Another day dawns, bringing with it the long awaited excitement of departure and anticipation. For here we go off on another journey to the southern lands, an exploration of time and space. A holiday from the virtual world of bits and bites, a world ruled my acronyms and metaphors. In wishing to experience reality, to dabble in the natural world that lies at the very door step and stretches out in all directions offering a plethora of possibility and sensory witness. It came as a motion, a reason for Al and I to take flight and flee this frozen land of make believe and actively pursue the unexpected. And here we find ourselves boarding this hulking vessel of transportation to propel us south across the frigid waters of cook straight. This floating island of temporary habitation offers all you could hope for and soon is underway ploughing heavy water on routine sailing between Wellington and Picton. In authentic state of surprise our fortune or destiny runs our path across Mark Roberton, ships hand and long lost family friend. So, as journey progressed we indulged in conversation though rarely scratching the surface of customary social pleasantries. And now we leave the shelter of Wellingtons wonderful natural harbour and venture out into open waters and the violent waters that separate the north from the south. In order to accelerate our merger with the real world it seemed imperative to instigate the unexpected with a little kite flying as the breeze had now developed in to a fully-fledged gale that was tearing into the bow of the ship and streaking the high cloud out into long spidery ladders. With a coffee in our stomachs and music in our ears we gritted our teeth into the wind and teased out the kite. The wind was whisking its way across the active ocean, breaking on the bow of the boat and playing havoc with Al's hand kite. Back and forth across the deck, Al with his kite billowing out before him, prancing, braced into the wind, played out the string and united the unfortunate tube of fabric with the full force of the wind. In an instant it was over, one gust too many and the string snapped, spinning the kite over the side and out of view. Somewhere behind us a limp kite hit the water and was soon overwhelmed, consumed by the ever-eager waves. Back on deck we lamented the loss, briefly, then resumed the energetic ballet with the wind. Upon entering the sounds the waters ironed themselves out and the wind dropped to a breeze coaxing us out of our hats and coats onto the back deck. Behind us the wake churned its way into the distance and uniformity. With the sun setting before us we glided into Picton, swung around and berthed. Reunited with the mainland we disembarked and left the boat to its return voyage. Heading into the small township of Picton we located the necessary provisions and then made our way toward the memory of vacant land on which to pitch a tent for the night. As darkness descended we made our camp and indulged in simple foods, conversation and the encroaching realm of sleep. Tucked away in our tent we soon began to realise we had found a rather lumpy and cold location, as night wore on this realisation reinforced itself with aggressive certainty until, with dawn still approaching, I left the horror of my bed in search of sunlight and warmth. All about the land was crusted with frost and on the edge of the world the sun was beginning to light the ground, providing some welcomed warmth and respite from the chilling cold. After making a number of dedicated sautés out into the surrounding environment I returned to find Al blinking in the sunlight. We collapsed our icy tent and began the trudge up the adjacent ridge to a summit overlooking the harbour and township. Spread out below the boats were cruising out into the sounds and the village was awakening to midmorning. Faced with the uncertainty of our hitchhiking future we fuelled up on a taste of home with some of Havana's finest coffee and strategically positioned ourselves on the main drag out of town. The sun inched its way across the narrow sky, the cars trundled by and we took it in turn to propose our purpose with the indicative thumb. In an act of boredom fuelled desperation Al began sketching his 'distributed matrix' on the footpath only to attract attention from the strong arm of the law. As the plain-clothes car drew to a halt you can imagine our excitement at the prospect of a ride out of our plight. As the window slid down I was dismayed to observe the official police emblem stamped on the woman's shoulder. It quickly became clear they we concerned with the nature of Al's graphical labours and were soon assured that it was simply contemplative scratching of little political or social threat. It became imperative to facilitate their rapid departure so as to heighten our chances of attracting a ride. Good things come to those that wait, we were no exception, eventually our ride came. We were on the next leg of the journey. Headed south by road off into the wild blue to investigate the absence reason and the importance of freedom. Beyond us lay much that was new, challenging and trying. I rediscovered the wonder and frustration with hitchhiking. On one hand there is the random, unpredictability of any good adventure and the change of meeting an interesting and talkative individual. Yet this is offset by the fact that the idea of freedom and timeless schedule is in fact a roadside pantomime played for the attention of the many drivers who are invariably going to roar by with little indication or awareness of our existence. From this constant stream of drivers there emerged a comprehensive and elaborate signalling system that