretty creepy". "Uh, that would be us". Right about then a dude with a patched-up puffy jacket and a massive beard (actually, that could describe 75% of the camp patrons) jumped up on the permanently-affixed slackline and proceeded with a skillful slack-juggling routine. I recognized him as C, a fellow attendee of last year's Cape Diem housewarming party, who identified himself first and foremost as a climber. His juggling act reminded me of the Spirtualized song "Straight and Narrow", where Jason Spaceman sings of the difficulty of staying on the wagon. It's like the essential challenge of modern masculinity, juggling your own desires and dreams while playing your other socially assigned roles and trying to maintain personal integrity and dignity. Selling out is unavoidable (except maybe for a complete outcast like Cliff, but who wants a life like his?), but the trick is to do so gracefully. Unfortunately, most of our slacklines are much more than two feet off the ground, and before you know it you are juggling chainsaws without any practice. Without realizing it we had consumed a horrifying amount of cheese-and-peanut butter tortillas, Trader Joes Indian MREs, enough crackers to choke a burro, and dried fruit. Since eating again for the next several days was out of the question, we decided to soak in the hot pools in Bend. It was a dimly lit regal affair, with large murals (and voyeuristic security cameras) on the walls and several fountains that suggested some sort of ancient nobility. In short, an excellent venue for some Council, where Men can assemble to discuss their challenges and receive non-judgmental feedback from compassionate open-minded fellows. It's the sort of constructive healing process that eases burdens and cleanses souls, and no amount of booze and sex can compete (although it may be worth trying...). We had evolved from solipsistic beings imprisoned in our mind forged manacles to a fellowship of compassion and commiseration where there were no problems, merely challenges and growth etc. It was all getting a bit, er, Greek, so we brought the conversation down to terrestrial levels with a discussion on the hazards of foregoing underwear as a lifestyle choice (conclusion: don't knock it 'till you've tried it).

* * *

Leaving our comrades to battle the rock for a second day, the 1.5 Germans and I headed to Sisters, where a mountain bike ride awaited us. Grease, metal, speed, dirt: it was high time to get some sort of action in before a return to reality. The ride starts and ends in the town square, home to the the most vile public restroom west of the Mississippi (wait 'till you get to the woods, trust me). Few activities, save watching pro wrestling, can make grown men feel like carefree children like riding a bike through the woods...it has the in-the-moment bliss of rock climbing without all that brink of death business (brink of concussion isn't nearly as intimidating). The cross-country excursion finally burned off the last of the tortillas and we hit up a brewery for some well-deserved beer and burgers. In fact, we were so ravenous we considered helping ourselves to a lovely leftover rueben from the adjacent table. J: "Why don't you just snag it? It's just going to waste, and you know how much you can't stand seeing good food thrown away". He knew how to push my buttons. "But...someone will see me". "So? you'll never see these people again. Who cares?" Apparently I did because in the midst of the debate the table was cleared. J, with a look of severe disappointment in his face, said "I think we all learned a nice lesson here". Carpe Diem indeed.

* * *

By the time we hit I5 the skies were gray and the ever-present Willamette Valley rain was falling. Despite the less than uplifting environment, our sensibilities were still riding high. We vowed to make Man Trips a quarterly requirement for us, no matter how convenient the excuses may be. While it may not have been the most hardcore adventure we have done, it demonstrated the importance of Getting Away From It All, not to escape but to get a fresher, healthier perspective. Stone Temple Pilots brilliant Core was playing (critics be damned!), Rockstar was being consumed, and Rambo was quoted more than once. By now we had accumulated a preposterous amount of testosterone. While it isn't necessary to make moccasins or climb rocks to become a Man, it is necessary to challenge yourself and give/seek mentoring from those who give a damn. When your hungry you gotta eat that rueben.

One Last Ride

After 12 months of living in the proverbial "van down by the river", I had a craving to iron the chinos and rejoin the "real" (i.e. "working") world. However, before settling into the dreaded 40/50 lifestyle (that's 40 hours a week, 50 weeks a year, for too many years) an old colleague convinced me to launch a siege on the Salton Sea in proper dirtbag bicycle tourist style. Read about that nonsense at http://saltonseasiege2010.blogspot.com. This is the last post on Submissive Rebellion; now go out and do something adventurous before it's too late.

