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...
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