Tuesday, 23 March 2010
A theory of relativity
S'been a while. Maybe just because the extraordinary experiences have become the norm. Life being amazing and all, can have a lot to do with change. I have noticed that it's usually only the second differential of cumulative experience - that is the rate of change of change - which drives me to write. It's almost like it's the twists and turns of the flux remind me I'm alive. And for one without a memory, reminders need to be pounced on before they slip away. So here's some more...
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Lumination
It is the closing ceremony. Sunset has given way to night.
In the centre, a huge fire. A glowing ring of organisers close around the flames, some holding hands. Around this circle gather maybe 600 who have shared six days high up in the mountains. I am priveleged to be one of them.
The drums stop. Thanks are given to the round of organisers, this moment is about appreciation for them. They had believed in something so strongly that they had been compelled to make this festival happen and we look on at them with abject respect.
A wise lady begins speaking for us all to hear. It is one of those speeches which should have been recorded and replayed for the good of mankind. As she draws to the end a man from the circle interrupts to argue a point, but he is shouted down by the group. We 600 are captivated and moved by her every word and want to hear the final message: simply, if we do not like the world as we see it then we can change it.
After the speech is finished the man who interrupted earlier attempts to take the stage again and continues to argue his point. There is no message in his argument, no points, just sheer negativity. The entire circle becomes aware that if something isn't done quickly the incredible vibe of appreciation around the fire will be swallowed by the mind of somebody who's completely out of touch - someone who's missed the entire point of the festival.
From the jaws of despair comes perfection. The 600 spontaneously break out into a collective Om. As each and every individual generates a hum the accoustic energy is deafening and swallows up the piercing negativity, replacing it with a magnificent taurus of energy. It resonates a mile high towards the stars.
After a spectacular minute the vibration subsides and a single voice the crys out "WE LOOOOOVE YOOOOOOUUUUU!!!". The entire circle erupts into cheers and whoops and applause for those in front of us who, through the power of belief, had changed most of all of our worlds for the past six days and beyond. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, a truely awesome moment.
We, that is myself, Oz, Annabelle, Nadine, Darius and Tramper the tiger, are all completely blown away. As the moment subsides a voice shouts out from the back "It's all working out exactly as it should - everything's going perfectly!!!".
Amist the shouts and crys of joy fromt he crowd we all realise that it kind of is.
In the centre, a huge fire. A glowing ring of organisers close around the flames, some holding hands. Around this circle gather maybe 600 who have shared six days high up in the mountains. I am priveleged to be one of them.
The drums stop. Thanks are given to the round of organisers, this moment is about appreciation for them. They had believed in something so strongly that they had been compelled to make this festival happen and we look on at them with abject respect.
A wise lady begins speaking for us all to hear. It is one of those speeches which should have been recorded and replayed for the good of mankind. As she draws to the end a man from the circle interrupts to argue a point, but he is shouted down by the group. We 600 are captivated and moved by her every word and want to hear the final message: simply, if we do not like the world as we see it then we can change it.
After the speech is finished the man who interrupted earlier attempts to take the stage again and continues to argue his point. There is no message in his argument, no points, just sheer negativity. The entire circle becomes aware that if something isn't done quickly the incredible vibe of appreciation around the fire will be swallowed by the mind of somebody who's completely out of touch - someone who's missed the entire point of the festival.
From the jaws of despair comes perfection. The 600 spontaneously break out into a collective Om. As each and every individual generates a hum the accoustic energy is deafening and swallows up the piercing negativity, replacing it with a magnificent taurus of energy. It resonates a mile high towards the stars.
After a spectacular minute the vibration subsides and a single voice the crys out "WE LOOOOOVE YOOOOOOUUUUU!!!". The entire circle erupts into cheers and whoops and applause for those in front of us who, through the power of belief, had changed most of all of our worlds for the past six days and beyond. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, a truely awesome moment.
