The Small World, The Forgotten World and the Micro-Nation

Just before our epic trip to South Island I had re-visited the Republic of Whangamomona. As I am now a passport-carrying citizen of the spin-off State it only feels correct to write a quick post on my adventure there.

With the arse rocket's immobiliser now newly immobilised I headed off in carefree mood to the beginning of the Forgotten World Highway in Stratford. Stratford is a central (farming etc.) supplies town in Eastern Taranaki and bears no resemblance at all to the Stratford in East London through which I've passed hundreds of times on the way to Liverpool Street station during my life in England. However, Taranaki's Stratford also does little to entice the passing traveler to stop over and explore its charms. A huge tuna sandwich and one bottle of the local fizzy drink, lemon and paeroa, from the high street Subway was enough for me...and, on second thoughts, I returned to fill the gas. No petrol for 135 kilometres! A hot afternoon and a pleasant drive ahead, the prospects were good.

The forgotten world highway is not one for the fainthearted and it took quite a while to weave my way round the countless hairpin bends, over three deeply cut saddles on the highest ridges and eventually arrived in the Republic around 6 in the evening. There did not appear to be too much activity, but I noted that the hotel bar was definitely open. Night would be spent in my new tent in the campsite - familiar territory from last year's visit. Nothing seemed to have changed. I was the only resident for the night, 10 dollars for the tent and free use of the showers as the coin automat was broken.

Walking to the pub refreshed from a shower, having washed off all the lemon and paeroa that had stuck to me when the bottle 'exploded' in the car earlier, it started to rain. Wet night in Whanga...

The evening was spent in the jovial company of the hotel landlord, a chatty 82 year old local who has earned the privilege of his own stool at the bar and a couple of local farmers, 'popping in' for a pint or eight after a hot day in the fields. Later we were joined by a couple of German tourists, the only other visitors in the Republic that evening.
I am now familiar with the economics and realities of New Zealand sheep farming (like the fact that it typically costs more to shear wool from a sheep than the farmer can gain by selling it) as well as some innovative, rural uses of the more common expletives of the English language. I am also the proud owner of a Whangamomona Passport, cost 3 NZ dollars, a diplomatic necessity stemming from the community's radical move to resist the redrawing of council boundaries in 1989. Wikipedia has the details. The village was recovering from the recent bi-annual Republic Day at the end of January, when the village had been swollen by 5000 eager visitors of all ages for the famous day of fun and games including, sheep racing, hill running, 10 minute helicopter flights around the republic (40 NZ dollars a ride), beer drinking, possum skinning, sheep shearing, rubber boot throwing, beer drinking and...beer drinking. In the light of all that my 3 dollars for citizenship was a minimal
addition to the republic's economics for 2009. Republic day will help
keep the village running for the next two years, no doubt. This micro-Nation has a strategy of sustainability and its citizens are clearly and cleverly willing players in the fantasy.

I have made suggestion that a wife carrying competition be considered for inclusion at the next event. Surely this could be considered a possibility for inclusion in the world championships in Finland, in just the same way as the Australians get their contestants included with full sponsorship from Finnair. There was, however, great doubt expressed as to the practicalities of such a competition. My newly found farmer friend was of the opinion that 'the local girls are all too large for that', but husband carrying might have possibilities.

The hotel bar also serves as a small museum of the village's history and activities, including an extensive collection of photographs of the local rugby team during the ages. It held some surprises for me too as now it becomes clear that not only am I a new citizen of the Republic but, who knows, possibly a relation of some of its earliest settlers from the UK. Both Margaret and Athlinda Dean featured in the historical photos from the early 20th century. More extensive investigation of the Dean family tree in future will, no doubt, reveal any genealogical connections.
The landlord John made it clear that it was time for last orders around eight o'clock and, at the apparent consumption rate of a pint every 15 minutes that was a good idea on his part. The remaining local farmer had a wife to go home to and his dog was clearly anxious in the pick up outside. (Think about it...)
Never pitch a tent under trees in wet weather!! I hadn't reckoned on the rain so the night was a short and restless one due to the trees above shedding water constantly from their branches loudly onto my tent. Giving up on sleep at 04.00 I managed to dismantle the tent and get moving, slowly up and along the mysterious, meandering unlit pass, avoiding bird life, possums and other small animals without grief. The sun was rising by the time I reached Stratford and the wider, faster roads back down to Wellington, in time for lunch. Back home I examined my new Passport. On the inside of the back cover there are some important instructions:

