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At age twenty-three, in the summer of 1987, I traveled to New Zealand for three months, Australia for two, and Malaysia and Egypt for a month each. I wanted to travel to these places in order to visit and sketch unknown places, and also to connect with a friend, Susanna Shankland, who had taken a job at the American University in Cairo. I had just completed a bachelor's degree in art history and studio art at the University of Colorado in Boulder and was ready to hit the road myself, hoping to combine an in-depth sketching adventure with romance.
The results were varied. The art and writing I did on that trip have survived the test of time. Looking back some years later, this trip strikes me as a simultaneous combination of heart-struck romantic idealism--in that I was engaged in a long-distance relationship throughout the trip--and a zen experience of fantatical attention to the present moment, expressed in my drawings and writing. Perhaps those two experiences balanced me in some way.
This project first appeared in printed form in the early 90's and was called Travels: Within and Without, 1987--1988. Then, I decided to make the entire thing read like a travel novel. I called that version Heart's Journey. Then, I decided that the first effort was the best, and that abbreviated style of observation is what I present here.
Writing from John Goldsman's house somewhere in Auckland- Met him on my flight in. He's a friendly, quiet guy- We began talking about philosophy and spirituality on the plane and he invited me to stay at his house. Customs, baggage at the airport all done smoothly. I have a three month visa. Now, suddenly, time seems shortened. How can I explore both islands in three months? Yet, I am content. I'm not in some hotel, I'm with two friendly people-- John and his mother, Daphne. Daphne is warm and loving--has a beautiful garden-- we slept in the backyard the first night here, as she was gone and John didn't have a key. She talks to her plants and has a strong "women's intuition" about things. I did a drawing of one of her Fuchsias as a gift; she said she wanted a whole set to frame. John and I explored downtown Auckland. John mostly silent-- interested in the new-age bookstores. Once we had climbed Mt. Eden (wonderful views! clouds! sun! rain! and I had done a drawing, he mentioned that a woman from a spiritualist church
had once seen a vision of an indian standing over him while they shared tea. He told me, everybody "chooses" to come into this world to work for a higher level of spirituality. He's also into numerology and palm reading. My number, obtained from all the letters in my name, is "one" meaning artistic, creative, and independent. That fits, I suppose.
However accurate or bizzare these techniques are, though, seems of little matter. I dont want to predict my life; I just want to live it fully and with compassion.
Thames is situated under the foothills of the Coromandel Range--
heavily wooded, like a rain forest--many palms and fronds,
vegetation I've never seen before.
I found a private hostel, and roomed with three very funny guys:
Ted from Blackpool, England, in his late 50s; Andrew Dack from Sydney,
and John from Florida. They seemed completely chummy; constantly joking--
especially Ted, who had quite a sense of humor. He obviously was flourshing in this envrionment of younger kids, just tramping around, having a good time.
Andrew is stocky, practical, humorous, and good-natured.
I hope to see him when I get to Australia.
While wandering around Thames, I met an old lady named Rose.
She invited me into her house for some tea after she spotted me drawing the library.
Hers is a sadder story--both daughters rejected her, she told me, and she had been widowed for 50 years. What could I do but listen carefully to her?
Next day--off quickly--bad vibes from the hostel manager.
It seems to me that everyone I've met here, I've met before.
I hitched up two miles into the Kauranga valley; the wardens of an educational camp picked me up.
The landscape is beautiful here. Met up at the last minute with Doug from Canada
(crew cut--friendly--called me chief--pronounced about aboot )
and Julie from the midwest U.S.
They invited me to come along with them on a tramp.
The sign said three hours to the Pinnacles hut--it was more like four and a half.
Much slow walking. Trail waterlogged in places. Amazing streams and waterfalls.
In fact, much of the trail is a stream.
The ground is a light orange color, mealy, clay-like.
At the hut, we met up with Dave and Barbara from Seattle. Hut warm and cozy.
A lively dinner, and afterwards, card games by candlelight, and a joint smoked by all
(I found a pouch of cannabis on the trail up here--quite bizarre).
Was up all night because of the full moon in mist-shrouded clouds hovering over these pacific island peaks.
Moutecka birds
Sea Elephants
Afternoon walking
naked running
sea water splashing
cloud covering
salt air rain soaking
Ah yes things rip and fade.
time passes--illusion,
disillusion--
humidity stays high and from above--the sky--
passes rain in ageless quantities.
Questions-- why do I often wonder if I am doing the right thing?
For instance--is it right to be here? Is it right to try and draw?
Answers--who knows.
Dinner was a stir-fry. Talked to Wendy from Perth
who has been taking care of old ladies in Britain,
and to Rob, a 26-year old British Chemical Engineer.
