04042012

Phase V: California, The United States of America

From the boulevard of broken dreams to dreams on Sunset Boulevard.


Auckland-Venice Beach-Hermosa Beach-West Hollywood

I think it was only justified irony. Writing a text about dreams and having mine broken. Come to think of, I should be writing this text in the island of Naigani, one of the small atolls surrounding the serene paradise island group of Fiji. Due to a series of unfortunate events, and some fortunate ones fit in as well, I am writing to you from under a palm tree nonetheless - it's California, baby!

A few days ago two excited travellers hitchhiked from their hostel to Auckland airport, with the driver of the van, a gay farmer from Cardiff, getting completely lost and swearing every word imaginable. The spirit of the travellers was high as clouds as they entered Auckland Airport's international terminals. I think I will remember the feeling of walking under the International Departures sign, looking up and seeing FJ410 NADI 15:30 CANCELLED for a very long time.

The Western side of Fiji's main island, Viti Levu, had been flooded by tropical weather depression. The city of Nadi, our city of arrival, was under water with no sign of improvement for the following days. The queue of unhappy people was the longest one I've seen in a while.

The misery. The week that was supposed be a romance in a paradise, a vacation for the weary, a mojito with a sunset, became four hours on a payphone, two feverish nights in a blank airport hotel room, and a beer with insurance money. We ended up spending a full day at the airport, with our tickets that were still supposed to get us to Fiji but only got us as far as the departure gate. To make matters more annoying, we actually had to leave New Zealand by going through the customs and making our way back through the customs back to New Zealand without ever leaving the airport. The frustration of filling out yet another arrival card when you never arrived was only subsided a little when I walked through the biologically strict customs of Auckland with two bananas in my hand. I had to grin a bit.

After two days we finally got things sorted out with the flight company who had managed to organize us two booked seats (no tickets though, this is another episode of misfortunes) on another airline's plane to Los Angeles, the city of angels. The feeling wasn't heavenly but we were content about getting out of New Zealand. The country, which left a bitter aftertaste in the end.

--

After crossing the International Date Line, flying for nearly 12 hours, living the same day twice and making our way to Venice Beach from LAX staying awake until the evening was a triumph. The hostel we ended up at was disgusting in terms of hygiene and cleanliness but we were too tired to care. After 'enjoying' the free dinner, courtesy of the hostel, we joined a couple of British guys and a few Americans for a short night out in the local bars. We were taken to a bar located on the roof of a 7-storey building, illuminated by pillars of fire warming the atmosphere, and the view - the city of angels, an endless sky of stars that were glimmering windows, spotting the walls of skyscrapers. I felt better than I had in ages.

On the following day we took our chances with the bus system again and made our way to Hermosa Beach - this time with better luck (skill!). A stroll on the beach followed by a day spent shopping at the Del Amo Fashion Center, our flow feels incredible! Laughter, good spirit, incidents and accidents.

I think every flood has a silver stream. We followed ours and found our way.

30032012

Excitement over a Chinese steam pot – my last day in New Zealand.

Seddon-Blenheim-Christchurch-Auckland

We had a pawpaw for breakfast this morning, accompanied by the static hum of the refridgerators in the lifeless hostel kitchen. Maria told me that back home she had been dreaming about eating exotic fruits for breakfast in New Zealand – pawpaws, passion fruit, melons. ”I guess this was a dream-come-true then”, I replied jokingly, only to realize something about dreams, the ones that never came true.

It's about time I lay down some sour facts on realizing dreams. This coming from an everlonging dreamer - the boy whom mother found reading the same old adventure books cover to cover again, and who never heard anything from his surroundings when he was in that world - it may sound like breaking cubicles of ice in your mouth. The gnawing tension between your teeth and the salivated ice in your mouth about to be burst into splinters that never hurt.

Dreams are not meant to become true. No. The only thing that comes true is reality, the only harsh book written on life. Traveling around the world has always been my dream. The reality – teeth biting knuckles, a bitter tear shed for no reason – was not quite as I would have expected. Reality is people sitting on the streets because they have nothing better to do, cars with no destination, grey buildings with no sentiment.