Back to the US

Love is terribly overrated; all you really need is metal. Celebrated the sale of my car (yes, I got bent over severely, but every bum in the world was selling their 13 year old station wagons in Auckland at the same time) by attending a great show at the King's Arms featuring some hard and heavy bands, one of which was the premier Metallica tribute band in New Zealand (the fact that they are the only one is irrelevant). A hell of a fun time to be sure with much sweating, yelling, and jostling as one can take.

But it was time to say goodbye to the most beautiful place on Earth (that I have been, anyway) and on to another session of intercontinental public transport. The flight was with Qantas, which meant we were treated like civilized human beings and not diseased cattle unworthy even of a proper butchering. Finally saw Inglorious Basterds and was incredibly amused; too bad it had to be on a 2" screen. However, the US has the TSA, which is bureaucracy at its absolute worst...ironically it's the most prominent a Soviet-style relic in use today.

Eventually I arrived in Portland, where all dirtbagging journeys begin and come to an end. Before I place my neck back in the corporate noose, the Belmont Station calls with it's St. Patrick's Day Stoutfest and, more importantly, German thrash legends Kreator are rolling in to town...like calculus, metal is a true international language!

Final Road Trip, Northland, New Zealand

"Life's a banquet, and, you know, most poor suckers are starving to death". Thus spoke the artist from Ontario, trying to explain why the average sap is miserable and bored. However, when you are lounging on a beach in the north of New Zealand, wrapped in the velvety embrace of Patron Silver and endless sunshine, words are unnecessary. The two Canadian gents teamed up with a Dutch lass for a few days of jolly good times on the coast. I was fortunate enough to be invited along in the festivities. I can't tell you where we were at because at this point, after damn near a year of traveling, place names are meaningless.

Before I ran into them, I spent a few more days in Auckland, trying to determine the sort of drugs the traffic planners were ingesting when they put pen to paper. Despite the endless traffic snarls and confusing streets, which seem to change name and direction at random, I found myself at the King's Arm Tavern to see some outstanding local rock action. Starved of international touring acts, Kiwis have become very adept at entertaining themselves. Too bad the audience consistent almost entirely of the other bands.

However, decent music was not enough to keep me in town. The sea beckoned, so I heeded the call up North for one final road trip. Back to the Bay of Islands, back to Kauri country, back to Cape Reinga. At the latter point (this time at Spirit's Bay), the heavy ozone odor in the air, combined with the exquisite landscape, gave the place an overwhelming aspect of sacredness. No wonder the Maori consider it to be one of their "holiest" locales. I almost felt undeserving of such a privilege.

...so now I'm back in Auckland for the last time, facing the moment I've been dreading for months: selling the car. Unfortunately, every other bum in the Southern Hemisphere is trying to do the same, pushing prices down to outrageously low levels. I've got half a mind to buy a dozen campervans, mothball them for the winter, and sell them all for huge markups in October. Alas, Portland calls with it's cheap burritos, tasty beverages, and urban planning that makes sense. Perhaps I'll smuggle some plates to take to the banquet...

All Over the North Island, New Zealand

Back in Auckland, it took all of 2 hours before I was in the garage of a Scottish car salesman, drinking beer and playing Tiger Woods Golf on XBox. Before I knew what happened I was sitting on a picnic table, spreading the Gospel of Dr. Dirty John Valby by reciting some of his excellent limericks to a gaggle of expats (one of whom was from Portland, of course), holding the audience in stitches. Decided that I couldn't top that performance, so I hit the road the next morning (the lack of available lodging helped in that decision).

I spent 3 restless days in Taupo on the assumption that it would be a decent place to get a job and settle down. It has a strong triathlon scene, so I can easily find neurotic fitness freaks to make me feel lazy rather easily. I could've sold Merino T-shirts at $70 a pop at Kathmandu, but a night of bar-hopping with degenerate expats (making up 70% of the population) told me that Taupo would not be the best place to chill. Sorta like a developed and polished Franz Josef, but without the pride of being senselessly hardcore. Not enough drunken fishermen, either.

What's a drifter to do? Drift! And drift I did, with a vengeance. Up to that point I hadn't explored the Hawke's Bay region. so I blasted down to Napier, which happened to be celebrating Art Deco Days, giving people a damn fine excuse to pretend it's the 1920s again (ignoring social upheval and the last gasps of colonialism, of course). Goofy hats and nice cars were the order of the day. Looking for something less kitchy, I headed up to Gisborne. Maybe it was the weather, but it was a place where you (and by "you" I mean "I") instantly think: I could hang out here for a very long time. That's exactly what the pudgy bearded Englishman felt when he signed up for 6 weeks of grape picking in the local area. Good luck, I hope he doesn't get too bitter.