Lots of West Germans I can't quite figure out.
Putting my deepest and most intricate thoughts down is impossible. Hello, now in Taupo, large lake blue skies for a change Hitch from Rotorua quicker than most. Nice guy, Simon. Good conversations all the way down. He gave me his address in Wellington. Long hike to Huka Falls-- mesmerizing. Drawing, meditative walk back People at the Rainbow Lodge already in groups Strongly interested in T.V.and an Aliens two video.
Met a guy down by the waterfront--
Steph. Slightly pudgy, black jack daniels t-shirt,
long curly hair, round glasses, from Wellington.
A stock boy or something. Liked to "drink large", drive fast,
and club possums on the roadside at night. He had ambitions to buy a house, and hated airplanes.
Another guy I met, Stan, is from Greeley, Colorado.
I originally met him at the hostel in Auckland. He had a wild hitching story to relate:
He was hitching north, got a ride from a swiss couple in a camper van,
and they rolled two and a half times. That freaked him out, so he bought a car--
but now he wishes he hadn't. He works on a railroad back home,
is quite fat, jogs twenty minutes a day, and also likes cannabis.
Today started out with peanut butter sandwiches, plus apples and cereal.
I hitched to Turangi and caught a shuttle going out to the main entrance to Tongarriro National Park.
Once there, I decided to set up a base camp, and found a spot near the visitors center--
relatively secluded, hidden from passers-by. I set off quickly to explore,
and found a trail leading up a great sweeping hill with clump-like grasses vying for space with boulders. Soon I came to an area where black moss-covered boulders sat nestled in beds of spongy white moss,
an unusual combination I've not seen before.
I was amazed by the views of two volcanoes: a nearly perfect-shaped cone to the north
and a more shapely, snow-covered peak to the south-east. I did two drawings,
one on an air letter to Susanna, and another for myself.
Now there is not a cloud in the sky--
the last rays of sun are striking my camp.
The half moon hovers high overhead.
Less logic in word use is better.
From where I sit, I see a forest regenerating:
a healthy and inpenetratable bush spotted with ghostly upright trunks of decaying tree
Yet the moss love it.
Peace and beauty surround me, Yet--as Alan Watts points out,
I feel my ego to be isolated.
How to accept death and the loss of loved ones?
I can choose to fear, or not to fear, as the winds blow high cirrus clouds over my landscape.
Back in Taupo for new years--throat feeling weird.
Perhaps too many ginger snaps.
Notice I've been eating a lot with a seemingly bottomless stomach.
Article in Time magazine on the Ethiopian famine
Speaking to America on the phone--
Everyone's okay--
so close to my ear yet so far away.
The "I" that is expressed in letters on this page is not me.
The only thing expressed is a creative effort.
I sink--I swim
I think of people on this earth
Life love famine disease hope
what does it all amount to?
I am nothing. I try to create importance with this writing. With my drawing.
With positive relationships.
New years eve, now. People all over, drinking.
Dig-dig-dig
under all of your illusions
So here I am in Napier
Why--do I think--I'm not traveling right if I don't see everything
there is to see?
Why--do I think--when contrasting my attempts at art against others,
or writing against others,
that I am a bundle of mediocrity?
Why--does it always seem like the potential
to share with a woman is so far around the corner?
Who cares about art, anyway? So many images on two dimensions.
The only thing I consistently like is doing it.
For the act of drawing is a physical response to a spiritual yearning.
Hello. Today has been very calm and enjoyable,
except for the fact that I'm almost out of food and should head back tomorrow.
There's some sort of inchworm hanging out on the moss below me.
He doesn't move very fast. In fact, before he makes his next inch, he rears up on one end
and does what looks like a dance--
perhaps to recognize the water which he will soon enter.
I left the Torrents bay hut this morning at 8:30.
The trail at this time of the day was exciting to see--views of the bay and ocean beyond--
early morning shadows -I'm feeling fine.
I walked slowly, and when I reached the Falls River, I bush-whacked on up,
rock-walking up the bubbling causeway. Large and numerous rocks made it possible to walk upstream.
I found an overhanging moss grove, which I am camping in.
I've been thinking about water and color and life and just what I've been doing.
This is a tremendous spot.
Yesterday by the bay, I watched the tide go out, leaving numerous examples of organic life. What is revealed in the mud flats are thousands of tiny crabs
who dart rapidly into their holes
as soon as their all-seeing eyess detect any sort of movement above them.
I watched one crawl out of his hole and begin arranging rocks.
Just a nod of my head and they all scattered away.
The Abel Tasman track is flat and well-used.
It winds amongst low hills full of dense bush,
just above the blue of the Tasman Sea.
The beaches are creamy white, with just a touch of ochre.
