Update from nexter Tim Lyon

Steel city, not
Smaller, sleepier, and much less smelly than its Canadian counterpart, Hamilton New Zealand is an easy two hour hitch-hike south from Auckland. My thumb went out at four thirty in a north western suburb, and by six fifty I pulled up to Chris’ flat in good time for “Amp,” a café-style evening service. You may have already had a go at making the soup I sampled there along with the recommended cheese bread.

Chris led the tour of Hamilton around his favourite haunts. Trade Aid, the Kiwi version of Ten Thousand Villages (or Oxfam) with its fabulous dark chocolate from Ghana, a cobbled pedestrianized
precinct, giant sushi made by Koreans, the Asian food market, and a leisurely late-afternoon traipse up the river home.

A morning run gave me another glimpse of the river in the mist. And Hamilton was a jump off point for side-trips to the black beach of Russell, coffee and ice-cream in the old western style Cambridge,
and, later on, an expedition to Rotorua. Perhaps my biggest surprise was to find Regent grads full of energy and excitement about Japan.

Over coffee we made played Dutch Bingo (the usual who do you know and what did you do where), but were soon talking shop. When, where and what kind of work. Birds of a feather flock with a surety I can’t explain. Every meeting of this type is a treat. Perhaps a community in Japan will grow from the conversation. Time will tell. Beside her swims faith and patience.

Southward bound
After a few days chilling with Luca (five months old), sampling the wares at Biyuth’s parent’s bakery, and Cambodian food at their suburban house, my thumb was out again. A ute slowed for a pig hunter
to pick me up. He entertained me with yarns of off-road exploits, and the skills and spills involved in catching a boar without using a gun. Afternoon light spilled between the trees where my trail forked.
Before hitting the southern prong I found a hedge to relieve myself.

My next host was a South African  of Irish descent, but had fled SA to a safer Kiwiland. Unlike the cultures of fear created in some places, SA is deserving of the term for other reasons. Security is at
stake, burning well. I’ll leave the full story to Dr Lyon. My ride also taught me about the “Queen’s Chain,” a two-metre measure on each side of any waterway which is officially public space. Camp away.

He was a big butcher, and I a grateful passenger. Shaved head and bloody apron, arms like sides of ham. Wise though, as he let me do the map reading and phone calling. Nothing beats good timing, and as the sun set it was good to be up high, able to see the landscape stretch out and then be slowly enveloped by dark. I thought perhaps my entertainment for the night was set when he dropped me off on a dewy curb with a promise that he’d be back to take me to the Maori song and dance later.
Instead, I secured the key after running my fingers around the wheel of the trailer and let myself into the garage. A bunk-bed, kitchen counter, couch, T.V., some dry food, bed clothes and a handful of
appliances made up my accommodation. The shower was outside behind a fence, in a bathtub. My journal, sadly neglected for several days, took a couple of hours to update. UHU stick and pen in hand I scribbled away. After three hours with the television for company I departed in search of counter and tender. Along the lakeside I tromped, enjoying the Taupo air and sound of the lapping waves. On
the way back I settled into a pint of Rooster Ale from Hawke’s Bay.

In the morning, one minute thirty seconds took the hike out of my hitch. Straight up the gravel road to Lake Taupo Christian Camp, with a vista over the expanse of blue. Phone in pocket, and my tummy full, I was accompanied to Tongoriro National Park by two camp staff up for adventure. But the adventure was all mine as I hiked up the trail to the sulphur river in fading light. Over board walks, under stars, with Mt. Doom in the distance, invisible. Back in the tent, Thermarest lost to a highway verge somewhere, I reminisced of Womble episodes while assembling newspapers and towels into a make-shift bed: “making good use of the things that we find/ things that the everyday folks leave behind.”

The lobby of the Chateau Hotel provided tummy warming beverages so I could recline on the settee, and later watch Meet the Fockers in the Chateau Cinema. Next morning, rain still failing to let up, I rolled thirteen kilometres down the hill to see what I could see. No hope of hiking here-much as I love volcanos, I had to leave them behind. At the bottom of the hill Maori men pitched wood into a tin stove, under a make-shift shelter called home for a while. Of eight sections of land, a central piece had been thrown up for sale by careless salespeople. The local Maori decided to reclaim their land by staging a sit-in. They have a much bigger presence than the natives of Canada. Kiwi “pakeha” (white folk) know some of their language, and the Maori promote their culture to a large degree, and go about reclaiming what is theirs. Like the aboriginals of Australia, sitting proudly atop Ayers rock, or not as the case may be, and preventing others from climbing the sacred monolith. A monolith featured on every package tour glossy, much like the elusive yet infamous aurora
borealis of our Northern lands.