Dreams are not meant to be broken, though. Chase them, engulf them, live them. Just never make the dream your reality - the most atrocious thing will happen: you will have to open your blue eyes. Keep your dreams as dreams, float through them.

Our hostel is situated in an Asian part of Auckland, the Karangahape Road. The pawpaw we enjoyed for breakfast was found in a Chinese grocery store, hidden from public eyes. Amidst the eccentric smell of spices, lines of rice, corridors of cans, we found a selection of wooden Chinese steaming pots. I smiled at the efforts of these Chinese people who try bring their culture, their lives, their dreams into a Jerusalem in New Zealand.

Dreams are meant to be smiles,

and I have been smiling for the most of time in New Zealand.

21032012

10 days and not counting.

Homecoming doesn't seem too close but there's a special feeling lingering in the morning air each time I open my eyes for a new dawn. The thoughts about the troubles of everyday life can't quite enforce themselves into my thought stream yet, nor are there any troubles left here at the other edge of the world to pester my mood. My life at the moment feels like a purposeful shade of grey, in the colorless masses amidst the walls of black and white. The grey is there for the purpose of creating a base for a beam of luminiscent light. A light that I, myself have created by successfully (is there success in traveling?) voyaging to the current end of my world.

I can't help but to reflect on the events of this journey at this stage when I have lot standing behind my back, and still a lot facing me ahead. I know that the words that have been filtered into this blog are a cosmetic touch on the powdery face of this incident of travel - underneath, a rugged countenance of hardship and struggle, illuminated by a natural smile. I just haven't felt comfortable about releasing thoughts and happenings in my life that would harm my self-esteem, which is fragile enough when you're traveling abroad. These events I hold within for myself and a few important others to cherish with.

Days into hours, hours into minutes, minutes into a lifetime. You can count your days til their end but coming home is not measured in days. Coming home is the moment when you realize that you have been away.

I've been away and am quite ready to come home now.

17032012

Closing circles because that's what life is.

Kaikoura-Seddon

The circle of life is not a very broad concept in my opinion. I'd rather think of life as a never-ending paper chain of circles, the kind of chain where every third loop is red, white and blue. You're constantly keeping your hands busy connecting pieces of paper into loops, and connecting the loops into each other. Sometimes a loop in the chain breaks up (after all, it is just paper) and you have to go back and fix the damage as well as you can. Sometimes the chain just holds together so well - like it would have a mind of its own, telling itself to stay in one piece - and seems like using the stenchy glue was a waste of time in the first place. Yes, that's more like what life is: a red, white and blue paper chain.

I am back in Seddon, the place from where I started my journey on South Island two months ago. Looking back on the things I've done, the emotions I've gone through and the people I've met, I think I can safely say that I am richer now. Richer in mind that is - as for my wallet, I cannot say the same. People say that you learn important lessons from traveling, and all the hardships that come with it, such as 'never give up', 'every cloud has a silver lining', 'strength of mind will triumph', etc. It's always about not giving up, not letting go, being yourself, or something else as grand as that.

In all honesty, I have to say that the most important lesson I've learned within the past two months has been: 'Don't let yourself be bored.' And I think that's a reasonably good lesson, mind you. Boredom is the nasty old man in the corner of a street, wearing raggy clothes and begging you for your time and money. You, of course, do your best to walk past as fast as possible, but boredom, the mischievious little thing, will try to trip you over with his cane every time you try trodding past him. That's what I've learned to avoid, the cane of boredom.

Now, before I go on blabbering more about old men and canes, I will come back to the initial idea of text - circles. The people living in a circle of life are bound to two things, birth and death, the beginning and the end of the circle, and everything else in between is null, boredom. The people living in a colorful chain of circles are bound to only one thing, which is hanging up the chain on to the ceiling to make your life festive. Keep yourself busy connecting the circles of your life together and boredom won't have a go at you.

10032012

Salt water pool.

07032012

Fed up.