We, that is myself, Oz, Annabelle, Nadine, Darius and Tramper the tiger, are all completely blown away. As the moment subsides a voice shouts out from the back "It's all working out exactly as it should - everything's going perfectly!!!".
Amist the shouts and crys of joy fromt he crowd we all realise that it kind of is.
Sunday, 10 January 2010
Christmas Fish
I roll up my trousers and walk barefoot into the sandy ripples. Ahead, Ozzie floats our small rowing boat out into the mountain lake. His figure, together with oars and boat, cut a stunning silhouette into an ochred rainbow of dawn colours. It is Christmas day and we must hunt for our dinner.
Water laps at the bow as we coast stealthily along the river bank. Oz drags the line behind us as I paddle as quietly as humanly possible – the ocassional, rhythmic grind of metal from the rollocks emanates into the lake. It ruins our cover, but every 10 minutes or so we are greeted with the spashing sound of a fish on the water, so tantilisingly close.
Half way around the lake we drift into a bay and back in time, to the Jurassic. The beginnings of a new sun pick up an ethereal mist which wanders as a pink demon over the clear glass. Dead wooden limbs stretch petrified out of the water and claw their points at the air. A big fish swims beneath the boat.
We catch nothing.
----
I wake to feel the sun chewing off my skin. I shrug myself upright to see Oz passed out on the middle bench of the boat. The hull knocks against a bank I haven't met before... the breeze has blown us to the other side of the lake. The sun beats hard. I have a fish hook buried painfully into the sole of my foot. We'd stayed up all night before pushing out, and I feel destroyed. My face seems to drip from my skull.
I try to wake Oz. He doesn't want to move. No catch, no food, no energy and a huge distance to row home. I don't blame him. We are low. But we must get back. Agonisingly, I poke him again.
We row. Forever.
At long last we arrive back at our camp, I hop through the shallows as Oz drags the boat up the sand and we collapse back into our hammocks. Our sentences are of single words only. Through midday and early afternoon, sleep does not come, the heat does not relent. Sand bugs hound my ear drums. I begin to feel at a loss. We have failed. Reality turns brittle and chaotic. What am I doing again? Why am I here facing this wall? It consumes me, the realisation that we are incapable of surviving on our skills is horrible. I try desperately to staunch the loops of worry that accelerate through my mind, try desperately to cling to context. I admit to myself that I look forward to going home, right now that thought is a solace. But four months seems an eternity.
I am consoled with a memory – this is exactly why I am here: to meet this reality face to face.
I cannot lie here thinking any more, worrying, but I am so exhausted it's the only thing I, Edward Sells, am able to do. I have tried to sleep and cannot. I need reality back, I need a plan. I reach for my watch and strap it to my wrist. I have not worn it for a few days, and the digits on its face offer a grip on time. Relativity returns. I swing my legs to ground – they feel like sacks of potatoes - and mutter a mantra to myself so I do not forget: hydrate... hydrate... hydrate... I fumble for a cup and some salt sachets and neck a litre. I blow weakly on the fire to boil another billy can with two tea bags and the rest of the sugar, pouring myself another half of tea. I fix Oz the same, and nag him to down the lot. I hate it, it's hard, he's waking-grumpy and I hate forcing it, but we need to rescue this Christmas.
The ingredients stimulate my head and I reach for my music and the axe. Using the ipod is a defeat, but now I've admitted it, my moral needs a repair job and I take comfort in familiar tunes from technologies far far away. Oz cranks himself out of the hammock. “Kraak and Smaak”'s funky house beats pulse through my earphones as I hack up a limb for the fire, and I force myself to dance. Energy flows through my fingers again, and there is work to be done. We can still do it. This Christmas ain't dead yet.