• This Passport is valid for 10 years
• This Passport is a valuable document and should be safeguarded. New Passports can be issued only after exhaustive inquiries are made.
• The finder of a lost Passport is requested to forward it to the nearest Republic of Whangamomona office.
• Holders of a Republic of Whangamomona Passport are required to smile a lot and be friendly and courteous at all times.
• Profits from sales of Passports to go to Marco School and community projects and groups.
• Thanks you for supporting the Republic of Whangamomona.
  

10 Days in Wonderland

I have just returned to Wellington from a 10 day road trip to South Island, my first trip to that part of the world. It lived up to, and maybe even exceeded, our expectations. I shall be writing about the trip in detail with pictures in due course. There was not really many chances or enough time to make a day by day diary during the trip. Internet access is pretty much limited to Internet cafes and their wireless hotspots. Away with Tarja and Tessa, two eager social networkers, I was happy to enjoy my spare time minus any sort of extended digital activity whenever I was free of driving. And there wasn't much chance of exploiting mobile media services either as half of South Island seems to have no mobile phone coverage whatsoever, let alone 3G networks.

I should also note that we were never really lost or in need of help from 'Nigel', the voice of my phone-based GPS. A few not so detailed maps and a skilled orienteerer in the passenger seat proved that, in a landscape with few major roads, there is really little added benefit to be had from a digital navigation system. Not knowing what's around the next corner is really one of the most enjoyable parts of a road trip - just finding neat things, people and places that you had no idea existed and that immediately strike a chord and become significant.

It was a great trip, and we had a lot of luck too, finding neat places to stay just in time and daring to be a bit more adventurous and exploiting some of the great activities and services that can be found all over this outdoor wonderland; helicopters, small planes, inexpensive overnight accommodation in beautiful locations and, of course, world famous bungy jumps.

Tarja and Tessa fly back to Finland tomorrow and Tessa is a bit worried about the backlog of school tasks she has to complete before Thursday. At least she'll have masses of time on the flights to complete those providing she can stay awake; a small price to pay for two weeks away from school and winter-bound Finland for her extended 'skiing holiday'. They leave somewhat loaded with local ceramic art which I really hope makes it gently back home in their suitcases through the numerous transfer points on the 36 hour journey. And then there is Tarja's collection of stones from South Island, to add to the other collections of stones from various parts of the world, collected through the years. A couple of those might still pose some weight challenges. One of the new finds is about the size of a rugby ball!!

A Night in Taranaki

I managed to get up really early on Saturday in order to make it up to New Plymouth for the SCANZ 2009 symposium. I left a dark and quiet Wellington at 05.00 and arrived in New Plymouth at 10.00 after a non-eventful journey. My planned meeting with old school friend Tim didn't work out. We have rescheduled and, in retrospect, I am rather pleased I didn't have to drive for 5 hours still suffering from 'the night before'.

This trip was my first chance to meet some media artists and scholars from New Zealand as well as a few familiar faces from elsewhere. One of these was Andrew, a doctoral student from the Media Lab Helsinki, who has been taking part in the SCANZ artist residency in Taranaki (the region where New Plymouth is situated) for the last two weeks.

The small world syndrome gained extra weight when I discovered that my tent was pitched next to the somewhat larger tent occupied by Andrew's parents at the local camp site. They are over here on holiday, touring for a month or so. The weather was lovely on Saturday and Sunday and it was great to be able to enjoy the cool night air in my new tent, under the stars. The Belt Road camp site gets high recommendation and only set me back about 16 euros for the weekend, including use of showers and other services there.