attempted to convey many levels of meaning. Rich in style, complexity and importance, these gestures were well intended, yet provided little real reassurance for the fact that we were still standing on the side of the road with the sunk sinking rapidly before us. In Sedon we gave up and headed into the middle of the measly little town in search of sustenance and the clue that might lead us to a suitable camping spot. We located both of these almost immediately for there wasn't a lot to choose from and having satiated our hunger we climbed the hill to the town memorial and began our preparation for the night ahead. Once again the night promised to be cold and having a wet tent from the night previous things weren't looking luxurious. In an attempt to make the most out of the situation we used our collective ingenuity to attach the then fly to a nearby deer fence so as to promote the flow of wind and thus the eventual drying of the tent. As night settled and the cold crept in the experimented briefly with photography and lasers then set off to explore the surroundings with a bag of Indian spice mix and a bottle of wine. Alone in the middle of the night, star studded sky above, the railway line leading away into the unknown we trudged and speculated on the unknown, life and reason for the future and purpose of our individuality. We stopped and watched as out of the future and off down the tracks the rumbling roar of an approaching train emerged into a furious reality of thundering steel and momentum, swept by and was swallowed by the darkness once again. Our night was rather more windy but thankfully noticeably warmer. Morning dawned wide and bright, offering a new day and a new destination somewhere ahead. Again we found ourselves tied to the roadside, propositioning the passing vehicles with desperately casual smiles and the manufactured feelings of mystery. Once again true humanities were revealed as our ride indicated, veered off course and pulled up beside us. Our driver, a native of Guernsey, was here on holiday and heading into the deep south to partake in the snowboarding. Having come out here from his small island home it was evident the young man could not get enough of driving. We were glad of the lift and equally pleased to leave him to continue on his way when we reached Kaikoura. The big blue lay before us, heaving beneath the biggest blue sky in the entire world. On the left the mountains reared their snow caped peaks hard and high above the land and provided a vivid backdrop for the quaint little town. We made the beach our home and worshiped the sea, watched the waves flow against the shore then fuelled body and mind with a brew of Wellingtons finest coffee. All about the reality and tranquillity of the world settled upon us and washed away the filth and soil imposed by our packaged city lives. Silence fed our fancy and sparked the truth of knowledge and understanding. The day wore on and it became evident that we would once again be in need of a suitable place for the night. We hit the road in search of our second ride for the day with the intention of heading a little further south to an imagined camping spot. After a little round and round with a travelling salesman we found our spot. Sandwiched between the road and the sea and bordered by the railway line we located the ideal little spot that was isolated and allowed for the construction of a real campfire. Al agreed to gather wood while I attempted to catch a fish. It quickly became clear that this wasn't likely to happen so I gave up and was pleased to find that Al had indeed managed to locate a good pile of wood. We established our fire and embarked on the organisation of some form of meal. There it was, the entire world bathed in black, accompanied by the thrashing waves of eternity. The flickering fire built the boundaries of our world, imposed a limitation on of vision and warmed our hearts and minds. The stream of trucks and cars faded into the background and the occasional train offered a highlight for Al who was committed to flattening an assortment of coins for his kids back home. Our third night under canvas offered a much improved sleep, especially since I had the foresight to pad the ground on my side of the tent with a collection of leaves and vines. As the fire died and the stars emerged to adorn the night with their static beauty my mind regressed to sleep and the world faded away. We awoke to the unexpected morning chill and were surprised to find a crusting of ice on the rocks near the shoreline. Sunlight exploded from the horizon, to the left of the peninsula, staining the sky a brilliant shade of pink and gold, the dawning day could have been the first of its kind and leaves a mental imaged fused in the mind. Dawn offers a mixture of beauty and chaos that describes the scale of the universe and translates our own insignificance into instant recognition. Day after day through the ages we see the continual cycle, the rise and fall, expansion and contraction. Cycles within cycles, the ever after never ending reality. Locked in continual contradiction, and the emergence of unexpected complexity. The ceaseless sea caressed the shore and there emerged a collection of seals that struggled up the beach and scattered themselves around the rocks to relax and bask in the winter sun. Al was rather successful in his encounters and managed to build up a new level of trust and understanding with one of the beasts until he was close enough to touch it. This appeared to push the boundaries a little and provoked a rather unconvincing snarl that smelled worse that it looked. We played for a while, mingled and tried not to disturb their simple