THURSDAY 31st MARCH - HICKSVILLE
After a delightful stay with Trish and Brian I dragged myself away after an afternoons fundraising on Wanganui’s ornate streets. My charity mugging was aided by the fact that I had a page three article in the Chronicle that day that I could show disbelievers as not all are stupid enough to give money to bearded, backpacked stranger without some proof he is not a scam artist. Some people even recognized me and dropped a few coins in my hand without any prompt, which buoyed my spirits no end. I had also received a phone call, as the paper had printed my mobile number, from a chap from Oxford that now lived locally but it was obvious that he only wanted to chat and not pledge his life savings. I felt like a right local celebrity but my fame wasn’t pervasive enough t stop me getting kicked out of the shopping mall for unauthorized fundraising. It was time to go anyway so I cut my losses and joined the convoy of cars on the highway South. Even on the road people were beeping their horns when they passed me but it was probably just to signal that I should get my big head off the road rather than to swell it anymore.
 
Highway, Shmiway! I got as far as I could before the sun dipped below the horizon and, crossing a road bridge, I turned off into a tiny village, spying a flat green around a small, whitewashed chapel. I decided to ask a local if I could camp there and bounded up to a guy checking over a car in his scrap yard of a front lawn. He had scatty dreadlocks, shifty eyes and his jeans hung so low that they allowed the top of his pubic hair to spill over his beltline. I thought I had landed in Hicksville with to many toes and when I asked about pitching my tent he answered, staring waywardly over my shoulder in paranoid glances, “I wouldn’t, too much thieving over there.” What felt like a frosty reception soon turned into an invite for tea and I followed the darting eyed, scar covered chap into his dark grotto. It was a mess inside with boxes of stuff piled up all over the place and what, at a glance, looked like junk covering every available space. We went through into another room where the junk suddenly morphed into antiques filling every nook and cranny. The walls were covered with portraits of past Maori chiefs, all their faces covered with tattoos as indication of their rank, and the shelves and floor adorned with carvings, old weaponry and other memorabilia. The scrap yard had transformed into a museum and I sat down amongst the exhibits trying to take it all in. Over a cup of tea I discovered that the other mess was due to a huge flood the year before that submerged the house and wrecked everything. The water had come up to the roof with the adjacent Whangaehu River flooding along much of its length and causing widespread devastation. According to Russell, they had no prior warning of the impending disaster despite the fact that houses up river were being flooded almost twelve hours before it hit them. It was no wonder the place was in a mess. I could see the water marks up the walls and apparently the river deposited about a ft of mud over everything. One of Russell’s cars had even ended up about 2km down the road after being swept away by the torrent. “We lost everything”, he lamented and despite the fact that he had been the last to leave the village he was able to do little to save possessions and valuables.
 
After a while chatting, Russell produces a huge dagger and hands it to me asking, “How much would that fetch in England?” A quick look and I noticed the swastika on the hilt and the familiar SS emblem next to it. The craftsmanship and aged look suggested to me it was an original and, suddenly noticing a swastika tattoo on one of Russell’s knuckles, a wave of panic rose inside me. I kept my cool though, reminding myself that I was surrounded by Maori artifacts a neo-nazi would be unlikely to have in his house unless they were in the fireplace. I relaxed totally when Russell’s Maori wife walked in along with their half pakhea, half Maori kids. They included three boys aging between about 12 and 16, all with dreads, as well as one small girl about 2 who was a grand daughter. It was totally dark outside by then and I was very relieved when Russell invited me to stay the night inside. Soon after I had a plate of tucker in front of me and a mattress laid out in my own room next to a glowing open fire. The rest of the night we wiled away playing guitar, going over Russell’s flood damaged collection of antique books and hearing more stories about the flood. Russell had been a biker and he had photos of his Harleys squeezed between his Maori chiefs. As far as I could work out he was a reformed White Power member who had had a very violent past I didn’t want to pry into too much but from his own omissions he had been in prison on several occasions and wasn’t able to leave the country due to his tainted history. He was definitely a reformed character though and had obviously traded in his past beliefs for a quiet and multicultural family life. Before I hit the hay he gave me his number and said if I ever got into any trouble I should get in touch as he still had contacts all over the place. I hope I never have to ring that number other than for friendly reason but for some strange reason I felt safer for having it.