----
In retrospect this was the best Christmas ever*. Curiosity was satiated. I got to see the ragged edge I've been looking for. Now I've been and met it face to face I can get on with avoiding it. I never want to go back there again. The whole point of survival seems to be to establish hope – we sew up the holes of despair by completely integrating with the resources around us, through tools and skills. Oz and I are integrated in fire, shelter and water, but not food. Without all four things we can never be truly wild. Christmas's lesson to us was that hunting is not a dream you can just go out and immediately realise. It is not an easy gift. It takes years of practice and awareness. But unfortunately it is the most expensive of the four things, burning a huge amount of calories and time. And when we return with an empty catch, it has been devastating to our mental states.
I now think the best we get out of this trip will be the skill to sustain food - that'll be all the big gaps sewn up. I hope Father Christmas brings us hunting lessons.
-----
* this post is only about the hard fish, I could write a book on all the good stuff that happened ;-)
Saturday, 26 December 2009
Camp Christmas
Took 3 days to build from scratch, what a corker...
... and how could I forget the bar?
... and how could I forget the bar?
Friday, 11 December 2009
Walking out
We walk out of the bush. The jungle canopy falls behind our heads, as if taking off a hood - a blue sky stretches out above us and over a grassy green vista rolling beneath: the Bay of Plenty. It's a panorama of rolling valleys tumbling down to a distant beach crescent and then the big blue sea.
Our first kit test is done. We feel fit and alive. I laugh at the noises of the birds, especially the one which sounds like a donkey and a mechanic having a fight.
We were only in there for a miniscule 7 days but we learnt a whole load about protein deficiency and discovered that we need better hunting tools. Most importantly we've finally immersed ourselves in the NZ bush, and completely loved it. We walk away in the knowledge that we had a huge amount to learn before going full time.
15 km later we walk onto a Backpackers clean carpet in full kit. There's synchronized head-turning from the clean crowd watching the telly, bit longer than usual, before their retinas are velcro'd back to the screen. We sweat at the desk, slog through the obligatory tour of the hostel and the stupid fucking forms. We throw packs on sprung bunk beds and fly to the shower. Rivules of precious grease swil down the white ceramic floor and disappear down the plug hole. Hot water from a tap is one of the most brilliant outcomes of science and we sing loud enough for the whole hostel to hear. James Brown himself would have got down.
It is lovely, really nice, but I can't help thinking “I don't need it”. The comfort of the showers and the beds that is - everybody needs James Brown.
Everybody also needs protein, so we get our dry clothes on and walk barefoot through the town. A kid in his car leans out and shouts “Bwoy!” at me, low and aggressive. It felt like he was after trouble. I don't normally get into fights, but he'd picked a bad time, I'm still tuned into survival mode and this is a threat. One more time and I'll spin round and go for him, get the first one in before he can pull any moves, use the car door if I have to. I immediately check myself in surprise – I guess seven days without meat and scraping by really sharpens your instincts. I find out later that “bwoy's” a standard guesture, he was probably only trying to shift some weed.
We walk away down the pavement. I find a $20 floating in the breeze and stash it as I would an unearthed worm for bait, quickly getting it into the pocket before it wriggles away.
Darkness begins to fall. The town is the same as any other, nature tempered by tarmac under our feet. The street lights flick on in a predictable manner just like any other. Street lights coax traffic along just like any other. People don't talk to each other. What's there to say? Same old city crap, different day.
Outside the supermarket Ozzie and I sit on the grass swigging bottles of coke, instinctively looking across at the bush – the huge range now on the horizon. Our new sky puts down a wonderful sunset over the Kaimai crest as if a final gesture of goodbye.
We go eat steak.
[As I write this post Ozzie is doubled over the toilet puking his guts out. Poor chap. But this is unrelated - I am weeks behind.]
Our first kit test is done. We feel fit and alive. I laugh at the noises of the birds, especially the one which sounds like a donkey and a mechanic having a fight.
We were only in there for a miniscule 7 days but we learnt a whole load about protein deficiency and discovered that we need better hunting tools. Most importantly we've finally immersed ourselves in the NZ bush, and completely loved it. We walk away in the knowledge that we had a huge amount to learn before going full time.