lives and managed to take some photos that I hope will yield a good result. It wasn't until midday that we found ourselves once again faced with a stream of cars and the challenge of getting them to stop using wholly legal means. We seemed to be at an unfortunate location in the road and as the sun slid behind the hill casting us in the extended shadow we experimented with more drastic measures to the extent of removing Al's orange trousers and replacing them with a more conservative black. Eventually a local rescued us from our plight and was pleased to offer us a ride as far as the Conway turnoff where he was heading out to his farm. The elderly gentleman was a slow starter and didn't offer a lot in the form of conversation but didn't impose the atmosphere where it felt necessary so we were all happy to continue on in relative silence. It was mid afternoon when we reached the Conway turnoff and we disembarked, thanked him for our ride and once again set about the capture of another ride. Our position was as good as we were going to get but not ad good as one might hope for, on the outside end of a large sweeping curve of open road we were unlikely specimens. However, once again our faith was rewarded and we were soon piling into a ratty old vehicle piloted by a single Belgian girl who was on holiday here. Our luck continued to hold as she was headed to Christchurch and was able to provide us with transportation the entire way. The future held nearly two hours of intriguing, and laboured conversation. On this occasion we were curious to lean of her dealings with a tribe of South American llama herders with whom she had stayed and studied as part of an anthropology thesis. Their struggle for survival was in stark contrast with our own assuredly easy lifestyle where our daily needs are met and it is simply our wants that keep us struggling on. Another striking element that came to light was the importance for communication. Not such simple instructional vocalisations but the comprehensive language that allows for in depth conversation and the interchange of ideas and meaning. The sort of thing that can only occur once one has mastered much of the languages subtleties. It certainly reinforced my belief or understanding that it is our ability to communicate in a rich and widely understood fashion that has enabled us to develop this level of social sophistication. Upon arrival in Christchurch I was filled with a familiar sense of excitement and awareness that is common on returning to a physical location that featured significantly in ones past. We explored the town centre and found the correct bus route that would deliver us as close as possible to Zaya's place then went in search of liquid and solid sustenance. Eventually it was time to trust ourselves to the cities public transport system and the excitement that goes with it. From the middle of town we wove our way out toward the suburbs all the while I was busy tracking our position on a small map so as to know when and where to best descend and resume on foot. After an initial mix-up with street numbers and the brief distraction of a meteor we located Zaya's new house. We have successfully travelled hundreds of kilometres on the wings of fate and here we are in another time and place yet it reeks of all that we left behind. The nine to five, the expectations and all that comes and goes within a normal life in our society. We were pleased with the opportunity to spend three nights here and Al was hankering to get some work done so the wires in the wall offered the ideal environment to pursue such a course of action and I made the most of the time to explore and get in touch with a number of people with whom I have remained in contact all these years. As good as it was too see them all I couldn't help feel a little removed from it all. It may make sense but it wasn't something that I expected to encounter and I'm not sure if it was apparent to the other parties during our encounters but I am confident that it must have been. It seems pointless to write more about what happened although I have attempted to express a little of it in the previous sections. Needless to say it was an adventure populated with all the elements we set out in search of and many more besides. When Monday morning came we were happy to be moving on and we made our way by bus to one of the main arterial roads leading out of Christchurch to the north. Our destination was the farm at Scargil, my childhood stomping grounds and the current abode of my dear parents. Situated about eighty kilometres north of Christchurch, Scargil is a small, rural farming community populated predominantly with conservative rugby worshiping rednecks. My parents are determined to live out theie days on a small semi-self-sufficient farm impacting as little as possible on the environment. They gather their households electricity supply from the sun using an array of solar panels which in turn power a number of small, low drain devices such as lights and a twelve volt car stereo system. We were deposited on the turn off to Scargil on the side of the main road and began the trek inland towards the farm with the faint hope that one of the locals may take pity on us and offer us a ride. We weren't surprised to find however, that we ended up walking the entire eight kilometres. We arrived to find the place deserted and after a quick tour around to orientate Al we embarked on the creative process of making a dinner. As night fell we turned on the lights and were pleasantly surprised to fid they worked a charm. The suns energy had been harnessed by way of a relatively simple photovoltaic solar cell, no moving parts and