After a full day of media art performances and 'paper presentations', that included a full spectrum of both well thought and totally over my head theories, standpoints and descriptions of allegiances (as well as a truly classic dysfunctional Skype teleconference with a lady in Brazil) we attended the opening of the exhibition in the Govett-Brewster Art Gallery in the same premises.
Then most people met up at the dinner in a rather elegant Indian restaurant in the main street. I walked back to the camp site contented after the pleasant company and enjoying the feeling of a stomach full with tasty Indian delicacies that, for once, I hadn't had to prepare myself.

Sunday's symposium continued with more paper presentations and performances then, after lunch, there was a session devoted to presenting the artist in residents' projects and another couple of 'rounding up' and 'feedback' sessions which were probably more interesting for those who had taken part in the activities than the few of us who had only attended the weekend symposium.

In the evening I met up with Andrew and some of the remaining artists for fish and chips on a local beach. When the sun went down we said our farewells and they drove off in their minivan. I prepared to leave back to the camp site in the, now famous, arse rocket but my negative comments have obviously been registered somehow within the vehicle's artificial GT-intelligence. The car was going nowhere - it had immobilized itself completely. A quick call to the rescue service guaranteed I didn't have to leave it there in the deserted car park and to walk the 5 kms or so back to my tent on the other side of town. About one hour later the rocket was delivered from the back of the recovery truck to the yard of an auto electrician company and then I was, luckily, delivered back to the camp site.

The coincidence of living next to familiar faces was really a happy fate and Andrew's father was quick to help me get over to the repair shop early on Monday morning, to be first in the queue of jobs, and also to help me later shift the tent and all other belongings over there too. When we asked for an estimate of the time to repair the good old, faithful arse rocket we were told, 'let's see, it's Monday'. I assume this was early Monday morning uncertainty on the part of the manager as to whether any workers would actually show up that day after the excesses of their weekends. Having wandered the town and sampled the coffee shops I ended up sitting on a wall with a taxi driver as we both waited the delivery of our repaired vehicles. At 13.00 I was eventually free to escape New Plymouth for further adventures in Taranaki and beyond. For despite the looming rain clouds I had long planned to return to the Republic of Whangamomona, which we'd visited with Tarja and Tessa briefly a year ago.

My intention was to use the potential of the faithful and trusty arse rocket to speed me over 63 kms of the most beautiful and motoristically challenging Forgotten World Highway, to the semi-famous East Taranaki Micro-Nation of sheep shearers and possum skinners, in order to buy a passport and enjoy a few pints of beer in the wonderfully preserved Whangamomona Hotel.

End of the Honeymoon

This has been a busy week and I've not had time or energy to write any new posts until this morning. My first month here has been lived out to the full and the honeymoon with Wellington is over. People have been drifting back from the Summer holidays and I've managed to have a few meetings with officials in organisations and have made a start with my research of the cultural industry situation here.

On Sunday I spent a few hours in Te Papa museum talking with Jussi Luukkonen and family, as well as one of our MA students from the Media Lab, Mikko, who is here for student exchange in the same department as myself. Mikko was once a student of Jussi in the Lahti school some years ago. Small world syndrome strikes again!

It was nice to speak Finnish after so long, although with that group the language switched constantly between English, Finnish and Japanese and combinations of the three. Jussi was once leader of one of Finland's pioneering new media companies, To the Point and moved to New Zealand some years ago and is based in Palmerston North, about 90 minutes drive North from Wellington, working in an e-learning company. Palmerston North has a certain reputation here as one of New Zealand's most boring towns...This was no doubt reinforced with the comments in 2006 by English comedian John Cleese, who was of the opinion that anyone feeling suicidal, but without the nerve to end it all, should make a trip there.