Destiny in Wellington
Two English girls and a French bloke dropped me near the base of Mt. Doom, and I was soon wishing I’d stayed for another cuppa at the Maori outpost. Air chilling as the sun fell, I was very grateful of
the ride when it came. Trish, Terry and.  “I’m Tim” I said, completing the trio bound for Wellington. Seven hours away-miracles never cease.

Through the desert road we raved about things of God, what is worship, where does it get done, and what does it mean to do it. Hitchhiking convo (that betrays the fact that this is being typed in Melbourne) is rarely unstimulating. Trish and Terry chimed in with their own ideas when I suggested love go further than a concept or emotion extended to those in our immediate family and friend circle.
The idea that sacrifice-allowing for something beyond self-might be essential to the concept was entertained for some time.

We stopped for a pint while we watched the All Blacks game, and I stayed the night at his brother’s house in a flat overlooking the light spangled city. Little was I to know that my destiny the following morning would be “Destiny Church.” Security guard cum greeters, many praying folk, and eventually a lively gospel band kicked off the service. Street performance style video excerpts were shown, and a message preached. Sadly, it spoke of little more than money, power and how to get it. Tritely typed it seems a betrayal of the smiling faces and unassuming new “converts” to put it this way.

But how would a homeless Palestinian Jew feel about the words used to describe life lived in his name. If he were in a grave, he might well roll in it. Saved, perhaps, but to what, is the nagging question.
Meeting up with friends afterwards, they let me know that they’d decided not to warn me in advance, but rather to let me see for myself what Destiny is about. Invited to their house for Sunday lunch, it was a treat to be in a family for a few hours. The surfhouse coffee shop was packed out, so we went for one at an art house cinema instead. I was onto something. Kiwi coffee is quite something. Midnight Espresso, Dorothy’s and many a café line Cuba street, the drive (Commercial Drive, Vancouver) of Wellington.

Reminding me of the Boatshed Café where Dave, Esther and I enjoyed Black Forest chocolate cake on Hokuhoku bay. (The beautiful wooden puzzle Hannah received for her third birthday was also found there.) When I was young, museums were fascinating.to look at. At Te Papa I found myself reading every word for three days straight, and another one on the way back north. From the origins of Maori culture in Polynesia and pakeha immigration from all over Europe, to Kiwi originals such as homemade motorcycles and environmentally friendly movie sets, Te Papa taught me a lot. Driving across the Desert Road I had seen for myself where carpet was laid across the sensitive landscape so troops of actors and support staff could march in, film, and extract themselves with as little as possible impact. I also saw mountainsides which had been transformed and later returned to their original state, so that little trace remains of the conjuring which went on.  Throw in a free newspaper, friendly staff, cultural shows, and by donation entry, and you have it.

The next step is a float across the water to the South island, so I leave you with the recipe for biscuits visible on most coffee shop countertops in New Zealand, and a promise of more musings soon.

Food from the Road (NB: a classic from The Edmonds Cookbook)

Afghan Biscuits

Ingredients:
200g (7 oz)* butter
75g (3 oz) sugar
175g (6 oz) flour
25g (1 oz) cocoa powder
50g (2 oz) cornflakes (or crushed weetbix**)

Do this:
Soften butter
Add sugar and beat to a cream.
Add flour and cocoa
Add cornflakes last so as not to break them up too much.
Put spoonfuls on a greased oven tray and bake about 15 minutes at 180oC (350oF)
When cold, ice with chocolate icing and put walnuts on top. One to two will do.

*if you have no access to a weighing scale, try using equivalent amounts in cups (e.g. 1C butter, 1/2C sugar etc),  or eyeing it from the packages (e.g. 2/5ths of a 1lb/500g block of butter).
**substitute Weetabix in Europe and North America

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