down a collection of wires to an energy storage facility, namely four large lead-acid batteries. We could have been a world away with no reliance on anyone but ourselves. They say that you don't know what you've got until it's gone. I'm sure this was intended to describe positive things that are since missing but it also works in reverse for negative things which when removed become more evident. In this particular case it was the noticeable lack of noise and light pollution that was startlingly absent. This result in and almost unnaturally tranquil atmosphere and the brilliant scattering of stars that seemed too bright to be true. The days appeared to roll into one another in a seamless stream of night and day that dictated the occurrence of eating, working and exploring. I was pleased to make a pilgrimage up to the hill block where Nev has dedicated a large amount effort in to establishing an orchard and garden. The process of growth and renewal becomes extremely evident, it seems like little time has passed but as the vegetation becomes more established there seems to be an exponential amount of growth and from high on the hill, amongst maturing gums, pines and exotic trees for which I know no name we sat and gazed out on the country side. My place of origin lay before me, one that contributed much to my youth and possibly my current personality. The far off was stretched out in the haze of distance and all about there were glimpses of history and memory, snippets of stories and tales of a happy childhood spent exploring the land. We decided to explore further and decided to take Sue's mini to Hamner Springs, a thermal complex about fifty minutes drive. All went well and we zipped along taking in the surroundings and the gradual change in landscapes that drew in from the planes and ran together and upward to form the lower slopes and peaks of the Southern Alps. It was a rather uneventful trip and we arrived within record time and headed strait for the hot pools. We explored the temperatures briefly, seeking something hit and steamy then settled down to enjoy the warmth. It was pleasing to note the relative quiet of the place as I have seen the pools crawling with people in the height of the holiday season. Eventually it became apparent that we were only going to achieve our desired level of heating and sweating if we indulged in a sauna. This was a classy job, much cleaner and smaller than the public saunas we had experienced in Wellington. We heated it up then shocked ourselves awake by leaping into the plunge pool, a chilly cube of water adjacent to the hot room. It's an amazing feeling to douse the hot coals with a sluice of water and feel the compression wave of heat that emanates outward and down from the roof. Our eyes continually strayed back to the thermometer as it wavered round the sixty-degree mark. As our time neared its end we raised the level by adding yet more water. There occurs an involuntary reaction of withdrawal when the searing steam hits your body. It becomes necessary to put your head between your knees to breath the cooler air. Eventually our time came to an end and we returned to the mediocrity of the communal pools. With the snow capped mountains in the distance and the cool wind that was coming from that direction is was a blissful experience, one that soon waterlogged our bodies to the point to decay and it became vital that we vacate before we turned the water to human soup. We left the pool complex and headed off in search of a bite to eat. We eventually located a pub style restaurant that offered a variety of food and settled in for a pint and a plate of fish. It's a nice feeling to sit down and have someone go off and build your meal of choice then notify you when it's ready for consumption. We sat and sipped our beer. Al was brave enough to risk a handle of Canterbury draft, a beer of choice amongst the locals. As invariably happens a local decided to make contact and we were soon embarked in a surprisingly deep conversation with a middle-aged bloke who was shocked to hear Al's enriched story about the reason behind fly-buys shopping points scheme. One of the most surprising comments he made was 'fifteen years I never would have spoken to you guys'. Another surprising thing was his acceptance of the idea of karma. I was quite hesitant to introduce it and did so rather vaguely but he soon picked it up and carried the topic for a while making a number of statements regarding his values on animal welfare and people exploiting the elderly. We left him to his life and departed. On arrival at the car I leapt in, and as I turned the key became aware of a problem, a problem that was supposed to be fixed and therefore no longer a problem. The key turned and turned and turned. No action, no joy and certainly no motor. After a quick rummage we quickly located the tools required to dismantle the steering column cowling and open the ignition system. After a quick analysis of the available wires and a little experimentation we determined the appropriate course of action and hotwired the car. Using the spring from a sacrificial ballpoint pen we shorted two wires to forge an essential connection and we were on our way joking about our plight and apparent stealing of the vehicle. The makeshift solution held for about half an hour then required adjustment. This almost ended in tragedy as we disconnected a number of wires then couldn't recreate the ignition of the engine. Eventually we were on our way but not before an inquisitive local had tapped on the window to find out what was going on. We were quick to inform him that the car belonged to my mother and that everything was in fact