new zealand.

date. 2025

city. auckland, christchurch, wellington, queenstown

June 14, 2025 - New Zealand

It’s only when actually traveling to New Zealand that one realizes just how far away it really is.

My connecting flight is in Hainan, China, an island on the very south of East Asia. You’d think that from here, how far can it really be to NZ? Another 12 hours, it turns out.

E will be here tomorrow. We’ll fly down to Christchurch, rent a campervan, and explore the South Island. She’s a kiwi, so she’ll be tasked with showing me the ropes. I hope.

I walk up to the top of Takarunga, an old volcano turned fort turned meteorological station. I sat down on a bench overlooking Victoria Harbor and thought back over the last few weeks. How did I arrive here?

I’d planned to spend the month in Yunnan with A, really. Working on my writing and on my body. But a few weeks before arrival I received a message from A that she was hiding out in Egypt. Her friends -- a group of therapists -- back in Yunnan had been rounded up by the police; an illegal organization was the original charge. This soon changed to allegations of running a cult, which then changed to them being a foreign espionage ring. (In reality, A and her friends are healers. But, in a totalitarian regime, how different is that really from espionage?)

In any case, A wouldn’t be returning, forcing me to look elsewhere. And here I am: a month living in a camper and exploring this remote nation which feels vaguely familiar and entirely foreign. I’m excited (read: terrified) about the camping. I’m excited to learn more about Māori culture. I’m excited to reunite with E.

One step at a time.

June 26 - Auckland

Our flight to Christchurch leaves in a few hours. Grabbing some early breakfast at Ellie’s – poached egg on sourdough and a flat white.

Yesterday, we drove out to Piha, an expansive beach surrounded by green cliffs. Can I call them cliffs? Mountain-sized rocks. Wikipedia tells me they’re a ‘volcanic monolith’. Sounds about right.

The drive from Aukland was storybook perfect. E calls out the Māori names of the birds and trees as they pass by.

We hiked the Mercer Bay loop along the ridge of the volcanic monoliths overlooking the Tasman Sea. A number of years ago, NZ’s iconic Kauri trees began dying mysteriously. The infection spread so quickly, it’s estimated that a full fifth of all Kauri trees were infected.

To stem the disease, Māori leaders placed a rahui (ban) on human access to the Waitakere range near Auckland. The government followed suit a year later.

Eventually, a cleaning method was invented – manual shoe scrubbers and disinfectant were placed at each entrance to the range. The disease has slowed its spread. While no cure yet exists for the infected Kauri, scientists have found a way to replant extracts of dying trees so they can be reborn.

When we got home, we watched Taika Waititi’s 2010 film, Boy.

I usually approach my travels like a mission – something to explore or to achieve.

Three days in NZ and I’m no closer to understanding what I’m doing here or where to focus. E resists my questions and the bookshops are abnormally quiet.

Silence?

5 million souls live in NZ, a country comprising some 100,000 square miles. When I send photos back to my family they ask: “Where are all the people?”

Where are all the people?

Even E seems to resist my presence. Often escaping off alone, without saying a word. I let her go. I know the feeling. We must learn to be alone together.

Is NZ the world’s loneliest island?

Don’t shout
Whisper
Or better yet
Stay

Silent

June 27 – Akaroa

“It’s becoming too precious. Too important. To care for anything deeply is to invite disaster.”

-- The Bone People

Yesterday, just before our flight, E told me that when she woke up that morning she’d considered canceling our trip.

Ultimately, she decided to join (for reasons unclear), but felt that she ought to communicate her misgivings.

She said that she felt some kind of discomfort with me. She said that she’s an emotional person and that she didn’t feel an emotional connection with me. She said that she found me “fascinating” (right then, I suddenly felt like a specimen), and that our "dynamic" was on an "intellectual" level.

She asked what I thought. I said that it obviously really hurt my feelings (as I listened, something collapsed inside of me), but that I was happy she told me. Regardless, communication is critical.

To be honest, now, 36 hours later, I still feel hurt.

It’s not just that I feel hurt. Now I feel insecure as well. Worried about everything I say, everything I do. Hurt and insecure. Oh yay.

E has a habit of responding bluntly and often dismissively. A species of contrariness dressed up as honesty.

I’ve begun retreating back into myself.

But I want her to like me. I want her to be happy around me.

But I just don’t have that kind of control.