Also on this track are many, many humans.
Today dawned sunny--
I chose to go on a long walk.
Out to Point Elizabeth I roamed
along the crashing coast
noisy upon the rocks
no sand.
A wonderful bush track full of Nikau Palms
views of the sea and solitary bluffs
battered by salt water.
Heading back, I waved at two hitchikers.
I went on and began talking to an elderly gentelman.
While he rolled a cigarette, he said,
"Those two will never get a ride."
He asked where I was from. Upon hearing "New Mexico"
He said, "so are they"!
So I went over to talk to them--
Tim and Lou, from Taos.
Slightly an ambiguous space for me...why do I have so much anxiety about money?
I want to enjoy myself but I don't feel like I can pay for anything without worry.
So--I have spent the last two days enjoying the wonderful alpine scenery of Arthurs Pass national park. I arrived here on the train from Greymouth. I spent the morning in Greymouth working on my drawings.
I'm thoroughally disgusted with my artistic attempts.
Because I have such low self-confidence,
I feel like an artistic impostor! Like someone trying to fake it.
Train ride--interesting conversations with a sleepy Maori named Deidre,
who invited me to call her up upon arriving in Christchurch.
On the 17th, my birthday, I eagerly left the hostel at 9:20 and headed for Avalanche peak.
I was so psyched I didn't even wait for Tim and Lou, who are here.
Starting out, the day seemed ominous and wet--I hiked through low cloud cover--
but soon, upon steadily gaining altitude amongst magical misty tussock grasses,
I broke through the clouds to sun.
Distant snow-covered peaks all around me!
I decided it was time to leave Arthur's Pass, and it was raining, so I left.
I met Tim and Lou in the square in Christchurch a day later--they hitched,
"no problem". why do I always feel like I'm doing the wrong thing?
Well--what was the bus ride like?
Stormy. Condensed water on the windows.
Barren, dry, forbidding scenery. Me in my own little world.
In Christchurch: Things seem to fall apart.
I lose my change purse/watch. Try to check into a totally full youth hostel
but the hostess is a really hateful woman. I decided to call one of my contacts,
George and Peg Bateman. To my surprise, George came to get me after I consumed three bowls of cereal, plus peanut butter and crackers. So I went with him and met his family:
Peg, white-haired, knitting, asking questions about me but obviously not very interested.
Alma--her cousin--large woman, also knitting, nice but boring.
Pietra--three years old--a lovely girl. Repeats everything that is said, and smiles at me.
George--a retired fondry worker. Interested in everything I've been doing,
I feel fortunate to be staying with them.
Today I arose
sleepily not much sleep
I saw the dense profusion of stars high in the sky above.
I read a lot today: ninety-four pages of The Fatal Impact, by Alan Moorehead.
I hiked up to some tarns--up--
it seemed like a far distance
and when i stopped it wasn't much,
compared to everything else--but it was a lot for me--
Saw two glaciated valleys instead of one.
Drank a lot of water. Got sunburned
man, the suns hot.
Windy too
Bad allergy problems. Makes my head feel all tight and unhappy.
Medicine helps
totally blue sky.
late evening now.
I just wrote to Susanna and to Patty.
I also did a sketch,
something I spied last evening as the sun descended--
shadows of a distant ridge.
feel quite lonely
wondering how I'm going to be able to
travel for so long.
listen--an avalanche in the distance.
empty wind into thy hand.
Sitting here by the lakes edge under limber pines--
breezy wind kicking up as the afternoon passes--
the pines remind me of home
a space between each
scented pine needle ground.
Mt. Aspiring national park is seen, off in the distance--
high and barren--similar to Mt. Cook
I won't go there. This lake is all I need right now.
The most rewarding moment on the bus ride here was our journey over Lindis Pass.
High yellow tussock grass valleys, a pale blue sky
punctuated with light grey cigar shaped clouds.
The rest of the way--
vast spaces, high barren mountains.
It discourages me a little to see so many barren mountains.
Fierce wind
clarity of the sun
mythical mountains
tenacious life
a symphony of bird calls awake me as I alert myself to the early morning light
that displace the stars.
But that happened this morning. Now I'm sitting in a persistent south island wind
on the edge of lake Manapouri.
The skies are blue, and in this landscape where all is exposed,
the wind whips over the tussock.
Basically, I'm happy voyaging here and there, drawing and meeting people.
Behind me sheer granite walls rise 4000 feet to unknown alpine heights
where snow cleans--
and water falls--
and vegetation clings to the scratchy surface.
But between me and this wonderous natural phenomenon lies a glass window.
For it is evening, and I am within a budget hostel in MIlford Sound.