Ah, but a drifter must drift and I drove relentlessly up the East Coast at a ridiculous and unnecessary pace, stopping only at the eastern most lighthouse in the world (or so the plaque said). Stopped in Whakatane and then cruised through he Bay of Plenty (kiwi fruit country) to the Coromandel Peninsula. I received some disheartening news when Permaculture hero and Teutonic genius David K. informed me that his autumn will be given up to working the night shift in a kiwi fruit packhouse, possibly the most soulless and degrading work outside of outright slavery. The sad fact that a sustainability warrior is reduced to robotic drudgery to keep afloat is an unfortunate commentary of the state of economics.

But fortunately seven years of being a warmongerer left me rather flush, so I can dick around in the forests and beaches of the Coromandel without worrying about subjecting myself to such indignities. As ol' Dave Mustaine said, "Killing is my business...and business is good!". Anyway, the dreadlocked vegan on the mountaintop told me I must go to the Great Barrier Island...especially for the legendary Thursday night open mic jam session at the Irish pub. Hopefully distasteful limericks go over well there...

Northland, New Zealand

The escape from the farm was punctuated by a beautiful drive with Black Sabbath's brilliant "Volume 4" giving us a sense of appreciation for Toni Iommi's riff-making abilities. After a night camping out at Kai iwi Lakes munching grilled cheese sandwhiches we made our way through Kauri forests (home of absurdly gigantic trees) to idyllic Ahipara, southern terminus of "90 Mile Beach", which can be driven if properly outfitted, even if it isn't really 90 miles long. We were content with walking, but after a few hours the desire to see what was up the road got the better of us, so northwards we pushed (but not before I did a damn fine job convincing a German pirmary school teacher that her next holiday MUST be in the Desert Southwest...in fact, I was ready to head to Flagstaff straighaway myself).

It wasn't soon afterward we picked up a lass from Athens, Ohio (of all places) who was WWOOFing around New Zealand after a year stint teaching English to Malaysian youth. Her next destination was Disney World, which even the blind can see is absolutely, fundamentally wrong, regardless of your moral upbringing. As soon as we dropped her off we scooped up some more backpacking detritus, in this case a 29 year old Swedish chap named Martin on a six month career break gap (half)year going round the world at a blazing pace. To help him out we screamed up Highway 1 to Cape Reigna, the Northernmost point in New Zealand where the dead spirits depart the earth while tourists take pictures of the quaint lighthouse. .

Having done our sacred duty (we had to settle for pictures since the ferry to the Great Beyond was fully booked) we blasted back down the road to Paihia, the gateway to the Bay of Islands and obligatory Kiwi Experience bus stop, thus giving the town its more than fair share of 19 year old English girls about to get the worst sunburn of their lives. Lodging was difficult to secure, but we got a smokin' deal on a little cabin on the hill and we had a few pints with a 79 year old gent nicknamed Hugh (as in Hefner) for obvious and enviable reasons..

Content with having "done" Paihia, we chose to explore the rest of the Bay of Islands, leaving Martin to his scheme of flying to Santiago for a 2 month assault on South America. Within 50k or so of Russell there are numerous coves, beaches, bays, and other "hidden gems" that make you damn grateful you chose to chuck everything and head to New Zealand, for places like these are the reason why you came here. It makes you feel sorry for the Americans who have to be content with commercialization, resorts, crowds, and guys playing Creed on cheap boomboxes way to loudly. .

After a few hours of digging we were able to have a nice little feast of shellfish in Waipu. It was a good thing we caught our dinner because the lone grocery store closed promptly at 6:30. The evening passed with American folk melodies and conversation with an English couple exploring NZ after a year of living in Perth, which was fine but too damn far away from friends and family in the UK...but they will at least wait until the snow melts before heading back north!.

After a final day at the beach scheming about what to do next (she wants to ride a horse down a beach with camping gear and a surfboard; I want to start a band a climb the Himalayas), we made the worst possible decision, and the last resort for all NZ backpackers: head to Auckland. Our hearts sank as the traffic became noticeable and the ugly skyscrapers loomed on the horizon. We parted ways as she had prior commitments to explore the middle of the North Island and I had to make decisions about when to leave NZ. However, after a week like that, to leave now would be sheer idiocy...