Lake Tekapo-Geraldine-Kaikoura

Stuck on another farm. Tedious, labourous tasks with no purpose for me to understand. Roaming around the hills to kill single pieces of ragwort, a weed plant, picking up dead weeds from a crop too large. At this stage of my travels, I find it hard to motivate myself towards such jobs. The eagerness, the willingness, is gone and all that's left is cynicism, criticism and close-mindedness.

The work, which gives me a different perspective towards life back home, needs a perspective of its own. Doesn't that seem redundant?

06032012

Planting hooks and unfinished books.

Allanton-Dunedin-Omaru-Lake Tekapo

Time has a constant, non-changing speed with which it moves forward, taking no notice of others. Independently it flows through every particle in this universe. No matter whether you have your watch with you, no matter whether you're eagerly waiting for something, or someone, no matter whether you're focused on something, time will still move at the same speed. However, there is a way to cheat time.

If every week is a countdown to something you're waiting for, the wait will be rewarding everytime. This, in turn, means that the week will be rewarding everytime. If you plant something at the end of each week, something to look forward to, and start counting your days, your nights, towards it, you will eventually notice that your time goes by quite swiftly. Expand this idea and plant these time hooks on a wider space of time. Every period of time will become rewarding eventually and at some point you notice: 'Where has all the time gone?'

The emerald colored waters of Lake Tekapo and Lake Pukaki told me that this tale, this part of my life, is coming to an end. I am picking up the last hooks up from the turned-over soil. Time has gone past me in an instant that was two months. An ending tale doesn't mean an ending book. Mine is still unfinished and my hooks have been planted way ahead, making my life rewarding.

04032012

Like dog, like owner.

The man calls himself a farmer. Another farmer told me over a beer that farmers in general, they drink way too much. Our farmer, he left yesterday for a party and we haven't seen him since. I'm quite certain that he will appear out of nowhere tomorrow, sobered up – at least mostly – and will wear the same, hospitable smile on his face and begin his week from a Tuesday. Mondays are for staring into the cracks in the walls the bathroom and wondering where all the years went, vanished.

The farmer has two dogs. A black, vital female and a light brown, old male. They have barely any shelter, and nothing to shield them from the winter that's already blowing its first breath onto the land. We've been warming up the house of the farmer for a full day and it's still cold. The wind seems to find its way through the walls that are nothing more than a grid fence. But what the farmer offers the dogs for accommodation is worse.

The farmer and the dogs seem alike. Both have seen their best years by far and both have the same look in their eyes. Ever hopeful, never resentful. Both have lost a great portion of their selves. The farmer has probably lost more.

It makes me sad in a way, to see people becoming cadavers with lively smiles. The only thing that they can still cling onto is the bottle, and the bottle doesn't love you back.

02032012

Meat day.

Decisions made about my future: will not work in a butcher's shop.

Chimney day, part I.

Decisions made about my future: will not demolish any more chimneys that I absolutely have to.

Note to self: wash your hair twice after eating dust, dirt and ash for six hours.

Market day.

Facts about life: farmers drink too much.

Chimney day, part II.

Decisions made about my future: bloody chimney.

28022012

Rough accommodation and the journey back home.

Queenstown-Cromwell-Dunedin-Allanton

Queenstown was the southernmost part of New Zealand we would visit on this trip. Milford Sound was the only sight to lay sore eyes upon left in New Zealand. I came to the realization that, roughly said, there's nothing for me here anymore. It's a horrible thought. Coming this far only to realize that you've made your dream come true, you've accomplished everything you've wanted. The realization that you are finished.

A month seemed like a lifetime.

Lifetime didn't feel very lively either and for one sullen second, I felt the nails of desperation clawing at my back. Why can't I just leave now? Why do I have to stay?

But for some reason my positive thoughts rose from the ashes of fires inside burned down. I pulled myself back on my feet before letting myself bathe in my own miserable head. A month of what seemed like nothing was there for a meaning, for something.

We made our way from Queenstown to Dunedin, a very moderate piece of road sightseeing-wise. Dunedin, the student capital of New Zealand, hosting 20 000 students of various interests, reminded about home, friends, fun – again - but I drew my thoughts back into reality, the now. We were picked up by our host, Kiwi-traditionally half an hour late, and the nice man took us to his farm.

