Doubtfully Divine...

In transitionary periods, I find myself reaching for the sponge of nostalgia...stretching to sop up the pools of a memory's resorvoir leaking out. Smiles find their way and the holes that you find hold the liquid abstract are the same that show what is now a void. And in soaking up all those puddles remaining, there must be a fallout. Just as digestion is the successor of indulgent consumption, one must wring out the sponge; and it feels as though it's the sqeezing and twisting of your heart...squishing out every last drop in a pain that leaves you pondering why we hold recollection in such esteem, why do we enjoy remembrance when the heart compresses so?

My last phase of NZ was a great climax as I moved, with difficulty, from Wanaka towards Te Anau in the fiordlands. I found that the kayaking group I wanted to go on was booked solid for several days, which forced me to hang tough and do one last lil' tramp...one of the great walks as they call them; The Keplar Track. I did the 4 day tramp in just 2 days and found that it was a spoiled way of seeing something so pristine. The path seemed to be graded and held a width of constancy the entire way up. What they posted as 5 hours was ascended by yours truly in 1.5...clearly this was made for everyone who has a pulse and can arrive to the start. Considering all of this, it was still a sight to behold and well...to recall with favour. The fiordlands are such a special place where you find dramatic topography flush with vegetation amidst alpine, rockery whose contrast casts conjecture..."how?" is all one can muster. I thoroughly enjoyed myself on the bitty walk; however, I will take orange arrows placed upon fallen trees pointing into a direction where you find you'd never guess a "path" would lead over the steps that were cut out of fallen trees to offer ease that I found on the Keplar, any day. There's just something about bush-bashing to find yourself stepping on a tree that cuts over undergrowth and other trees to find, as you look down, and arrow that says, "yes...believe it or not, you're actually on the right path."...it's fantastically fun. The Keplar just can't offer that, and as popular and famous as it is, it just wouldn't do it for the nature-seeker.

Upon returning to Te Anau, I gazed up at the beautous scenery that once held my attention and moved away from it towards the next and final thing that I'd do in this southern island of a tiny nation with huge heart; kayaking the Doubtful Sound.

Capt. Cook found it unlikely to be able to turn around should he enter the sound way back when he was discovering all this area and so, passed it by with--as some say--cowardice; thus, the name. Doubtful is so remote and set off the path of the common venturer, which is why I elected it over the world famous Milford Sound.

To give you an idea of how remote, we had to take a bus from Te Anau to a tiny village Manapouri for 20 minutes, where we hopped into a boat that took us 30km across Lake Manapouri (Lake of the Sorrowing Heart) to find another 4WD vehicle on the other side where we changed into wet suits and other appropriate attire and ascended Wilmot Pass with kayaks to boot. Finally we reach the beginning of the sound. At this point, you've entirely left civilization apart from the "education center" they have for kids who come to the area to learn about nature and environmental conservation, etc. We loaded the kayaks with our gear and dipped in. Setting off was great, but the truest of freedoms was to span the next 2 days. As you paddle in the sound, you stop to listen...you've never heard such deafening silence than at this moment. I realize the oxymoronic notion of hearing silence, but it's quite true...maybe it's the echo of nothingness in our ever stimulated ears, like a conch shell swirling the resonance of an ever present tide. Even though it hadn't rained for days (so uncharacteristic for the fiordlands, but fortunate for my endeavors)the incipient water that crept through the unseen forest miles above our drifting vessels found its way to the promontory, integrated in its elemental way to leap hundreds of feet to a crushing terminal of pressure-smoothed granite and plunged into the ebony of water that was to carry us into an abyss...magical can only reach the feet of this experience.

Stopping to eat lunch, we found that we were actually the fodder of the diabolical spawn of satan, the sandfly that is so monstrous, you forget its miniscule size; beasts that eat your flesh with voracious, insatiable appetites. Bitty birds dance about us in ceremonial celebration of such a picnic spot.