Otamatea Ecovillage, Kaiwaka, New Zealand

There comes a time in every vagabonding mission when the best course of action is to shovel shit for room and board, and now was my time. Upon the recommendation of one of the greatest WWOOFers the world has ever known (the aforementioned David Koblos), I headed out to Otamatea Ecovillage in Kiawaka. My hosts, Robert and Marijke, were about a decade into transforming an unassuming 5 acres into a veritable Permaculture Oasis, and doing a splendid job. From raising animals to establishing a lush and productive garden to building a full-blown castle (which absolutely MUST be included in the next LLoyd Kahn owner-builder anthology), they have totally lived the Permaculture dream of DIY self-sufficiency coupled with community-mindedness and respect for the Earth. I was privileged to be immersed in such an environment surrounded by such creative, talented, and downright brilliant people (one son is a National Geographic photographer in the making, while the other is recording an album in Auckland under with the Early Worms), I almost didn't mind standing knee-deep in compost or slinging concrete or herding cattle or watching pigs being slaughtered. It's all in the name of living up to your ideals without compromise.

However, my feet began to itch once again (and it wasn't just the abundant mozzies), so I had to bid the ter Veers adieu and hit the road to more Northerly locales. Right before I was about to set off on another solo gig, a fellow WWOOFer decided to go along for the ride. Since she was American, I figured we could share existential/spiritual conundrums as well as gas money. The horse shit scraped from our boots and MP3 player recharged, it was time to head to the Tropic of Capricorn (or at least until Highway 1 ends).

*Gratuitous Book Plug Alert* Speaking of Tropic of Capricorn, I began rereading for the 98th time one of the great Masterpieces of 20th century literature, or at least 20th century literature focusing on boozing, whoring, and avoiding work at all costs. Crazy Willie Mayne eating fried bananas off the floor, Henry running out on MacGregor when it comes time to pay for the drinks, and the ribald insanity of the Cosmodemonic Telegraph Company of North America: it's all in this brilliant story of a guy who chucks everything overboard trying to sail to Paradise.

More North Island Nonsense, New Zealand

After four tranquil days in Rotorua, I felt compelled to visit the surfer's Paradise known as Raglan on the West Coast. Not being a surfer, I had a suspicion that I would come to loathe it, which happened rather quickly. It didn't help that it was absolutely chock-full of Americans, talking loudly about their expertise on various subjects. I also came to the realization that while the rest of the world comes to New Zealand to piss away a few weeks/months jumping out of planes and lazing on the beach, the typical American is on some sort of epic Spiritual Quest in an effort to "find themselves". The country was founded by a handful of religious lunatics and established by anti-government tax dodgers. Not much has changed.

Open mic in Raglan featured an astounding dub version of Radiohead's "Karma Police" that somehow made it into a veritable cheerful party song. Well done!

Looking for an excuse to bail on Raglan I saw a rare break in the weather forecasted for the Turangi area...thus, I woke up at some unholy hour, downed a Sugar-Free V (that's more chemicals for me!) and screamed down the highway to Whakapapa village, using the Sport Transmission option on the Vectra and enjoying it immensely. I could have made it in three hours hadn't I been inconvenienced by 800 sheep crossing the road. Nevertheless, without a second to lose I hastily suited up and made the slog up Mt Ruapehu, foregoing the gondola because that $23 could be spent on celebratory beverages. I summited just in time to catch a glimpse of the crater lake and watch the clouds roll in, signaling another week of shitty weather. Exhausted but satisfied, I made the descent accompanied by a geezer from England, who hikes around the world and is quite proud of the fact that he can do all sorts of physical activity at his age. At that point in the conversation he caught the gondola back to the carpark, completely unaware of the irony.

Everyone raves about the Coromandel peninsula, but I wasn't in the mood to follow advice. Thus, it was high time to go to the farm.

Rotorua, New Zealand

Solo once again, back in a socked-in Kaikoura for the final South Island Hurrah. Leaving the Israeli flight attendants to their own devices, I cruised past the crowds of surfers up to Sawtooth Gorge, which is allegedly the only slot canyon in New Zealand and reminds one of Southern Utah. The relatively little-known trek is a favorite amongst a Christchurch photo club, who happened to be hauling their tripods around. Among them was a Kiwi woman whose ancient boots finally shit the bed, so she casually tied the sole back on with a handful of flax. A fine afternoon of hip-deep stream wading and rock hopping before taking the ferry to Wellington. Apparently the weather had been abnormally choppy, leading to an abnormally large number of mass vomiting incidents on board. Unfortunately, my crossing was far less amusing.