I have never slept in a caravan before but in front of me was eight nights in a caravan with no heating, dust for a thousand vaccuums to suck up and an outdoors toilet that would've been pleasure in the military, but now felt like a chamber for death penalty prisoners. The shower might or might not be equipped with warm water, our host informed us. Apparently previous overnight guests has mentioned that the accommodation was a bit rough. Me and Maria (thank God for her happy spirit) replied that this wasn't rough – it was just a bit different.

26022012

The gardener's dream and the eighth wonder of the world.

Arrowtown-Queenstown-Te Anau-Milford Sound-Te Anau-Queenstown

Before I left on my travels I wrote a text on gardening and dreams. Of the first one I didn't have a clue about and of the second one I knew something. After spending nearly half a year abroad, seeing, experiencing, thinking, dreaming, I have come to learn a thing or two about the first one and realized that the second one is something I know more about than I think.

In the text I said I would be sitting on the shores of Milford Sound, right in the same place from where the photograph, which I had attached to the text, had been taken. The dream never came true – it became better than truth.

Mountains that would descend into the crystal clear sea, waterfalls that were nothing but threads of silk running down the green covers of the cliffs, glaciers looming in the horizon for the wonderer to gaze at. Rudyard Kipling wasn't wrong to call Milford Sound the eighth wonder of the world.

Sometimes I feel like shedding a tear for no reason. The feeling rises up from my throat, making its way up as if it were a carrot pulled up from the ground, and clings itself to the corners of my eyes. I wipe the tears which never were off with the sleeve of my shirt and find myself always as surprised when looking at the dry sleeve. Milford Sound, a flower in my garden of dreams, gave me a reason to shed tears, which were never shed.

03032012

No excuses.

Nearly a week sleeping in a non-heated caravan. A house with no insulation. Breaking down an old chimney, starting from the attic. I have never eaten so much dust. Living of bad food. My mouth hurt from eating fish n chips with salt, so much salt that my mouth hurt. I am seeing a fireplace, on fire, for the first time this week and that's the only warmth I've had. I keep telling myself that I have to do this kind of stuff to get some perspective. In truth, there are no excuses.

But there are excuses for me not updating this blog regurlarly. One is the latest invention in New Zealand, or lack thereof. They call it internet. It's a very rare product.

22022012

Taking my hat off.

Wanaka-Arrowtown

'Have you seen the movie, The Bucket List?' I asked. 'The one with Jack Nicholson and Morgan..'

'Freeman. Yes, that was one. I've seen that one. Do you know what my brother answered when I asked him about what would be on his bucket list?' Finnie replied. 'He's three years older than me and has been living his whole life on a dairy farm.'

'No, I wouldn't know – tell me.'

'He thought about the question for a while and answered that he'd like about 2500 tiles to make a proper drainage system for his fields. And then, that's it.' Finnie told me.

'I guess quite a happy man, then', I summarized.

'No, he just doesn't know any better.'

Sometimes you meet people whom you instantly take a liking to and you can tell that you two will get along perfectly. In fact, you almost know that you've known that person all your life. These people tell you all the stories they have about their lives and when you've talked for three days straight, consumed a few too many beers and seen the weather change from pouring rain to scorching sunshine, you notice that you haven't heard anything. You've already heard those stories before somewhere. Or maybe it was you that told them?

Finnie, the man with a thousand stories, taught me that travelling is a disease. It spreads and there's nothing you can do to stop it. When you tell others of your disease, they don't know what you're talking about. You tell them you just arrived home from New Zealand, from the other side of the world. They tell you they went to the pub last night. You look at them like they're the most stupid person on the planet and they don't understand anything about what's going on.

And that's true. Only the people who have the disease themselves will listen to your stories about your travelling. Others, they only know what they have. They've never hopped over the fence, set a foot on the road, seen the grass on the other side, been swept away. They just don't know any better and no matter how hard they try they never will.

'So, what's on your bucket list?' I asked Finnie with a little grin on my face. I realized that I had been grinning throughout most of our conversations.