My colleague Roy, who was the person responsible for helping me to get my position here, also reappeared from holidays this week and we managed to get out for coffee and a good chat. Roy was interested in my first impressions of the school and the city. He, an architect and designer, describes the feeling of Wellington as 'the Wild West'. I'm beginning to understand that too. It's easy to be blinded at first by the official views, the harbour and the business district rising against the steep hills that surround us here but, the 'street view', is quite another story. In fact you can experience it in Google Earth using street view, which I've found invaluable for planning my visits around the city. Here's three examples of the wild west which are literally outside the entrance to our faculty building.







So there you have it, within spitting distance from the entrance of the school of architecture and design, a locksmith, a strip club and a bordello!! There are so many more fine examples, especially in the suburb of Newtown, where I've already had to take the arse rocket on four occassions for repair etc. I'm starting to think that the wild west point of view might have good potential for my street photography here, in terms of both the environment and also the people. Let's see how that develops over the next few months.

Roy is originally from Hornchurch is Essex and, that too, is part of the small world syndrome as it's only a stones throw from the old Essex market town of Romford, in East London, where most of my family ancestors had their roots. The market was founded by royal charter in 1247. Roy can even remember the treat of being taken to Romford market to see the livestock trading there. The cattle market closed in 1958 but it's quite likely that Roy has watched my great uncle, uncle Reg, at work there. He was the last working auctioneer in Romford market and, somewhere in a shoe box in UK, we have a clipping from the newspaper with a photo of him auctioning the last animals there in the history of that trading in Romford which spanned over 700 years. I reckon uncle Reg would have got on well here in the wild west of New Zealand with his skills in the value of livestock. Outside the cities this is still a very strong agricultural nation and lots of people still live off the land in farms and on smallholdings of all shapes and sizes. In that respect there are a lot of similarities with Finland. I passed by the New Zealand t-shirt store the other day and couldn't help noticing the one with the slogan that read, 'New Zealand, where men are men, and sheep are nervous'.

Against the deep rooted pioneering attitude and agricultural forces of the New Zealand nation I am trying to investigate the most modern aspects of design and creative culture. You might notice that there is a certain contrast here and obvious possibilities for running into discrepancies and being labelled elitist or, generally, off-target in my pursuits. But I've taken the attitude that this country, like Finland, surely has that diversity of culture and practice that allows the modern and the traditional to live side by side and, hopefully, also the modern possibilities can be seen to aid and improve the quality of life for those in the remote parts of the land, as it surely does in Finland. I cannot speculate too much yet, but, nevertheless it is clear that there are some huge structural challenges here that really need to be solved. The Internet infrastructure is totally inadequate and there is an almost total lack of competition in the market for provision of Internet services. My, typical, ADSL connection here at home can only upload at maximum speed of about 130 kb/sec and the maximum download is just above 1 Mb/sec. But, in practice, that is not the extent of the problem. One feature of the service is that total cuts in IP service occur regularly, at anything between every 2 minutes and every 30 minutes. Typically my connection goes down once every 10 minutes here at home. There are only a few critical things that you might want to do over such a connection. The chances of screwing up a web-based transaction, like buying flights or similar, are quite probable. Once into the secure transaction mode it's a race against the clock to complete everything before the connection goes down and you have to start the whole thing again from the beginning.

Everyone I've spoken to about this has just agreed and raised their hands, 'so what can you do?' Unfortunately this problem isn't going to be fixed with the typical ingenuity, of which the Kiwis are famous, and often related to the use of No. 8 wire. What's needed here is an active policy to improve the infrastructure at all levels; the international fibre connections have to be opened and multiplied (well, now there's only one), fibre backbone for consumer traffic has to be planned and deployed and the thinking that, things will work out via future innovations in the use of the existing copper-based networks, has to be buried. Maybe the new government will, get real, with this challenge. At least a lot of people here I've spoken to hope so.



The vehicle above is a Hillman Minx, somewhat identical to the one our family used to own in the 1960s, prior to the purchase of the Hillman Imp which I mentioned in an earlier post. The picture doesn't really have anything to do with this post but, somehow or other, serves as an icon of the attitude that some New Zealanders seem to have towards 'the good old days' and some of the relics of those, that they've managed to maintain through their will and ingenuity, despite the constant, growing and ever-eroding waves of mass consumerism that have been battering western society since the 1950s. In terms of modern road transport the Hillman Minx is totally analogue, of course, with a minimum of electronics and, like most vehicles of its day, an ecological disaster in terms of fuel consumption and use of materials. Food for thought in this wild west environment.