The one-hour flight went by quickly, non-eventfully.

Pretty soon we were picking up the keys to our Big Little Camper, which we’d be piloting around the island for the coming weeks (?).

The excitement – as we climbed into our new home – was palpable. We took off along Highway 75, framed by the setting sun.

On the drive out to Akaroa, E introduced me to some of her favorite kiwi artists (her chuunes): Six60, Fat Freddy’s Drop, and Dave Dobbyn.

Around 7, we pulled into the campground. I brewed some tea as we laid out on the soft benches in the back of the van. It’s quiet now.

The birds’ chirping rings crisp. And, for the first time since I left Bishkek, my body stops moving.

We’ve arrived.

Akaroa is a friendly, sleepy, and intensely picturesque town. A poster child for NZ's beauty and repose.

It is also incredibly spooky.

Since we arrived at the height of winter, the streets are nearly deserted, save for the occasional flannel-wearing bearded man lugging a tree trunk to who knows where. Or a sweet old woman who smiles brightly and invites me into her shop for a slab of chocolate fudge.

On the way back to the waterfront, we stopped at The Giant House for what felt like forever. Next, we visited The Good Story Bookshop (it was just a single room of uninspiring titles), Common Ground (yup, a café), and the Akaroa Museum. Kind of interesting, but also kind of not? Would recommend.

I’m still just trying to pick up all the clues I can about NZ.

The next morning, on our drive to Lake Tekapo, E asked me what I thought of NZ so far.

One word comes to mind: elusive.

Just like her.

So elusive, in fact, that I can’t even tell if it’s being elusive or if I’m just reading into things too much.

I feel… that I no longer remember how to write. What am I even writing? Is this still about NZ? NZ is beautiful. What else am I supposed to say?

It’s often said that god is hidden. Her hiddenness being a core aspect of her divinity.

I don’t always understand you. And perhaps I never will. But I do believe in you.

In Judaism, it's said that there are two ways to worship god. Through fear and through love. I try to stay open to both ways of adoring you.

I can’t comprehend myself. So, I mythologize myself. I can’t enter the house. So, I paint lots of pictures of homes.

June 29 – Lake Tekapo

Last night we arrived at the Lake just before sunset. We strolled along the icy blue shore chucking elephant-grey stones into the shimmering steel mirror.

We stopped for a drink before dinner. I said something about human relationships and then E went to the bathroom to cry for a while. I think it brought us closer?

It went down to freezing temperatures last night, so we loaded up on hot water bottles, blankets, thermals, and broke out the small electric heater that came with the van.

---

From Lake Tekapo we drove east to Mount Cook. On the way, we passed a small airport – just a landing strip really – with a sign that read ‘Skydive today. Stop by.’

I paused a moment. Looked over at E.

An hour later, I was strapped into a teensy tiny plane that roared its way up into the clearest blue sky. The mountains dropped away, the crystal lakes – Pukaki and Tekapo – turned to puddles. At around 9,000 feet, my instructor handed me an oxygen mask to wear. It tasted like the nebulizer I’d breathe from each night when I was young and asthmatic. I felt 9 years old again.

At 13,000, the door banged open and the girl beside me disappeared. I’m next.

I shout ‘fuck’ too loudly and move to sit inside the doorframe. We plunged down for all eternity; enough time for me to scream at the top of my lungs, take a deep breath, and then scream all over again.

Once the parachute deployed and we drifted closer to where E had parked, I shouted her name. She was waiting for me to come back down. The whole world waited for me. My whole life was there, waited for me to arrive.

I thought that sky diving would be the exact inverse of scuba diving. Coming down to earth, instead of away from it. But all that vanished as soon as I jumped.

Scuba diving is an incredibly soft experience. Calm. Slow. Almost a meditation. Easy measured breaths. Complete buoyancy. A dampening of sensations. Like a return to the womb.

Skydiving, on the other hand, is EVERYTHING. HERE. NOW. BREATHLESS EXCITEMENT THRILLING OVERWHELMING TOTALITY. Like an orgasm.

After my first scuba dive, I just wanted to do it again and again. I earned my certification and I’ve been diving regularly ever since.

After my first skydive, I think I’ve seen enough. It's very cool, but I’m happy to never do it again.

June 30 – Mount Cook

We drove to the White Horse Hill Campground at the foot of Mount Cook. It was unpowered, so we’d definitely be feeling the chill tonight.