15 km later we walk onto a Backpackers clean carpet in full kit. There's synchronized head-turning from the clean crowd watching the telly, bit longer than usual, before their retinas are velcro'd back to the screen. We sweat at the desk, slog through the obligatory tour of the hostel and the stupid fucking forms. We throw packs on sprung bunk beds and fly to the shower. Rivules of precious grease swil down the white ceramic floor and disappear down the plug hole. Hot water from a tap is one of the most brilliant outcomes of science and we sing loud enough for the whole hostel to hear. James Brown himself would have got down.
It is lovely, really nice, but I can't help thinking “I don't need it”. The comfort of the showers and the beds that is - everybody needs James Brown.
Everybody also needs protein, so we get our dry clothes on and walk barefoot through the town. A kid in his car leans out and shouts “Bwoy!” at me, low and aggressive. It felt like he was after trouble. I don't normally get into fights, but he'd picked a bad time, I'm still tuned into survival mode and this is a threat. One more time and I'll spin round and go for him, get the first one in before he can pull any moves, use the car door if I have to. I immediately check myself in surprise – I guess seven days without meat and scraping by really sharpens your instincts. I find out later that “bwoy's” a standard guesture, he was probably only trying to shift some weed.
We walk away down the pavement. I find a $20 floating in the breeze and stash it as I would an unearthed worm for bait, quickly getting it into the pocket before it wriggles away.
Darkness begins to fall. The town is the same as any other, nature tempered by tarmac under our feet. The street lights flick on in a predictable manner just like any other. Street lights coax traffic along just like any other. People don't talk to each other. What's there to say? Same old city crap, different day.
Outside the supermarket Ozzie and I sit on the grass swigging bottles of coke, instinctively looking across at the bush – the huge range now on the horizon. Our new sky puts down a wonderful sunset over the Kaimai crest as if a final gesture of goodbye.
We go eat steak.
[As I write this post Ozzie is doubled over the toilet puking his guts out. Poor chap. But this is unrelated - I am weeks behind.]
Saturday, 5 December 2009
Goodbye Gran
It is dark and windy and cold. The rain lashes down against my face and the waves bounce over my knees and splash over my waist. I face the sea, cigarette in one hand, half bottle of wine in the other. Both dangle in the wash, my hands numbed as each wave passes.
Gran passed away a couple of days ago. I didn't know. I just spoke to Dad, he told me. I remember times at the beach in Portsmouth, a tiered beach of large pebbles and model villages. And a weekend I spent with her, when she explained the holy ghost to me and how all that fitted in. We talk over the wind.
As fresh water runs to salt, mother nature continues to lap at my knees. I am one half of my father and I feel more for him than anyone else on the planet. I wish I was with him.
Gran passed away a couple of days ago. I didn't know. I just spoke to Dad, he told me. I remember times at the beach in Portsmouth, a tiered beach of large pebbles and model villages. And a weekend I spent with her, when she explained the holy ghost to me and how all that fitted in. We talk over the wind.
As fresh water runs to salt, mother nature continues to lap at my knees. I am one half of my father and I feel more for him than anyone else on the planet. I wish I was with him.
Arrival into Daley's clearing
Arrival at hut
Suffering from dehydration I slump to the floor. I reach for the water and suck the last drops and watch the world spin. It took us 7 hours it to make it to “Daley's clearing hut”, marked in the centre of this vast bush and our bodies have taken another beating. The dense rain forest was beautiful, every glance up through the canopy greeted with shreds of blue sky cutting through high palm into the cool undergrowth. Below we sweat along the contours on a narrow track, battling over and under huge fallen trees, river crossings and treacherously slippy roots. We see no one.