Tomorrow I am driving the arse rocket up to New Plymouth on the West coast, which is a drive of at least 5 hours. I shall have to leave pretty early in order to make the first session of the SCANZ symposium in time, at 10.00. It will be fun to meet some friends and colleagues of many years from Europe and USA in a New Zealand, Media Art setting. I've booked myself a place at a camp site up there, not far from the town centre and the venue. It'll be the first chance to try out my new tent. I just hope it's not too windy up there when I have to put it up (alone) for the first time. The symposium lasts all weekend and then, on Monday, I've planned to drive via Stratford and the Forgotten World Highway, up to the micro-nation of Whangamomona, a place we visited and really enjoyed during our holiday here last year with Tarja and Tessa. I'll stay over there Monday night and hopefully get some photography done and maybe a story for later publication in a newspaper.

But I have a challenge today, another one brought about by the small world syndrome and this could delay my leaving tomorrow. I am meeting up with Tim Evill for 'a beer' here in Wellington. Tim and I were in the same class in Brentwood school in September 1968, in class 2M (M for Morsley, our first teacher). Strange, there was no '1' classes there at Brentwood!? We have not met since around 1973. Anyway, according to the strict, military-like methods at Brentwood (the military methods were easily explained as most of our masters were ex-Oxford & Cambridge, ex-army officers employed there after their efforts in World War II) we were obliged to spend our first year seated in rows, in alphabetical order. As far as I remember, the order went, 'Ablett, Baker, Bartlett, Brown, Dean, Davey, Donnovan, Evill....and so on, finishing with Mr Zac, or was it Zak? Anyway, within that eccentric, scholarly, all male, madness of Brentwood - a place whose whackey environment was an influence on some world names like the writer, Douglas Adams, comedian and TV personality Griff Rhys Jones and the recent British foreign secretary and leader of the House of Commons, Jack Straw - Tim and I were only a few 200 year old, oak desks apart and members of the same school house and group of friends. Tim's father was also one of the masters there, teaching physics. Tim had spent his childhood in Africa and his stories were very exciting for us poor lads who had no experience of 'being abroad'. For me being out of Essex was 'abroad'. Tim left school early, if I remember correctly to join the merchant navy and captain ships. I could be wrong. I don't yet know how it has all happened, but Tim ended up as one of the real 'Ad Men', in Singapore and Hong Kong at least, and now, through the wonder of FaceBook, we will meet in Wellington. He is apparently living in Nelson, the sunshine capital of New Zealand. in northern South Island.

But the challenge is nevertheless (for me) to meet, have 'a beer', discuss the content of the last 35 years in our prospective lives, remain reasonably sober, say farewell for the time being, get home unscathed despite the mobs present in town for the NZI Rugby Sevens, sleep, wake at 04.30, drink coffee and then drive to New Plymouth in the wretched (although thankfully repaired) arse rocket to arrive by 10.00 am. Does this sound feasible I wonder...? No doubt my next post will reveal all ;-)

(Hillman Minx photo with iPhone, others with Nikon E71, a much superior camera and GPS device IMHO).

Lost in Paradise...

Yesterday, Saturday, was probably the warmest day since I arrived. Here in my house it was already getting too hot inside by 09.00 and so, despite a restless night, I decided to get out and enjoy the day. First I though I'd traverse the Eastern Walkway on the Miramar Peninsula just across the bay. But fearing the revenge of the sun and possible inefficiency of my sun screen I came to the conclusion that it'd be more fun and challenging, and involve the higher possibility of walking in shade, to make the 45 minute drive out to the Rimutaka forest Park for another trek there.