As usual, we arrived just before sunset, so after we settled in, I grabbed my coat – it was already frigid – and hoofed it over to a small hill which hosted a pagoda memorial for those who’d perished in the mountain.

From here, I had a panoramic view out through the valley and up along the dazzling slopes. The white peaks framed an endless still-blue sky. It was… perfect.

For about an hour, I didn’t move an inch. Overwhelmed by the inexpressible beauty of my presence in this space. How am I even here? How am I here.

All words, all thoughts escaped me, so I opened the siddur app on my phone and joined my ancestors in praying the sunset prayers, maariv.

At one point, E showed up beside me (she has a wonderful habit of appearing at just the right moments) and we stood transfixed together watching the last sun-rays tumble across the glacial valley.

Like monks returning from the zendo, we silently and dutifully filed our way back to the van. E cooked a yummy dinner, and once it was pitch dark outside, we opened the door and stepped outside.

Aoraki / Mount Cook National Park is part of the International Park Sky Reserve, an area of 1,700 square miles where artificial light is highly restricted, creating an environment of near perfect darkness.

E got out first. She giggled in the way only she does and said (almost sung), “you can see the milky way.”

“Cool,” I thought before stepping down. I was not prepared.

GOD. THE MILKY WAY. It was right there. It sparkled and shimmered. I didn’t have to look at it, it was here. Right here. We both collapsed onto our backs and stared up into the universe. It was all right there…

And we were a part of it.

---

We woke up the next morning and climbed up to the Sealy Tarns viewpoint. The track, nicknamed the stairway to heaven, consists of 2,200 stairs cut into the mountain taking you up to the freshwater glacial lakes.

Like much of what I love most in life, it was deadly and fantastic.

From there, we drove straight down to Wanaka where we had a long, lazy, sumptuous dinner at Francesca’s.

---

Skipping Stones at Lake Pukaki

Left foot right foot

Humming to myself to you

Feel it in your hand

Feel it in your lungs

Glinting lights

Lapping water

Is she waiting for me?

Have I been too long?

I look at their faces

Turned toward you

I look at their faces

Scattered blue

My friends far away

But I’ll be with them soon

My friends are far away

But I feel them anyway

Skipping stones at Lake Pukaki

They sink too quick

They splash right on down

But I skip them anyway

July 3 – Milford Sound

From Wanaka we took the Crown Range Road further south toward Queenstown. The highest altitude road in NZ, it was only paved around 20 years ago. On the way, we stopped in Arrowtown, an old gold mining village turned posh boutique.

By nightfall we’d made it all the way to Te Anau, the gateway to Fiordland and the famous Milford Sound.

For dinner, we popped into the only open pizzeria, which turned out to be run by a gaggle of children. E was feeling slightly delirious from all the driving, and it showed. As you’d expect from an uncouth fairy such as her, she drank straight from the water pitcher, ordered enough food for five, devoured a pecan pie, and then finally stumbled back to the van. It was so much fun.

In the morning, we stocked up on groceries and bacon butties before setting off into the Sound.

Our first stop was Key Summit. On the way, E shared with me the delightful story of her nude hiking experiences in Australia, and the time she came across a group of nudists humping in the bush.

When we reached the summit, we were greeted by a fairytale collection of crystal ponds reflecting the sky and surrounding peaks. We skipped through this wonderland, and (for a reason I no longer recall) I taught E all about the Bris Milah and how the rabbi would suck the blood from the infant penis.

She was understandably horrified.

She asked what the foreskin meant to me personally. I thought for a moment and said that my bris is psychologically linked, as best as I can tell, with the original trauma of my own birth. Transferred, via the vagina, from the primordial womb into this chaotic life-world. Those two events, birth and bris, seem to me (as perhaps to all Jews) as two sides of the same coin. The trauma of birth. The trauma of creation. An event so powerful that we still require a full day of recovery each Saturday.

If I try to isolate the circumcision itself, my thoughts are heavily colored by Jewish mysticism which takes the foreskin to be a sort of shell (klipah) we must be cracked open. As humans, we do not hide behind our shell, but remain ever vulnerable to the relentless tragedies – and blessings – of this existence. As participants in the myth of chosen-ness, it is our duty to self-mutilate in the service of god. To self-sacrifice on the altar of Mother Nature.

Like a ripened apple being plucked from the tree, the clipping of the foreskin is the final consummation of our physical creation in the male body.