Bypassed Wellington and shot straight up to Masterton, which may have been the first time anyone has ever been foolish enough to do that. To compound the dreariness was a night spent in the creepiest hostel I have ever set foot in, save perhaps for the infamous Huck Finn Inn in St. Louis. The two other occupants of this labyrinth of musty dime store furnishings circa 1953 and dodgy plumbing also had looks on their faces that said "Well, this was a mistake I'll never make again". Motivated me to head to the hills, and by hills I mean the Tararua Forest Park.

Fine weather made the Holdsworth-Jumbo ridge walk a pleasant outing, but the highlight of the trip was the undisputed hero of the Jumbo hut, a gent by the name of Dave. Not only was he able to score large slabs of venison from his cousin who runs a hunting operation ("Goddamn rich American bastards shooting things from helicopters and calling it sport...they don't even want the meat!"), but he was teaching his young Dutch protege, Peter, the fine art of eating instant mashed potatoes with dehydrated peas. Peter, for what it's worth, had just arrived to NZ after three months of exploring SE Asia, taking in Cambodian killing fields, Vietnamese POW camps, typical Thai chaos, and a very unsettling 48 hours in Myanmar. Dave, it should be said, Lives the Dream: travels abroad for at least 3 months every year (it's time for South Africa once again, this time by motor bike), owns a bach on both coasts ("if the weather is shit on the Tasman, I can sit in the Pacific sunshine in two hours"), and hikes enough to know the Tararua better than the inside of his car, going so far as to describe, at great length, the merits of the stoves in each of the dozen forest huts. His secret to success? "Make a lot of money, be a cheap bastard, and stay the hell away from women...unless you are in Thailand with a return ticket and antibiotics in hand".

The weather was not as cooperative in New Plymouth, which was voted as New Zealand's Most Livable City. A persistent cloud cover was a perfect excuse to make an excursion down the road to Mike's White Cliffs Organic Brewery, where you will not find any sugar in their beers but you will find a handful of WWOOFer hippies carrying around massive buckets of spent mash. But even a hearty helping of hoppy Pilsner could satisfy my thirst for climbing Mt Taranaki, so against all advice and common sense I headed up to North Egmont for a foolhardy assault on the majestic volcano.

As expected, it was not a fun time. Complete white out with pelting wind and rain, but I along with the three other imbeciles with identical plans grinded up the slippery scree and jagged rocks to the snowbound crater summit. No hero shots or lingering lunches this time; the only thing on our minds was making a hasty retreat before we made the papers. Oddly enough, there was another solo climber that day who I met on the way up. He seemed a little cracked, but I guess we seemed the same to him. After some meaningless gear-oriented banter where the ice-axe wielding warrior criticized our weak American and European gear, he disappeared into the fog and sleet to massage his masochism. Fortunately the descent was a quick and simple affair of sliding down the scree slope more or less completely out of control...the sight of us soaked and haggard at the visitor's center did well to discourage anyone else thinking about making an ascent that day.

The situation did not improve in Turangi, the self-proclaimed Trout Fishing Capital of the World whose true claim to fame is serving as a place where backpackers can sit around and wait for a break in the weather long enough to give the Tongariro Crossing a go, billed as the best dayhike in New Zealand, if not the world. I has the great fortune of running into David the Irish Bicycle Racer from the November South Island tour. He was looking much more feral this time around, which was explained by his month of surfing in Kaikoura. Now that he has a sleek and pink road bike (the hideous color scheme keeps thieves at bay, evidently), his life is complete. We didn't have much time to chat for he was off to do a sprint around Lake Taupo, ignoring the skydiving tourists. I, on the other hand, had a different circumnavigation in mind: a nice 72 km perambulation about Mt Ruapehu, the highest mountain on the North Island and an uncomfortably active volcano.