For this week's trek I had made some critical decisions in advance; take walking boots and socks instead of sturdy sandals, carry a spare t-shirt and shorts, sun screen just in case, as well as a packed lunch and 3 bottles of ginger beer, wrapped in foil to keep them cool for as long as possible. Certain items that are usually considered good practice were not taken; maps (don't have any), compass (don't own one here), matches (why?!), water (ginger beer gives more energy), plasters in case of injury and spare walking socks and warm clothes in general.

My guide book of Wellington walks explained the Butcher Track thus, '...begins not far along the Orongorongo Track and climbs about 1.5 km, partly through attractive beech forest, to a ridge which offers good views of the harbour, particularly from the nearby 465 metre high Baker peak. The option is to return the same way, or better (my emphasis), continue along the Cattle Ridge Track which joins the Orongorongo Track near Jacobs Ladder.' From last week's experience I knew that a return trip straight to the Orogorongo river from the car park is at least a 4 hour walk. Well, there are timings on the many information points and direction signs along the path. Setting off from the car park at 12.30 and having ample time (as the park gates are locked for the night at 20.00) I decided to make the exerting trip up the Butcher Track and aimed to continue on the better route, down to the river and from there make the 2 hours' trek along the Orongorongo track back to the arse rocket in the car park.

Being alone has advantages for someone who is keen to photograph everything of interest along the way and, in my case, to also record the forest sounds with my iPhone using a software package called iTalk that produces rather high quality recordings for 'a phone'. If you walk in a group you soon get a bad reputation for slowing everyone down. Of course, the photo or sound 'opportunity' is also an excuse to stop in those moments when it feels like your lungs are really not getting enough oxygen into your body. There were quite a few of those moments on the steep and shady incline up the Butcher Track. By the time I got to the ridge I'd already managed at least 20 minutes of recording of birds and the general cacophony of the crickets. The attractive beech forest was also well recorded.








At the top of the path there was a sign showing the direction and distance down the path I'd just trodden but, unfortunately, no sign to show how to find the Cattle Ridge Track. After stumbling down through thistle bushes on what could have been a path I decided that it was definitely the wrong way but probably OK for sheep. Never mind, nothing for it but to turn round and head back up hill in the sun to where I'd started. And then an idyllic rest in the shade of the trees, on the other side of a gate on a track leading hopefully in the right direction. Rejuvenated I followed the track to the yard of an uninhabited modern holiday chalet, with wonderful views over the valleys to the sea and, behind another little rise in the back yard, its own wind farm.



From here it was clear that this was the Cattle Ridge Track, because it was surely wide enough for cattle and there were 'signs' that large beasts had moved this way. A little way further along the track, in the midst of a rather mature pine plantation, the path split, the left fork doubling back on the outside of the forest, obviously a newer track made for forestry work I assumed. I continued along the main track, easy going underfoot on a cushion of massive fallen pine needles, and enjoying great shade from the heat of the midday sun. At the edge of the forest the path became narrower and followed the ridge down through thistle bushes. From time to time there were signs that someone had been making maintenance pruning, in order to make the walk a bit more bearable.



But, in general, the path appeared to be narrowing and the thistles were increasing the discomfort to my exposed arms and legs alike. No turning back at this stage anyway, because already the river valley was in sight, although maybe a few kilometres away and 500 metres or more below.







Having also traversed a few major mud and slime pools along the track I was rather happy that I was wearing my boots and not the sandals. That sentiment was reinforced when I eventually got down to the river itself as the walking there, on loose stones and sand, and over all kind of natural debris was immediately a challenge for my balance and my ankles. It did come to mind that since leaving the top of the Butcher Path, an hour or so ago, I had not seen any direction signs, although I'd noticed the occasional blue or red plastic tie-marker in the trees along the way. I'd also not seen anybody since starting to climb up the Butcher Track around 12.30. At the back of my mind there was a growing fear that maybe my route down was not, in fact, the one mentioned in the guide book; the one without maps. The journey down from the wind farm had taken at least an hour and at a good downhill pace this meant that I'd traveled at least 5 kms.