I also spoke about the significance of blood. Blood of circumcision, of the pascal lamb, of the nidah (menstruation).

Bris literally means 'treaty' in Hebrew. It is a carnal treaty that we forge directly with our god. I give You my flesh and You give me my soul. Like any young boy will tell you, a real treaty must be signed in blood.

The squeal of the infant reminds me of the squeal of a lamb led to slaughter. A wrenching noise that reaches into the dark depths. A sound, once heard, not easily forgotten.

Am I crucified?

---

After the hike, we retreated back down to the Cascade Creek Campground, yet another treasure. Yet again, unable to fathom the beauty, I stepped behind a tree, donned my tfillin, and prayed.

---

I must confess. I’d never heard of Milford Sound before coming to NZ. But, having visited, I’ll never forget it. Milford Sound is a fiord in the deep southwest of the South Island of NZ. Famously, the Lord of the Rings was filmed there, and Rudyard Kipling referred to it as the 8th wonder of the world. We visited on a rainy overcast day. The vast fiord was cast in grey gloom with the handsome green cliffs shrouded in mystic glory.

The entry to the Sound is almost as dramatic as the place itself. A narrow mile long tunnel born through solid granite leading to a melodic series of switchbacks that lay you softly down at the foot of the cliffs.

At Milford, one feels as though at the edge. It’s a ponderous place. If it had been in Asia, it would certainly be dotted with Buddhist monasteries all devoted to studying her secrets. As it is, only the kea and fur seals make their regular pilgrimages.

---

We drove quietly back through Te Anau and straight through to Manapuri, a small town on a beautiful lake which Google tells me is the western-most in NZ. In any event, it certainly feels like the smallest-most. Populated with hunters and fishermen, the only restaurant is in a converted church. It’s called, get this, The Church.

Hands down my favorite restaurant in NZ. We ordered a couple of pints and burgers and eavesdropped on some trappers at the next table who were dramatically recounting their day’s catch. For dessert, I had my first Sticky Date Pudding.

The entire time we were there, the large TV on the church wall was broadcasting a competitive canoe race.

July 4

After a giggly breakfast at the ferry station, we began the long and slow and sad drive back up to Queenstown.

Before coming to NZ, I’d only met E just the once. We’d spent a single evening in Annapurna and then an afternoon drifting along Lake Pokhara. Now, after 9 days together in a van, everything has changed. And nothing at all has changed.

A few days after arriving, I’d told her that I was busy unlearning her. I’d thought that I’d known her in Nepal, and now, every day I was learning just how little I in fact understood.

But by the end of the trip together, I confirmed that, no, I’d known her perfectly all along. It had just taken some forgetting for me to remember.

Tomorrow morning she’d fly home. And it would all be over. And it would all be a dream.

She told me that she was going home as a new person, or at least with a new vision. That made me happy. I suppose that I’m returning her in good condition.

As we approached the city, I told her that I believe that she’s a physical manifestation of my relationship with god. With E, everything is holy, everything is brightly illuminated. I, it must be said, prefer to stick to the shadows. I prefer to hide in my dreams. But with E, hiddenness is simply not an option.

On our very first night, in Akaroa, I’d told her that the reason I consider her a guru is because while others speak from scripture she speaks from experience. The torah speaks of a tree of knowledge; E talks directly with the trees. The torah was given on the top of a mountain; E communes with those very same peaks. The torah recounts many myths and prophecies; E touches reality with her fingertips, her sharp blue eyes pierce right through the veil.

I take E seriously. Far more seriously than I take myself. Yet, I am afraid.

I recoil from her light. And therein lies my struggle. To cast away my shell and lay myself bare. Bare to god, bare to the world. Bare to E.

I told her, as we entered the city, that she is the physical manifestation of my relationship with god.

E sits firmly, hands on the wheel.

I see my words make her uncomfortable. But I see that she understands.

---

I’ve always assumed that love must be made explicit.

It is entirely insufficient that “she knows I love her.” We must remind her, and ourselves, often, through our words and through our actions.

Our love must be made manifest. It must take shape and be openly expressed.

A weak love hides in shadows and implications. A strong love is placed at the very center of the table. I look you in the eyes and say “I love you.” Those simple three words. The wisdom of all the world’s philosophers and saints has never surpassed them.