'My bucket list? I've written one and it's got ten things for me to do. The first one is to get my feet nibbled by little fish. The last one, the one I'm going to do right before I pass away is getting a massage in Thailand from a beautiful young woman with a joint in my left hand and a margarita in the other.'

I think Finnie knew better than most people do.

21022012

A voluntary escape.

Te Taho-Franz Josef-Wanaka

Chemistry is something I never really was that interested in. It's just a whole load of numbers, pictures with numbers, a whole lot of letters and pictures with letters. How can anyone, in fact, find that interesting?

So, I developed an interest in the chemistry between people. No numbers, barely any letters, and the only pictures are mental. In Te Taho, I met one of my first chemical misfits, a de-correlation between human minds.

There is a huge gap made by 50 years between myself and the man I could find no chemical reactions in-between. Yes, I do realize that most often 'human chemistry' is talked about when falling in love with someone, and also, I do realize that I am talking about a man-to-man relationship here. So, let's erase that bit from our minds. I think it'll suffice when I say that the man I met didn't sleep in the same bed with his wife.

When the man wanted to talk to Maria he would talk to her through me, using me as a filter, a catalyst to fill up the lack of particles in his form of chemistry. He made a joke on how the only thing his wife ever did right was when she married him. There were no thank you's, only loud vocals from a man with too much in his mouth. I guess women just aren't worth it?

We were forced to leave our hosts earlier but I don't think it either of us minded the situation. A voluntary escape from voluntary work.

16022012

From kea to glacier.

Te Taho-Okarito-Franz Josef-Te Taho

There is an incredible amount of intensity in getting up close to a bird that you've never seen in your life. We spotted the bird first around 20 meters away from us on Pakihi Walk, just outside the wetlands of Okarito. A shady mixture of gray and brown pecking the walkway. We lowered our voices, halted and Maria started digging my camera out of my backpack as slowly and quietly as she could. The bird started hopping closer just as if we weren't there. The kea, a parrot-like bird native to New Zealand, was obviously a fairly tame creature and quite accustomed to humans.

Eventually, step by step, we made our way to only a meter away from the bird and watched as it snapped fern leaves with its beak for no apparent reason. Looking at a single piece of wildlife is an amazing encounter and makes you forget all about the world outside the situation. The only thing you're concentrated on is your own movement, the silence, the actions of the wild being. Very meditative, as a certain acquiantance of ours would say.

Whereas the kea is a small detail in an environment full of life, the Franz Josef Glacier is a phenomenal structure dominating all forces around it. The ice that streches on for 11 kilometers is a sight for sore eyes, with the sun glimmering at the top, just above 2000 meters. The many waterfalls surrounding the area create a feeling of immense power. It's nature that rules this place, not you, people.

Birds being hunted down, captured. The ice melting, washing away. You don't have to be an activist, putting your life's effort into saving nature, to realize that the planet we live on is a fragile sphere. Sometimes I feel like an intruder on my own planet, disturbing the peace that was here ages before I was born.

14022012

Cranberry crops and raindrops.

Greymouth-Hokitika-Ross-Te Taho

Expectation: Working on a small cranberry crop is easy work.

Truth: It's not.

We settled down in Te Taho, a farming community of a whopping total of 11 houses, on a cranberry crop. The owners, a retired couple, are quite traditional New Zealanders as you might guess when they've spent 50 years of their lives on a dairy farm. I think this was the first time we had honest communication problems with our hosts, and these problems weren't related to the language. It was more about the difficulty that comes when two nationalities and two age groups collide with their different values.

I was told today that it's alright to take a leek just outside the crop area. I didn't bother asking why I couldn't just use the bathroom when there's one inside but my initial assumption was that the old fella didn't want to waste the working time of his Wwoofers on them running to the bathroom. I guess it's a bit different here, that's all.

The weather is a bit different as well. The Kiwis themselves consider the West Coast of South Island to be the most damp place on the islands. We got rain twice throughout the week and otherwise the sun has been burning on our necks. Cant' say I'm not amazingly proud of my t-shirt tan, though!