The first challenge once down on the river was to get across it, in order to then start making the trek back up the river to the start of the Orongorongo Forest Path. So, for the first but not last time that afternoon, it was off with socks and boots and then a careful paddle across the shallow river being careful not to fall accidentally and give my new Nikon its first (and potentially last) bath. The water was a cooling comfort, but the sharp stones alongside pointed to the already tired and sensitive nature of my suffering feet. The water was very tempting despite the slimy algae along the edge of the stream. It was time for a dip; a classic uplifting moment on any tough, hot trek: Man and nature at one with each other.

Dried, rebooted and with ample sun screen applied I continued my adventure upstream with comfort factor improved also by a new dry t-shirt. The earlier one was wetter than the river at this point. I imagined that the meeting point with my return path would be a kilometre or so up stream. The appearance of a family in a 4-wheel drive making its way downstream removed any doubts about this for at least for 30 seconds. Obviously it's unusual to find someone making their way up the river and so they pulled alongside and asked if everything was OK, which it was, of course! These were locals, on their way down to their bach (holiday cottage/mökki) downstream. So I confirmed that I was going in the right direction but their estimate of the distance to the path was...1.5 hours minimum. I was given some water and informed that, anyway, it was perfectly safe to drink from the river.



The news of the forthcoming stage of this Saturday tramp was a little disheartening as I had rather hoped that the text of the guide was correct, that I was actually following it correctly, and that the path I had planned to return on was around the next bend. Two hours later, after tramping slowly up the river, over the river, around the river and through the river (and for most of the time striving to keep boots and camera dry) with the afternoon sun on my head and back I was greeted by the sign of some sort of human existence. Along the way I'd witnessed some magnificent forest including a few huge (> 20m) ancient Northern Rata and had familiarised myself with the realities of a river bed in summertime, experienced by just me, a few sheep and a small herd of cows.





Swimming kit drying on a bush marked the place of a communal trekking hut, inhabited by several families, a lot of small kids and a very cute Labrador puppy. I gained updated instructions from the people there and quickly found the start of the forest path, marked by a handsome arched wooden bridge a little further up the river. They guestimated that it would take me 50 minutes back to the car park. After the first few climbs on the path I realised I was getting low on energy and rested on a well positioned bench for a few minutes and ate some fruit. Since starting to make my way up the river I'd also consumed at least 2 litres of it, now stored in the emptied ginger beer bottles.

The time was approximately 18.30, so there was a good chance of getting out of the park before the lock up at 20.00. After the first climbs in the path the going got much easier and now it was possible to use the path direction signs to judge distances. However, it seemed that this path was supposed to be walked in 90 minutes. I realised I had a hurry after all.
With new energy I surprisingly made quick progress, stopping occasionally for a breather, a photo or to record the wonderful bird calls in the high trees.





Later, at about 7.20 I met a couple heading for the river to camp. They reckoned I still had about 20 minutes to the car park. In reality they too were about 20 minutes off target in their estimation. The next direction sign read, 'car park 40 minutes'. So now, after almost 7 hours of walking I was left with the option of a night sleeping in the Toyota Starlet or increasing my pace to avoid that nasty fate, and making it home to a decent meal and a long hot bath. Both scenarios were good reason to start jogging/running at this point and, despite the nagging complaints of feet, toes and legs I made it back to the car with 10 minutes to spare. Even with the arse rocket's lack of suspension I also made it over the ten or so 'sleeping policemen' (töyssyt) on the drive out of the park without parting with the exhaust system and still made it to the gates with 5 minutes to spare before closing time.




What a sense of achievement and adventure the day had provided! And, in retrospect, and taking into account other possible scenarios, what a lot of lessons I've learned!
On a trek always take:

• spare socks
• a map
• a compass
  
• box of matches or lighter
• a torch
• warm clothing
• food for an extra day
• and water...in addition to ginger beer
  

The next time I set out alone I will remember them all... memory permitting. Despite the pain, the marathon-like efforts and the blisters of Sunday, it was a lovely and memorable summer day there in the paradise of Rimutaka.

(All photos with Nikon D300).