Submerging our feet into the holes of our watercraft, once again I found such solitude and peace in the dark, velvet of water deep below that rose in a spiritual evaporation and moistened my soul to the point it almost melted away 2 4ever remain. Blessed with weather, setting up camp was no problem at all, provided you doused yourself with insect repellent and kept well covered. I think my DNA actually changed after absorbing such levels of deet overnight...I know my kidney hates this buggers as much as I do.

Day two sent its prodigy in two forms, doubtful dolphins and seals. Floating at a good rate, our guide told us that the chance of seeing the inspiring creatures was slim to nill because of their spotted location just 30 minutes prior. To our elation, they entered Hall Arm as we exited it. We followed these beautiful and abnormally large entities for some time; they dipped and dove and spoke with blows of air, circling, aqua-somersaulting as to trace their mystery that would sink to infinite depths of water should they choose to disperse. They bade farewell about 15 minutes after introduction; I felt the portentious awe that dripped off of my paddle jacket, and found I wasn't alone when I looked around...spellbound. Not an hour later, we found a seal basking in the glory of a doubtlessly unencumbering lifestyle as he dipped in his own sychronicity. We left him to his unbound playground and sailed off to a sensual paradise that would remain.

The disposable camera that I bought and employed was absolute crap; thus the photographed record will be nothing other than what's in the "Te Anau" folder on my pic site which is just the pics I've taken in Te Anau, on the Keplar track and others that were sent to me by co-kayakers. The quintessential experience of course, can't be documented, though this was well worth the load of money it took to transport and expose me to a still preserved, exotic natural environment. I felt as though I had paddled through the bowels of the earth; with such silence and enduring escape, this was a remedial therapy for anyone burdened with the entrails of a society on auto-pilot...this was a great way to finish my kiwi experience.

And in a transition similar to that mentioned above, I'm beside myself with anxiety of what's to come. It feels as though this is the first step. NZ was simply a sidetrip that I wanted to experience after such great reputation, and despite the peculiarities of this nation, the culture is quite similar to that of my own. Flying into Bangkok wasn't my intention, but it will allow me greater freedom in the end; thus, I depart in just 2 days to a quest that will be, in theory, timeless and transforming. I cannot express my happiness; first, 2 have consumed so much of New Zealand with such great luck--hitchiking the entire way thru both islands, almost flawless weather, and heaps of class characters--and second that the moment has finally come for me to venture into a zone that has known so much history, so much war, natural tragedy, and malice, so much compassion and progress, and so much to offer in regard to spirituality.

In truth, I know not if I will continue to update as much as I'd like, as I want to escape into an unknown chasm of experience far removed from societal/cultural influence, but this plan as every other will heed only to the divine phenomenon.

My week in Christchurch, where I'll fly off, has been entertained by devouring several books; books that have postured themselves upon my conscience. "Foucalt's Pendulum" (Humberto Eco), "Ishmael" (Daniel Quinn), and "The Gospel According to Jesus Christ" (Jose Saramago) were all finished here in CHCH. I managed an independent film, "Me, You, and Everyone we Know" (Miranda Julie) that gave back the cinematic creation...music continues to be an enormous part of my life; at present I soak up B&S (as always), The Magic Numbers, Nick Cave, Wilco, Matt Pond PA, Nada Surf, Say Hi 2 Your Mom, and of course my fave I've listened to more and more, CYHSY!

In case anyone wants to grab a book and compare thoughts with me, the next few reads will be "1984", "Crossing The Shadow Line" (Andrew Eames), and quite possibly "Deliverance" which is about the struggle for independence in East Timor...which is definately on my list, now that they're letting people into the country. Recommendations are always welcomed.

The Kiwi enKounter was memorable and inspiring at worst and will pull my being back sometime in the future I suppose. For now, I'm ready to take the leap into something I hope to be as special as anything I've ever experienced.