A slip or a fall is immediately punished by the 30kgs, and the geometry of the packs makes traversing an obstacles tough. Vines claw at our backs, snagging at every twist and decimating our pace. The walking poles I bought in Auckland regularly save my skin, keeping balance and pulling me up sharp river beds. But I am bouyed by the knowledge that the more we eat the lighter our loads become, and I can feel sinews knitting a new frame.
Suffering from dehydration I slump to the floor. I reach for the water and suck the last drops and watch the world spin. It took us 7 hours it to make it to “Daley's clearing hut”, marked in the centre of this vast bush and our bodies have taken another beating. The dense rain forest was beautiful, every glance up through the canopy greeted with shreds of blue sky cutting through high palm into the cool undergrowth. Below we sweat along the contours on a narrow track, battling over and under huge fallen trees, river crossings and treacherously slippy roots. We see no one.
A slip or a fall is immediately punished by the 30kgs, and the geometry of the packs makes traversing an obstacles tough. Vines claw at our backs, snagging at every twist and decimating our pace. The walking poles I bought in Auckland regularly save my skin, keeping balance and pulling me up sharp river beds. But I am bouyed by the knowledge that the more we eat the lighter our loads become, and I can feel sinews knitting a new frame.
The cheese shack
The cheese shack
It took a day to get here. Last night we arrived and strung our hammocks in between the beams of an open shelter in deep jungle. We slept for 12 hours. It is now our rest day in the shelter. Keeping the fire going to purify water and cook is an all day job, continually adjusting the jenga pile to dry sodden wood.
There is no such thing as standing dead wood here, humidity is so high that dead wood rots on arrival. This morning I punched my fist through a tree. It can't have been more than a few weeks dead. Everything here has a hollow pith meaning rot comes from the inside too, it's like they were designed to decompose. We make do with what little we can, and our hard work is rewarded with good hot meals.
Last night a possom stole our cheese, so tonight I've made a trap using the remains and the axe poised to take it out. Tomorrow we make a push for a hut a few km away, perhaps with fur. It's $100 per kilo here.
Moral is excellent.
It took a day to get here. Last night we arrived and strung our hammocks in between the beams of an open shelter in deep jungle. We slept for 12 hours. It is now our rest day in the shelter. Keeping the fire going to purify water and cook is an all day job, continually adjusting the jenga pile to dry sodden wood.
There is no such thing as standing dead wood here, humidity is so high that dead wood rots on arrival. This morning I punched my fist through a tree. It can't have been more than a few weeks dead. Everything here has a hollow pith meaning rot comes from the inside too, it's like they were designed to decompose. We make do with what little we can, and our hard work is rewarded with good hot meals.
Last night a possom stole our cheese, so tonight I've made a trap using the remains and the axe poised to take it out. Tomorrow we make a push for a hut a few km away, perhaps with fur. It's $100 per kilo here.
Moral is excellent.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Reasoning
I sit in the airport lounge. Why did I leave easy street again? I know there'll be points on this trip when I question it all, and my memory's too shot to remember. I quickly scratch the reasons down, they've been floating round and round my head for months.
1. Toughen up
2. Learn survival, bushcraft, and travelling through the wild
3. See some more of the planet before I die
4. Tune into the natural world
5. Explore the cello
I don't mind signing up to the 9 till 5 after this, or doing whatever, I just have to have a go at existing in the palm of mother nature's hand, and I know I'll only be convinced after doing it for at least 6 months.
Good. Got it. Lets go.
1. Toughen up
2. Learn survival, bushcraft, and travelling through the wild
3. See some more of the planet before I die
4. Tune into the natural world
5. Explore the cello
I don't mind signing up to the 9 till 5 after this, or doing whatever, I just have to have a go at existing in the palm of mother nature's hand, and I know I'll only be convinced after doing it for at least 6 months.
Good. Got it. Lets go.