Learning different values is important for me in the way that I learn how to be more objective on things – instead of taking the basic subjective, personal perspective. Sitting in a bus in New Zealand with only a fairly uncomfortable amount of space for your feet doesn't feel as bad as the bus from Shanghai airport where I had the same amount of space for my feet as well as my 85 liter backpack. Pulling out weeds from a garden doesn't feel that bad when you've pulled them from a dry piece of land for eight hours on the same day.

Objective: Learn about growing cranberries.

Result: Learned about objectivity.

13022012

Windy roads that end in motion sickness and windy coasts that end in awestruck faintness.

Nelson-Westport-Punakaiki-Greymouth

…Yet, three weeks were swept by in an instant. Maria said it felt like leaving home when we said our goodbyes to our hosts and newly acquired friends. To me, it didn't feel like leaving home – strangely, it felt like leaving for home. Throughout the whole time in Nelson my thoughts were bound on things Finland and the realization that our travels would be coming to end in less than three months made the departure feel like the beginning of the road back home.

Our bus driver luckily had the vehicle in control because the road from Nelson onwards was probably the windiest piece of road I've ever been on. With the speed limits gradually lowering from 45km/h to 35 and down to 25km/h we were going around all the possible corners you could imagine. One of our two-person team took the motion sickness bullet and had to move on to front seat of the bus to straighten things out.

After passing a range of high coastal cliffs, a terrain full of outrageously amazing peaks that rose up from the sea and waves that crashed against the rugged rocks of the shore, we stopped at Punakaiki to see the famous pancake rocks. I asked Maria if that just wasn't the most amazing shoreline you'd ever seen. Her reply was quite clear on the fact that the eyes had been on the road rather than the rocks.

Eventually we made our way into the grey town of Greymouth. The three weeks of my vegetarian, meat-exile finally came into an end with a 300 gram steak, which would have been nicely accompanied by a large cold beer – if it weren't for the fact that I always forget to bring my passport to the grocery store with me and end up giving up my bottles at the cashier's.

Other than that, there's really nothing in Greymouth.

12022012

Here and there, again.

Nelson-Kaiteriteri-Motueka-Abel Tasman National Park-Motueka-Kaiteriteri-Nelson

My motivation towards updating this blog was greatly diminished by the ruthful power of an omnipotent being, which you might know by the name of everyday life. When you find yourself living Groundhog Day, waking up in circles, you realize quickly that you have nothing to write about. And even if you do, you don't feel like writing it down. I was lucky to break free from the downward spiral that makes your creative buds numb.

It's really an experience starting out around seven o'clock in the morning for a bus to a national park with two German guys when none of you have the slightest idea about when the bus is due to leave. After waiting for a bus never to come in downtown Nelson, we decided to give the transport office a call and I got to know that my bus booking was apparently for March – quite inconvenient, seeing as how it still is February. Regardless of the slight misunderstandings (the German guys didn't even have seats booked on the bus, even though they had a booking) we got on the bus and eventually made our way to Abel Tasman National Park, which is hailed as the best national park for beaches that New Zealand has to offer.

Here, you will see pictures by which you will be able to determine whether the above statement is correct.

After 22 kilometers of tramping, an incident, which involved me, an outdoors toilet and bees, and barely any comments on aching feet, we were done with Abel Tasman – some of us for the second time around. Safe to say that I enjoyed the great outdoors a lot more than watching the clock on the wall informing me that no time has passed...

06022012

Hongis and hangis.

Whakatu Marae, Nelson

Waitangi Day is the day on which the people of New Zealand settle down to celebrate the treaty made in Waitangi, just outside the village of Paihia, between the British settlers and the Maori people, the indigenous folk of New Zealand, their homeland Aotearoa. The Maori people nowadays are a minority group in New Zealand but I think they are coping with being a minority a lot better than most minorities in other countries. There is a mutual respect between the two people on these two islands.

Our local hosts took us to a Maori marae today to celebrate the occasion. The marae is usually not open for visitors but as this was a special occasion, the whole town had been invited. I was one of the somewhat two hundred people who got to witness the hospitality of the Maori in a very respectable, traditional way.