But as I grow older, I’ve become partial to a kind of secret or unspoken love. A love, having matured like fine wine, which resists the controlling, inquisitive nature of the words which seek to define it. Which seek to pin it down, chop it up, hold it steady, inspect and confine it. A love which is not properly understood and does not wish to be. A love which seeks to remain exactly how it is: as love.

This is not the love of distant fathers or effusive lovers. It is a wise love. A quiet love. An un-bright - dare I say pitch blank - love. An effortless love. It is the love that god, in her impenetrable silence, has reserved for us all. Sometimes, silence truly is louder than words.

I remain eternally mired in the ever-grey.

July 5 - Dunedin

I dropped E off at the airport. We both hate goodbyes. We hugged. I mumbled something and then she was off.

And then I was alone. Is it possible to be more than alone? I played Leonard Cohen and cried my way to Dunedin.

Oh yes, Dunedin. I’d never seen the haka performed and I’d never watched a rugby match. Well, as luck would have it, the All Blacks were playing France that night so I’d get a chance to check them both off my list.

The only campground in Dunedin was full when I arrived, so I parked in a sketchy lot near the train station with what felt like half of France.

From the parking lot, it was about a 25-minute walk to the stadium. But I didn’t need to Google the directions. All through the city, a steady stream of bodies flowed toward the game. I was immediately swept up in the current of black-adorned kiwis.

July 6

I arrived home late last night from the game. After picking up groceries, I drove out to a beach on the peninsula outside the city where seals swim up to sunbathe. I took a stroll along the shore and wrote a poem.

You told me

Last night

Laying in my arms

That “no matter how I’d touch you

It would be holy”

I responded, “only because it’s you”

My eyes clung desperately to the passing peaks.

“I’ll never understand how the world can be so beautiful,

I whispered almost to myself.

“It’s not meant to be understood”,

you responded never taking your eyes off the road.

I trace my way back up the coast

Searching for your footsteps

Which have already washed themselves away into the sea

As if

They might never have been.

Have you ever searched the sand for a feeling?

Where does one go to find a spirit?

New Zealand is as good a place as any, I suppose

I had to climb over two fences to reach the beach.

Apparently, one wasn’t enough.

No, one wasn’t enough.

Why must my love punish me?

Why must I cry every time I fill the tank?

Expecting you to hop out of the van and

skip away down the road in search of a toilet

Grief really does come in firsts

First time filling up gas. Without you.

First time showering. Without you.

First time eating pizza. Without you.

First time doing laundry. Without you.

It’s like I’m being asked what’s the point of even doing these things?

Without you.

Even god isn’t perfect

You spent a week with me. All day and night.

And at the end of it all, you judged me favorably.

god has pardoned me of my sins. God approves of me.

And what is god, but a reflection of my very own holy of holies.

Silence beyond speech. Holy of holies.

The womb. Holy of holies.

Heaven on earth. Holy of holies.

The spirit become flesh. Holy of holies.

Shabbos. Holy of holies.

You in my arms. Holy of holies.

The stars were alive in Mount Cook. That night,

lying on our backs on the cold hard earth,

we belonged to the universe.

---

I hated being around so many people who weren’t E. I packed up my van and drove four hours straight back to Wanaka.

I immediately felt better.

July 8 – Wanaka again

I hiked Roy’s Peak. The uphill trek starts in these little hills populated with loads of sheep and some cows. Then you reach the low-hanging dense clouds and hike through them for maybe 45 minutes. Then you suddenly and I mean suddenly emerge on top and have this perfect blue view out over their fluffy blanketness and you can see all of the various snow-capped peaks piercing through.

It's breathtaking.

Then it’s another hour of delirious stamping up to the peak. The ground is composed of a cheeky mix of compact dirt, think slippery mud, and patches of white ice. Yeah, good luck with that.

From Roy’s Peak, I drove to Makarora for the night and then traversed the Haast Pass the following morning. Due to the thundering downpour, I couldn’t really make any stops, so I arrived in Franz Joseph early in the evening.

July 10

The weather let up just enough for a short hike to Callery Gorge and the Franz Joseph Galcier viewpoint.

Afterwards, I drove up through Hokitika to stay the night in Punakaiki.

Upon check-in, the kind host directed me to the Pancake Rocks just up the hill. Now, I’ll admit that I pictured a stack of flat rocks sitting in the white surf. Not entirely thrilling but since it was raining and I had nothing else to do, I drove on over.

