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.