FRIDAY 1st APRIL - GLIMPSE OF THE END
I snuck out before anyone had risen and although I had said my thanks the night before I still felt as if I was trying t sneak out unseen after stealing an evening’s hospitality. It was an irrational feeling of guilt and one I have had before when having been given something without being able to give anything in return. An illogical conscience I suppose or a karmic sense that realized I was using up god favor that was owed to me without topping up the karma reserve. There were lots of good deeds I needed to reap after this trip was over to replenish this reserve. I was going to have to be Good Samaritan number one.
 
I followed the highway for a few kms before turning right towards the coast heading for the small settlement of Ratana. Ratana was named after a famous Maori holy man and healer and a small building full of crutches and other redundant bodily aids stands testament to his powers. Te Araroe went through Ratana, over an old railway bridge and out to the coast for a short section before cutting back to dissect the town of Bulls. Before turning off I had been torn between just heading straight down the highway 22km to Bulls r the longer, undoubtedly more scenic route. I couldn’t trash my morals so close to the end and besides, I wanted to walk by the sea again so I turned and went in search of the old bridge. There was no specific track and asking a yawning local on his porch I was pointed down a farm race to get to the crossing. The directions didn’t translate as after 5km of jumping fences and trespassing over ploughed fields a farmer on the other side of the uncrossable river told me the bridge was way down and that I had t cross about five peoples land to get to it. Annoyed at the wasted time getting nowhere, I couldn’t be bothered tramping over more fields in vain and I headed back for the highway. So much for trying to be vigilant about my corner cutting.
 
22km f truck infested tarmac it was then but at least it was a flattish road and nice day. There was also a bed at the end of it as I had arranged a stay with the sister of a recent friend I had made in Taurangi. The farm she and her husband lived no was just outside Bulls and I ended up getting picked up from the main road. The lovely clear day allowed for far reaching views across the surrounding plains and once back at the farm I was shown the sights from the back paddock, the view reaching as far as the tip of the South island far away below us. You could also get a clear view of Mt Egmont on the West Cape and up t Mt Ruapehu in the middle of the country. Also looming below us was the ridge of the Taurua range, which I would be traversing in under a week’s time, spreading out into the distance. The Taurua’s had a reputation for being dangerous due to fast changing bad weather stranding people unprepared. I wasn’t planning t be unprepared and was looking forward to the final challenge of my walk before roads all the way down to Cape Palliser. The end was so close I could feel its imminent arrival approaching. The question was: Was I prepared t finish? Does a journey prepare one for its end? I suppose the inevitable forces one, if only sub-consciously, to prepare for it. I still have no idea f hw I am going to feel when I reach the final steps and whether it be relief, joy, achievement, loss, sadness, emptiness r a mix of them all I was going to find out soon enough.


SATURDAY 2nd APRIL - iPLODDING ALONG
Chinese take away, a big soft bed and French toast, bacon and banana for breakfast. My karmic debt was getting longer but I’m thinking that maybe a repeated thanks in these pages might ease the cosmic pressure. Thank you Yvonne and Kaz for a brief but wonderful stay and I look forward to repaying the favor in the UK someday.
 
Kaz dropped me back where he had picked me up and my day’s route actually took me back past their farm and cross-country between Bulls and Fielding. The rolling green hills on the way to Fielding gave way to spirit level flat country all the way to Palmerston North. Hitting Fielding around midday I rang some friends of friends in Palmerston to see if they could take me in for a few days. I felt terrible for leaving it so late and I can only blame it on my lack of planning and organization. Luckily they didn’t seem to mind too much and I said I would ring later no arrival in the city. From Fielding, a town that has won ‘The Most Beautiful Town in New Zealand’ award six times in a row, I followed the rail tracks all the way to Palmerston. Sadly I didn’t have time to check if Fielding deserved its awards and I ended up skirting its suburbs, which didn’t look that special to me. There was truck racing in the local stadium and the roar of engines and the rising crescendo of gears could be heard for miles. Starting along the long straight road following the long straight and deserted track I had the brainwave of getting out the iPod to make the walk more interesting. Donning my kindly donated headphones, I plugged (Thank You Sennheiser for your great headphones that give a clarity and detail like no other!) then into my pod and realized that I hadn’t walked with music since the last fated day of my 90-mile beach walk just over four months before. The walking had been s interesting and beautiful in between that I hadn’t even though about walking with a soundtrack until this long, boring road 16 weeks down the track.
 
The songs dissolved the hours until I was in Palmerston North and upon reaching the center or, more accurately, the closest point to it that my legs would carry me, I phoned Tony and my chariot soon awaited. I had another big bed, more delicious food and some new unboundedly hospitable hosts. Three days of road walking had taken it out of my feet and my bruised soles needed a few days rest before they could carry me any further.