I could not have been more wrong. Like so many of the small open secrets of NZ – like the small open secret which is NZ itself – humbles miracles occur all around me.

According to the guidebook:

Nature began this work of art about 30 million years ago. Over thousands of years, alternating layers of small marine creatures and sand became buried and compressed on the ocean floor. This created areas with multiple layers of hard limestone and softer sandstone. Earthquake activity then lifted the ocean floor high and dry, and those slow motion artists - the rain and the wind - began to erode the softer sandstone. The outcome is cliffs and ravines with hundreds of horizontal slices along their vertical faces, like huge stacks of pancakes.

In many places, deep inside the cliffs, narrow vertical air shafts created by the rain met with horizontal tunnels created by the pounding ocean. Today, around high tide, the ocean swells rush headlong through ever-narrowing tunnels and force large amounts of water and compressed air to race upward through the vertical shafts.

The result is a hissing, heaving, thumping countryside that rhythmically emits geyser-like plumes of salt water. In a strong westerly swell, this creation of nature is a very impressive sight.

A very impressive sight, indeed. On this stormy winter afternoon, I wandered – gleefully alone – along the crests of these operatic creatures. At once swallowed up and held safe in their most powerful embrace.

On the way back from the Rocks, I passed a cave beside the road.

An orange sign outside indicated that there were glow worms inside. I’d heard of the worms that hang out on the ceilings of some caves in NZ, but I’d yet to spot them. More accurately, I’d been too afraid to step foot in a cave.

I parked the van and climbed inside the dark opening. Just before entering, a sign with three sections reads:

1.
Ka titiro ki Te Tonga
I look to the south

Ki te maunga Aoraki
To the mountain Aoraki

Ko nga putake maunga te tabubu
O te robe o Kati Waewae
To our ancestral mountains that shape
the backbone of our lands

Kel wabo ko ngaru o Te Tai o Poutini
e papaki mai ana - e baururu mat ana e
Outside the waves of the sea
roar and crash on the shore

Tibe Mauriora
Tis the breath of life

2.
Out in the sea, all wild and blue We were born and lived and grew.
Every sort of shape and size and hue
Wriggly, wroggly, griggly, who?
I'm a sea shell, Barnacle Bill She's crustacea, Big-hand jill.
With our cousin Red Rock Russell
We are related to cockleshell and mussel.
With pipi, tuatua, scallop and worm, We're bedded down now nice and firm.
With seahorse, pipe fish, limpet and chiton Happy all together as a lump of limestone.
Now we are the floors, the roof and walls Of this lovely cavern wide and tall.
Its mouth is low so watch your head
Use a torch to spot us in our limestone bed.

3.
Thirty million years ago sea life thrived in an ocean deep and wild. Upon dying, shells and fish bones fell to the sea floor, became layered in mud and silt and compressed over time to form Oligocene limestone.

Later, the earth's surface lifted the sea floor to become the land.

The Punakaiki bluffs rose high, standing tall against the restless sea and pounding weather.

But the relentless natural forces ground away at the bluffs. The sea found a soft spot and swirled, washed and wrought a cavern which grew and grew. Water seeped from above, decorating the inside of the Cavern.

The floor was not flat, but filled with slopes, pools, boulders, and all sorts of creative formations. Unlike the Rocks, which had an artificial path carved into the stone to guide visitors, the cave left me to my own rapidly diminishing devices.

I switched on my flashlight and ambled further in. I very quickly exhausted the small cavern and came up against a narrow sketchy-looking tunnel. I was alone. Even with my light, it was nearly pitch dark. I certainly didn’t want to crawl through a tight tunnel deep into a still deeper cave. But so far there’d been no glow worms and I’m incredibly curious.

Okay. I take a deep breath and lunge in.

To my dismay, the next cavern was even smaller. And still no worms.

Then another, smaller tunnel. And another.

At this point I felt both incredibly thrilled and terrified. It dawned on me that I’d entered a new world. An immense presence of isolation. An almost metaphysical distance from the living world.

Crouching, under layers upon layers of stone buried in the earth, I felt the keen awareness of being in an alien space. A space which operated by strange rules for strange beings.

As with scuba diving, this was another sort of womb. I switched off my light and waited for my eyes to adjust.

Only they never did adjust. There was simply no light. Darkness layered upon darkness. The gentle swell of my lungs was the only indication of my being-there.