under control. In the days that followed we indulged in several scorching outdoor baths, gathered firewood and explored the farm. Shortly before our departure the whole family was reunited after at least six months of distribution around the country. Zaya and her fiancé Joe came up from Christchurch for lunch and Deschia was home from school for the weekend. My grandmother joined us from her place down the road as well as my aunt Gita. It was nice to have the family united once again, a collective feeling of unity and bonding was there, if for an instant then we went our separate way again. We headed north once more toward the ferry and the intended crossing to the north island and finally home again. We set off, the car laden down with people and packs, headed up the main highway and found the coast. It was curious to pass the various places we had stood only a week earlier on our southward trip. The sea surged on our right and we streaked by, packed in our bubble of content. Projected forward in time and space, headed to far of places, plain sailing then suddenly the unmistakable flicker of lights behind, the police we on our tail. The fuzz bore down on us and Nev pulled over, glided to a sedate stop and stepped out of the car in a cloud of questions and curiosity. There followed a lengthy period of uneasiness and speculation amongst us who had remained in the car. Eventually Nev returned and we learned of his misdemeanour, crossing the centre line of the road. A hefty fine of one hundred and fifty dollars was issued to discourage the repetition of such activity. We continued on, a little deflated toward our destination, Blue Mountain. Situated at the end of a long, windy shingle road the farm is many thousands of acres and includes a rather large and impressive looking mountain. The residents, the Robberton family, were ex-neighbours and long time friends of my family. At the end of the road we were forced to stop and continue down the hill on foot to the house, conveniently located on the far side of an energetic looking river. We shed our footwear and forded the stream then headed over to the house. It's an old homestead and it's seen much better days. One thing that had changed for the better since my last visit some years before was the garden, it was a tumult of colours and offered pleasant visual distractions from the harsh hillsides that dominate the view. We shared some lunch and shared a moment with the young boys, Tom and Jack, then headed back across the river, up the hill and down the windy road back to the coast and the highway that would lead us further north, through Blenhiem and on to Picton, our final destination. On we drove, ploughing through the night, shedding distance and looking forward to the edge of our vision and the curve of the road. Outside darkness fell once again, completing the cycle of night and day and accentuating the density and determination of the rain. Picton open before us like a rather limp and bedraggled flower offering up a variety of appealing accommodation that simply caused us to travel in circles for a while until we located a affordable cabin on the edge of town. Complete with the bare essentials, double bed, couple of bunks and the all-important power points. We wired up, got some coffee in us and began to write, it all seemed to spew out, the account of the journey, the travelling the meetings, encounters and people all seemed to dance in my mind, re-enacting the happenings of the last week and a bit. Outside the rain continued to fall and the rivers rose. Inside the world was an accelerated history relived and captured in words. In anticipation for our return boat from Picton to Wellington we awoke at half five and made a humble breakfast, coffee and toast then made our way down to the port as arranged in advance. On arrival we began to feel that familiar sinking feeling that accompanies the decay of organisation. All about was dark and silent and the boats were nowhere to be seen. Human habitation was at a minimum, we explored and found little trace of certainty or reason for this and decided to occupy ourselves with the assemblage of the items required in the construction of a kite. We hope we might have the opportunity to once again play with a kite on the foredeck of the mighty blue bridge ferry. We hunted far and wide, scratched our heads and understood the basic properties of wind flow, anchorage and control. Using a newly installed bin liner, a length of flax stalk, two bits of bailing twine and the length of plastic palette wrap of the tail we quickly assembled an impressive looking kite that was guaranteed to fly if there was either a bit of a wind or enough space to run around. As dawn broke and the light entered the scene so too did the people, workers in their bright orange vests and hard hats seemed to materialise from nowhere and begin carrying out there various duties about the place. It became apparent through extensive research that the boat didn't in fact sail on a Monday morning as we had expected and so we headed into town in search of occupation, distraction and coffee. So here we are kept waiting on a simple misunderstanding looking out to sea, in longing hope that we may see the ship to carry us home. This island has stranded us, claimed us for itself and prevented exit by whipping up the winds, tearing at the tops of waves and causing all manner of disruption to the computer systems. We live in hope, with baited breath and pent up longing for our ticket out of here. To me Picton has become a place of broken dreams, shattered realities and eternal waiting. What will the future hold, let us not grow old and die here, sitting, waiting.