Boarding
Here I sit waiting for the big silver bird to take me away and drop me into a new reality. I squat on my pack in a dessert of polished concrete. Pat is driving half way out of Heathrow by now, and I unwrap the small parcel he gave me as I left the car. The brown parcel paper falls away from the package to reveal the one thing I hadn't thought of: a beautiful, leather-bound hip-flask, filled with some 12 year old whiskey for cold forest nights and a metal inscription on the side: 'N1B'. It hits me like a ton of bricks: “Nice one bruvva”. My fingers push back tears.
And a book too - “Man on Wire”, the story of how a Frenchman put a tightrope between the twin towers and walked across it. Photographs of me and Pat celotaped inside, past and present, arm in arm, first as quarelling kids pushed together for the camera and lastly as adults caked in Glastonbury mud and a solid embrace of brotherly love.
Underneath this last picture sit his words: “Impossible is nothing”.
On the edge
Ozzie and I sit on the bench outside for a last midnight smoke. Tomorrow morning we walk into the bush. It's been a long kit prep, punctuated with birthday partying, but we've talked to a lot of locals, got a lot of local knowledge and got our packs as tuned as they can be.
I'm glad we didn't just shoot straight off the plane and into the wild, we would have been totally unprepared. Now, however, we're ready. The things I have been dreaming of start tomorrow. We both have the feeling that this is the start of something fairly life changing. We imagine ourselves six months from now, and talk about the ultimate test at the end – going solo. The idea's been reaching out to me for years. Ozzie too. We chew on the inevitability. I smile a lot. I like beginnings.
Gateway
Our outpost of civilisation is a small sleepy town sidled up to a steep mountain. The homely décor is straight out of the fifties, it's like stepping into an illustration from one of my A-level design books. Through the snug window a sunset melts into a black, starry sky with a token sliver of moon to complete the picture. The mountain behind holds the Kaimai Mamaku national forest, our gateway into the bush. Tomorrow we go.
I can do 5 press ups with the load on my back. It's stupidly heavy.
.JPG)
Other people shake their heads. They spit out numbers like as 14 and 15 kilos. We silently worry, we are way above this, double in fact. But logistics seem different when budgeting for 6 months instead of 6 weeks, or 6 days. I envy the weekenders. On a perfectly sunny day we throw all of our kit onto the lawn and spend the day skinning everything down.
.JPG)
At the end of the day we both pick up our bags. Ozzie says he feels like he could dance with the new weight. We have no idea how much lighter they are, but it's a reminder that it's not the number of kilos you carry, just how you feel about it.
I can do 5 press ups with the load on my back. It's stupidly heavy.
.JPG)
Other people shake their heads. They spit out numbers like as 14 and 15 kilos. We silently worry, we are way above this, double in fact. But logistics seem different when budgeting for 6 months instead of 6 weeks, or 6 days. I envy the weekenders. On a perfectly sunny day we throw all of our kit onto the lawn and spend the day skinning everything down.
.JPG)
At the end of the day we both pick up our bags. Ozzie says he feels like he could dance with the new weight. We have no idea how much lighter they are, but it's a reminder that it's not the number of kilos you carry, just how you feel about it.
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Partied out
As the birthdays celebrations draw to a close we reach a milestone in our trip. It is our last night of drinking and smoking on the pillowed bench seat with the long term locals. It's been a great laugh crawling into bed at 5am each night. Someone asked if we were in training for our big walk. We probably should be. I'd imagine people work out before walking 2000 km.
It's time to stop 'shagging flies' as the frenchies put it. Our custom bits of kit are ready to collect. We say goodbye Auckland and jump on a bus for the bush...
It's time to stop 'shagging flies' as the frenchies put it. Our custom bits of kit are ready to collect. We say goodbye Auckland and jump on a bus for the bush...
The thing about fire
NZ doesn't like it. There's bans absolutely everywhere. We've heard of everything from air ambulances coming in to do a rescue, prosecution, locals coming out with pitch forks and the imminent terror of forest fires.