Panic arose in my chest. My breath came quick and short. I’d learned from my years of diving that there’s only one thing to do in such circumstances. I whispered to myself: “It’s ok, you can panic once you’re back on the surface.”

And that’s when I saw them. The faintest twinkles of color. Impossible to catch directly. They disappeared as soon as they emerged. But there they were, almost inside my mind. In the pitch darkness, there was only the flimsiest of separations between what was inside me and what I was inside of.

I don't know why I was affected so powerfully, but I sat there and cried. And prayed. Even now, writing these words, I cannot place that emotion.

I recalled the old stories of Channukah, frightened Jews hiding in caves, waiting for an onslaught.

A certain shade of darkness that allows its own sort of light. An inner light. I slowly made my way back to the entrance, tunnel by tunnel, unwrapping myself back to the world.

There they were. The green trees swaying in the wind, glimmering in the rain. So much life – so much light.

Here, in the living world, are my friends and my family. The oceans and the stars. Just like when I landed in my parachute from 13,000 feet, here was the rest of my life, waiting for me to return.

They say that Rav Shimon bar Yochai spent a dozen years in a cave. When he emerged, his gaze set fire to everything he saw.

July 12 – Murchison

The road to Nelson is flooded, so I’m stuck in Murchison for the night. But that’s alright. I’m parked up in an adorable riverside campsite, with adorable riverside campers.

July 14 – Nelson

Made it to Nelson. Two closed highways, a collapsed bridge, and four detours. But I made it.

Torrential rains pounded the Tasman region for two weeks, dropping the equivalent of 6 months of rain. Already a week ago, a state of emergency was declared.

I drive through overflowing creeks, pass around downed trees and zigzag through fallen rocks. You know how you always see ‘Falling Rocks’ signs on the highway but never see any rocks? In NZ you see the rocks.

From Nelson, I drove on to Abel Tasman, the real reason I’d stubbornly fought the storms.

The main road from Nelson was closed so I took the coastal route. At a certain point that too was closed. But a few orange cones can be moved to the side, right?

First, I came across a large branch and some stones scattered across the road. Then a slab of earth that had broken away from the cliffside and now covered half the road. Then bits of road itself that had sadly moved on to new homes. At one point, rocks and earth as high as the van covered the road with only a thin path carved out by a couple workers picking away at it all.

They waved helplessly as I passed.

Finally, the real test arrived. 30 feet of completely flooded road.

When I arrived at the campground they were as surprised as anyone to see me. They said that they didn’t know the road was already open. I sheepishly replied that it was not.

They said I was welcome to stay but didn’t have time to chat as they were still reconstructing the camp.

Magically, the Abel Tasman track was still open, so I went for a short sunset walk and read my book on one of the pristine secluded beaches that dot the shoreline. I passed a worker covered in mud carrying a shovel over his shoulder. He was on his way home. I asked about the state of the track. He looked at me, glanced at his muddy overalls, and said, “Some bits are…” and quivered his hand. I detected a hint of fear in his eyes.

When I returned to camp, I bumped into the manager. “Oh, you’re the guest.”

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The next morning, I woke up before the sun. I wanted to hike a few hours but needed to be in Picton by 6pm to catch the ferry to Wellington.

When I arrived at the start of the Track, where I had entered just the night before, yellow tape covered the entrance. I noticed a few Dept. of Conservation workers mulling about and asked why it had suddenly been closed.

“Well,” they replied, “we couldn’t even reach the track until now.”

I nodded quietly and hurried back to my van. Oops.

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I made it to Picton early, booked passage for myself and the van, and by 11pm I arrived in Wellington.

July 15 – Wellington

Wellington is a beautiful city filled with beautiful people surrounded by beautiful hills. It’s crammed with loads of independent cafes, restaurants, boutiques, and perhaps the greatest bookstore I’ve ever seen.

I meant to pop into the museum briefly but ended up staying all afternoon, unable to pull myself away.

My favorite section was the collection of poupou, the carved wall panels found inside wharenui (Maori meeting houses). The wharenui is a sacred space and the poupou are seen as extensions of the ancestors who reside within. Poupou often depict tribal history, legends, and migration stories, services as visual narratives.