The guidebook said 4-6 days, but I figured if I kept the pace brisk and didn't mind a little suffering, three days was possible. In fact, with a spare set of headlamp batteries and a capacity for total deprivation, two was not out of the question. All packed and motivated, I started down the track. Three hours later, I was unable to see the mountain as the clouds descended and the rain moved in. The forecast was very grim, and my morale had instantly plummeted...I've had enough masochism for the time being. Thus, a three hour hike of defeat and retreat back to the car, where I met three younguns equipped with jeans and a juice and who refused to believe that the hut really was an hour a way. My usually trusty MP3 player, for reasons known only to the fickle God of Cheap Chinese Electronics, took this opportunity to get stuck on playing the Enter the Wu-Tang Clan album on repeat...I guess it could've been worse. Favorite line: "Jacques Cousteau could never get this low!"

Ended up, after hours of aimless wandering, in Rotorua, described by my former German rowboat companion as the most beautiful place on Earth. That may be a stretch, but it is pleasant enough to transcend the ever-present sulfurous smell in the air due to the rather intense thermal action lurking below. It's also a key place for the preservation of Maori heritage, enabling the pakeha a chance to pay $$$ for the chance to see some "authentic" customs performed at exactly 6:30 pm every day. The song and dance routine doesn't exactly interest me, but I'm keen on some pig hunting and canoe crafting...

South Island Blitzkrieg, Pt 3 of 3

Tourists will shell out $200 for a pair of Goretex hiking boots, but they are afraid to get their feet wet. Such was the case on the trek up to catch a glimpse of the heavily-morained Hooker Glacier on the flanks of the mighty Aoraki (that's Mount Cook to the haughty Imperialists). The weather was absolutely immaculate, rendering the West face of the highest (and most sacred) peak in New Zealand absolutely beautiful. In fact, it is this stunning appearance that has led to over 200 climbing fatalities since they started keeping track of such things. If you are going to keel over, might as well be in a blaze of aesthetic and athletic glory.

The perpetually ice-shielded behemoths were far out of our league, so we contented ourselves with a little jog up to Mt Olliver, allegedly the first mountain climbed by Sir Ed Hillary, although about 37 other peaks claim that distinction. We were pleasantly surprised to witness a flawless paraglide of the summit by a chap who was very keen on saving his knees on the "traditional" stairmaster descent. Suddenly, all sorts of scenarios popped into my head regarding reducing one's time on weekend missions. Of course if you end up tangled in the trees you may not net any gains, save for some good stories. Regardless, we settled for sliding down the snow slopes on our asses.

Somehow we ended up in Oamaru, where they desperately cling to their Victorian roots, which evidently requires shopkeepers to reluctantly dress up in ridiculous outfits. At least there is good whiskey and cheese to be had, if you can afford it. At the building that tries to be a distillery/art gallery/banquet hall, a handful of nervous and agitated Otagans were preparing for a wedding reception. It seems as though somebody seriously botched the tablecloth responsibility, as evidenced by the humiliating public tongue lashing. That miserable crew could probably use a few barrels of 10 year old themselves.

The other attraction to this coastal town is the nightly penguin migration. I had pictured it to be some sort of Normandy-esque mass invasion, clogging the beach with wet and exhausted flightless birds. That was anything but the case. In fact, it was a really big deal when one of the squeaky buggers waddled between hiding places on the bluffs with silent nature buffs poised with cameras and grave expressions on their faces. It was like attending a golf tournament without anyone swinging a club. Nevertheless, we got all the penguin action we could stand as they built a nest right outside the bedroom window, waking everyone in the hostel up at 0400 with their hideous caterwauling.

After hours of wandering around aimlessly looking for a friend's farm on some mythical dirt road we stumbled upon some fishing village for baskets of deep fried lard. A mandatory water boil was in effect, which is a damn effective way to coax us to choke down more Speights.

Having enough of the tourist trail, we spent the final night of the suddenly all too mellow Blitz in seriously out-of-season Methven, where it was all farmers, bogans swilling cans of Diesel (and the cola-ed down 5% version at that!), and the hardy young men who had decided it was a great idea to exchange $15k for an 8 month skydiving course. After an alarmingly fabulous 12" burget courtesy of the Village Takeaway we hit up the Blue Bar (note: the other bar in town is the Brown Bar) with a couple from Israel, just out of the mandatory service and on a walkabout. Several jugs of Mac's later, we came to the profound conclusion that it would be incredibly wise to invest in pickles because everybody likes them!

Back to Lyttleton, an excellent place to ponder the pros and cons of working on a fishing boat...finally, Diesel (the Air Force bureaucrat, not the disgusting beverage) had his fill of the antipodean life and headed back to higher and drier climates while I turned back to Kaikoura in search of a slot canyon. Perhaps a parachute could save me some time...