I get all that. Fire can be bad if you're a twat. But the center piece of any bushcraft camp is a fire. It's the thing I love the most in this game. It's a source for life and transforms our earth into a home. Being told we can't have fire conjures up visions of misery and despair - it's like someone has stolen our raison d'être. The harsh and indiscriminate rulings are totally frustrating for people who know how to master it responsibly.
I don't know how we're going to deal with this. Hopefully we'll get a more realistic response from our bushcraft instructor next week and go from there. It's a reminder that trips are never what you expect. In the beginning this entire thing was going to be on horseback, now it looks looking more like a trudge through the dark. We search desperately for grey areas. I hang on every word. "Vision-slayers" I think to myself. Some say it's OK if you use common sense and I want to kiss them... we'll know more next week.
I get all that. Fire can be bad if you're a twat. But the center piece of any bushcraft camp is a fire. It's the thing I love the most in this game. It's a source for life and transforms our earth into a home. Being told we can't have fire conjures up visions of misery and despair - it's like someone has stolen our raison d'être. The harsh and indiscriminate rulings are totally frustrating for people who know how to master it responsibly.
I don't know how we're going to deal with this. Hopefully we'll get a more realistic response from our bushcraft instructor next week and go from there. It's a reminder that trips are never what you expect. In the beginning this entire thing was going to be on horseback, now it looks looking more like a trudge through the dark. We search desperately for grey areas. I hang on every word. "Vision-slayers" I think to myself. Some say it's OK if you use common sense and I want to kiss them... we'll know more next week.
Got glint
Yellow street light glints against tumbling metal as keys to locked doors fall into my cold hand. The other hand carries tonight's dinner, the fingers strangled in taught plastic. I pass my local, only a short trot back to the house. This easy life carry me forever. All I need do is throw my hands in the air and shout “OK I surrender!”, and it will. It's so seductive, the bed, the dry, the resources on tap, the modern routine, the cradle of technology. Why wouldn't anyone accept all that? After all it's what our ancestors worked towards isn't it? Did they ever dream that the road of science could support so much? And did they ever imagine how such incredible discoveries could alter the mind?
The keys fly free again. I see life on easy street roll out in front of me like a soft, white, formulaic carpet. I begin to envisage those cushioned footsteps. But my instincts throw me to the side as if the carpet is electrified – the move is a knee-jerk reaction deep to the core, but not something I thoroughly understand. Is it a mistrust of technology, the curiosity of more natural trails, the fear of predictability, did I expect to feel the ground on my toes?
Again the keys shoot into the night sky. I find myself in the woods on a horse, walking across a country with everything we need to live strapped to our backs or in our heads. Our carpet is earth and water and knowledge keeps us alive.
The keys fall into my hand for the last time. I grin and swing the food bag while the hairs slowly rise on the back of my neck. It's a feeling I've missed, one I recognise as a breach – an idea has got in to my head and it's worming its way around transforming everything I think about. It's time to leave Bath.
The keys fly free again. I see life on easy street roll out in front of me like a soft, white, formulaic carpet. I begin to envisage those cushioned footsteps. But my instincts throw me to the side as if the carpet is electrified – the move is a knee-jerk reaction deep to the core, but not something I thoroughly understand. Is it a mistrust of technology, the curiosity of more natural trails, the fear of predictability, did I expect to feel the ground on my toes?
Again the keys shoot into the night sky. I find myself in the woods on a horse, walking across a country with everything we need to live strapped to our backs or in our heads. Our carpet is earth and water and knowledge keeps us alive.
The keys fall into my hand for the last time. I grin and swing the food bag while the hairs slowly rise on the back of my neck. It's a feeling I've missed, one I recognise as a breach – an idea has got in to my head and it's worming its way around transforming everything I think about. It's time to leave Bath.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Winding up
As with every mission into the unknown I cannot sleep, at all. My head occasionally spins with the things we haven't done yet. We have just enough time, 48 more hours in the city to finish preparing our kit, but it's still a lot of work getting it all pinned down. We know that anything weak will just manifest itself as dead weight, and both our packs are heavy-weight already.