We stood outside the gates of the fenced area for a while and listened to some instructions given by the Maori man who would guide us inside. I was silently thanking myself for not doing any of the commercial marae visits where they charge you millions for seeing the same thing acted - this was real, though. Our guide led us inside where a ceremony of speeches awaited. We were greeted in two languages, Maori and English, and in turn gave the inhabitants of the marae a gift in form a monetary offering and sang a song in Maori language.

The inhabitants granted us access and greeted us in a customary way, the hongi. This means exchanging the breath of life by pressing your noses and foreheads together while holding each other's shoulders. For a stern Finnish man this kind of closeness seemed relatively uncomfortable at first (seeing as how I was facing huge, middle-aged Maori men) but after honging my way through a dozen people, I felt like pressing my nose all over the place.

Seeing the intricate carvings, witnessing their joyful sing-alongs and not even getting a taste of hangi, Maori meal cooked underground, because there were more people apparently hungrier than me, was uplifting.

In a cultural union, instead of presenting your own nationality, you seem to forget it at some stage. You simply become one with the mass of people. I don't think a certain pop singer was too wrong to speak about 'a brotherhood of man'.

18012012

Behind the corner, an adventure.

Seddon-Blenheim-Picton-Nelson

From what I've learned throughout all the travels I've ever made is that adventure is always unexpected. You can't plan an adventure, it just strikes you when you're not watching, kicks your feet off the ground and slams you flat on your back. It makes you feel desperate, in a loss of words, in a thought of if-I-ever-come-out-this-alive, it makes you look up to the sky and mumble words of prayer. But when it's over, you laugh a grateful laugh for the hard times you've had and how you came out of as a winner. Adventure, the mischevious big brother, is always behind your back – sometimes to hold it, sometimes to make you trip over your own feet.

The way from Seddon to Nelson was nearly all fine. The buses were on time, the weather was nice and I had a good spirit on because I knew I'd see Maria in a few hours. The only minor annoyance was our bus driver who refused to drop me off at a convenient point. And that there, that is where the troubles started.

I got off the route bus at the Nelson town centre. Oh, what a nice little town Nelson is with its short boulevards, the cathedral and the constant sunshine. I got to enjoy Nelson as far as the information center and the bus stops go. I got to know that the new address I would be heading to was around 10 kilometers out of town and I'd have to take a local bus to get closer. The buses wouldn't go as far as where I wanted to get to but I'd just have to make do by walking the rest of the way. The local bus dropped me off at a fairly random spot from which I somewhat knew where I'm supposed to go. With the bus driver's comment on me 'probably knowing my way 'round here' I was feeling quite confident.

After a half an hour of walking in the scorching sun without water my confidence started trickling at the same pace as the water had ran dry. [first call to Maria for further instructions – no answer] With a few day's stubble on my face and a scarf over my head I was starting to resemble a Taliban soldier while tramping a private dirt road uphill with my two bagpacks through some farmland. I didn't exactly know if I was on the right road but I didn't want to stand in the sun and melt, so I decided to hike my way up the road, which I thought was right. [second call to Maria for further instructions – no answer] I found my way to a fancy millionaire residence, took my gear off on their front yard and stared at God in the skies, waiting for salvation. [third call to Maria – an answer – who had been sleeping all the time] After a brief chat with Maria I decided that I should make it for higher ground to see if I can spot her somewhere. On the road again, on my own. Apparently my resemblance to a suspicious organization member was a bit too accurate as I was stopped by a car on the way and got to know that if I wouldn't leave the property right away, I would leave it with the police and get charged for trespassing. I chose to leave right away and decided not to joke about suicide bombing their cows.

I was dropped off at the highway again – the one where I had started from – so I had walked an hour for no actual benefit. Against the paved road it felt as if the sun was peeling my skin off with a fillet knife. So I started walking. Again. For the first time in a while on this journey around the world, I felt desperate.

Eventually I found my way on to the right road, had a happy reunion and got to where I wanted. Adventure, out of nowhere, had decided to teach me a lesson. The lesson? Shave before walking on private roads.