Throughout my month in NZ, I’ve been struck by the degree of integration that has taken place between the indigenous Māori and colonial Pakeha cultures. Throughout the country, Māori words and names take center stage on signs and info boards. During the hikes, there will invariably be a large orange board that colorfully explains the history and significance of the place for the resident iwi (tribe). The museums will often have a large stone placed at the entrance, pounamu (jade), as a spiritual vessel and protector.

The white locals that I’ve spoken with are anything but reluctant about the integration. They’re extremely proud of their Māori connections and only want more of it, and more quickly.

Compare this with the sorry state of affairs in other post-colonial countries (so plentiful that I need not identify them by name), where native cultures are kept in the shadows. Even self-governing nations struggle to reconcile their own past with a beckoning future.

At the rugby match in Dunedin I felt the electric energy that ran through the crowd as the haka was performed. I felt the exuberance from each and every chair.

Imagine if the NY Jets decided to perform a native American chant before their games? Cue the riots, boycotts, and reprisals. But in NZ, Māori and pakeha stories flow more naturally, or so it seems to one naïve observer.

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From Wellington I drove up to Ohakune for the night, and then on to Tauranga, E’s hometown.

June 16 – Tauranga

We drove out to Mount Maunganui for a hike, then strolled along the beach grasping dirty chai lattes from Three One One Six. On the walk back to the car, E asks me what my tribe is. I instinctively (and falsely) blurt out, “the Jewish tribe.” But then reflect on her meaning.

My tribe, I answer more slowly, takes a kind of psycho-spiritual view of things. A heavily psilocybin-infused cocktail of ritual, creativity, and absurdity.

We don’t carry our positions, but we love to display them. We rarely agree on anything, but we share a deep appreciation for a certain kind of disagreement.

We love to explore ourselves; simultaneously all-powerful and all-empty. We attempt to live a life which is passionate and sincere yet entirely un-serious. Don’t tell me what to say, show me how to speak. Or better yet sing.

Look me in the eye when you talk to me, goddammit.

Nothing is worth doing, so you might as well do it right.

We speak in metaphors, weaving half-forgotten Jewish dogma with our own mired glimpses into the prophets’ vision. I suppose we don’t much care to be right, but just to be interesting.

Let’s try again:

My tribe loves, in equal degree, thought and thoughtlessness. Sanctity and play.

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E’s parents went away for dinner so we popped some shrooms, fired up the wood-burning hot tub in the garden, and melted our bodies into a river of endless galaxies and bottomless love.

June 18

I took my time leaving Tauranga this morning. Painfully aware with each packed sock that this was the last stop on my trip. That, as I said goodbye to E, it might be forever.

She slipped a note into my pocket as we hugged goodbye.

I drove north for two hours following Highway 2 up the Coromandel Peninsula.

---

You gave me a seashell.
I keep it deep in the pocket of my warmest coat.
The one I take out only on the darkest of nights.

June 19

Spent the night in Tairua and hiked to Cathedral Cove.

Then, I drove back to Auckland, stopping at a small suburb to sleep in the parking lot of an Irish pub. It’s not as bad as it sounds. But in some ways, it really was.

July 20 – Tairua

My last day in NZ.

It’s been rainy all week but today the bright sun shines down on me.

I dropped off the van and took a cab to the airport.

The van which carried me faithfully across flooded plains, narrow valleys, torrential rains, across the sea and around the glaciers. From Milford Sound to Auckland. From rowdy Dunedin to sandy Tauranga. Through joy and grief and joy again. I made a new friend and cried new tears. Ate dozens of meals, froze off my ears, and gazed around in wonder. My home was always with me, ready to carry me on. On to my next adventure.

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I live now on this curve that binds the land and sea.

The shore is a place without seed, without nourishment, a scavenged death place. It is the wasteland, too salt for growth, where the sea puts up its dead. Shored seaweed does not take root but dries and piles, its pods splitting in the sun, while bleached land plants crack and turn to bone.

Yet because of being a nothing, a neutral place - not land, not sea - there is freedom on the shore, and rest.

There is freedom to search the nothing, the weed pile, the old wood, the empty shell, the fish skull, searching for the speck, the beginning - or the end that is the beginning.

Hope and desire can rest there, thoughts and feelings can shift with sand grains being sifted by the water and the wind. I put my bag down there one evening and rested, leaving a way for the nothing, the nothing that can become a pin-prick, a stirring. I took warm clothing from my bag and waited through the night for the morning that would become a new beginning.

Mo tâtou a mo ka uri a muri ake nei
For us and our children after us