Dossing around at the backpackers probably doesn't help but it's too much fun here. Everyone's totally friendly, and the national dish is pie.
Ozzie's found a hostel 100km out of Auckland which will move to as a staging post for upcoming birthdays and the start of whatever. And we've managed to book ourselves onto a government-run bushcraft course for a measly 80 bucks! That's about 5 times cheaper than anything in the UK, so we are, at last, quids in. And it means we've finally found the people who can put us onto that learning curve...
Dossing around at the backpackers probably doesn't help but it's too much fun here. Everyone's totally friendly, and the national dish is pie.
Ozzie's found a hostel 100km out of Auckland which will move to as a staging post for upcoming birthdays and the start of whatever. And we've managed to book ourselves onto a government-run bushcraft course for a measly 80 bucks! That's about 5 times cheaper than anything in the UK, so we are, at last, quids in. And it means we've finally found the people who can put us onto that learning curve...
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Electroman!
Vik is both complete genius and legend. He's the kinda guy:
who invented the Amstrad computer.
who knows that you can fire your car key fob's unlocking signal's megahertz more accurately if you do it from through the back of your head. It gives you an extra 10 meter range. The head acts a lens.
who can calculate precisely when and where a satellite will blink as its solar panels rotate towards the sun, then builds a mock laser cannon, aims its pointer where it will blink, then invites all his mates round so they can watch him seemingly blow a planet up.
who has radio controlled programmable light switches in a house in the rainforest.
who lives with 7 seven cats and a wonderful family who are genii too (they also know how to reprogram the light switches) who looked after me for four days as if I was one of their own.
who knew he could use himself as a radio frequency arial to extend the range of a signal he was trying to transmit.
who has a diverse range of teas and ideas.
whos workshop is an extended landing in the middle of the house, rammed to the back teeth with every bodging tool in the planet.
whos waistcoats pockets are brimming with cool gadgets.
who, when pissed off makes firecrackers and blows them up on the balcony.
who keeps a bag of black powder on his desk for making firecrackers. The bag is labelled black powder.
who mastered the art of creating his own sticky honey almonds.
who also has an excellent selection of airpistols and air rifles.
who specially cuts the piths from strawberries to make them sweeter for his wife.
Ladies and gentlemen I pronounce a hero in our lifetime: Vik. And I bestow upon thee the title Electroman.
who invented the Amstrad computer.
who knows that you can fire your car key fob's unlocking signal's megahertz more accurately if you do it from through the back of your head. It gives you an extra 10 meter range. The head acts a lens.
who can calculate precisely when and where a satellite will blink as its solar panels rotate towards the sun, then builds a mock laser cannon, aims its pointer where it will blink, then invites all his mates round so they can watch him seemingly blow a planet up.
who has radio controlled programmable light switches in a house in the rainforest.
who lives with 7 seven cats and a wonderful family who are genii too (they also know how to reprogram the light switches) who looked after me for four days as if I was one of their own.
who knew he could use himself as a radio frequency arial to extend the range of a signal he was trying to transmit.
who has a diverse range of teas and ideas.
whos workshop is an extended landing in the middle of the house, rammed to the back teeth with every bodging tool in the planet.
whos waistcoats pockets are brimming with cool gadgets.
who, when pissed off makes firecrackers and blows them up on the balcony.
who keeps a bag of black powder on his desk for making firecrackers. The bag is labelled black powder.
who mastered the art of creating his own sticky honey almonds.
who also has an excellent selection of airpistols and air rifles.
who specially cuts the piths from strawberries to make them sweeter for his wife.
Ladies and gentlemen I pronounce a hero in our lifetime: Vik. And I bestow upon thee the title Electroman.
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