In the afternoon,
I traveled the distance to the Tasman Sea by boat,
an ideal way to become more intimate with the friendly power of glaciation.
Leaving Invercargill
Tom Catherall seemed positive I would get a ride,
and dropped me off on the road to Dunedin.
Within five seconds--literally--a guy in a red van picked me up.
We somehow got on the topic of family trees. He told me that his grandmother
of five generations ago was Anne Boleyn.
He left me outside of Gore. After fifteen minutes I got a ride from a rotund, hardy,
sunburnt type. His accent was so strong and he spoke so quickly that I had great difficulties understanding him. He was a chimney sweep.
When questioned about his ancestry, I got a strong negative reaction. He was a New Zealander, and that was that.
He felt the Maoris were lazy and were to blame for the recnt disputes over land claims.
The next day George and Terry dropped me off a short distance out of Wanganui.
It took seven rides to hitch to New Plyouth. Personalities that I encountered:
1) a scraggily man going to a fruit farm with his depressed son, who wore an Iron Maiden t-shirt.
2) a truck driver transporting shell rock from a quarry in the hills, which he took me to.
3) a happy man and his wife who laughed a lot and said that South Islanders were conservative.
4) a woman named Sena with a small lapdog.
5) a petroleum worker who went out of his way to show me a pa, an ancient Maori fortress.
6) a young lifeguard.
7) a couple from Rotorua in a V.W. camper van with rolling papers on their dashboard.
I was tired when I reached New Plymouth, and then it took twenty minutes to walk to the youth hostel.
I found some blackberries and then wound my way down to the ocean, and found a
surprisingly isolated spot where old concrete barriers with rocks piled behind them
inspired me to draw.
Later at the hostel, I met a woman named Ruth, from Germany. She and I are going to the Mt. Eggmont hut tomorrow.
Everything I've done today--
created by my awareness of yesterday.
Every moment, new and questionable. To look back, then,
and see that it has passed--
I had some interesting rides on my way up to Whangarei.
One chap had sailed in his home built yacht around the world several times,
and also manufactured foam brushes.
Two elderly gentelmen who picked me up told me it was too dangerous to hitch with the Maoris. Next, a policeman on holiday with his girlfriend terrified me by driving at 160 km/hr. I had the sensation he was busy exercising his male ego--driving his image of masculinity throughthe continually depressed pedal.
Today I managed to lash on to a ride with Eric and Peter from Zimbabwe.
Together with Edgar and Rose, we quickly drove to Paihia.
We booked rooms at a private hostel called the Mayfair lodge.
It reminds me of the Rainbow Lodge in Taupo, full of preppy-fraternity-drinking-smoking sorts.
I like the people I came with well enough,
but there is a weird banter that goes on between this elderly guy from Melbourne
and Rose from Ireland, strangely humorous put-downs,
constant jokes, and much inconsequential talk in general.
I just took a somewhat lengthy walk to Haruru falls via a track on the Waitangi Reserve.
On the track I felt pretty good, initially, and I reached a Mangrove swamp
that had a very definitive and delectable character, complete with snapping and popping sounds of some hidden shrimp.
Also there were those tiny mud crabs rooting around on the slimy tidal flats,
plus many upright reed-like roots that I believe suck up oxygen for the Mangroves.
There's quite an ecological community that resides here!
Further on down the track I began to feel hot and tired,
but I was still able to enjoy the blue sky, sunny clouds, and dense fern bush. I did a sketch.
Hello
yesterday was a day
in which I had both enjoyable and non-enjoyable moments.
The enjoyable moments transpired when I made a visit the the Waitangi Reserve.
I jumped the fence into the park area because I was freaking out about money, and it cost $3.50. I saw the world's longest war canoe, made out of three Kauri logs.
The Maori meeting house here is one of the most beautifully crafted I have seen.
I looked at every carving twice.
Some of the non-enjoyable moments were had as I went into the small township of Paihia. For some reason I bought a runny milkshake and a bacon burger that left me
with a lump-like feeling in my throat and stomach,
I feel tired, lonely, lethargic and a little depressed.
I also took a shower and thought a lot.
Momentarily in a stately Kauri grove, in a forest reserve
about 7 kilometers from the Opononi Youth Hostel.
Although the presence of these trees is immediate to me as I write,
I will soon pass on, and the Kauri will be nothing but a colorful presence in my memory.
the Kauri is a noble tree, I feel--It grows straight and strong,
the main trunk free from branches for the first third of its length.
The bark comes off in sheath-like chips, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle,
leaving a mottled and interesting patchwork surface.
Some of these trees can reach the age of 2000 years.
I caught the tour bus yesterday morning to visit Cape Regina, the northernmost point of New Zealand. This seemed meaningful, since I had just trod upon the southernmost point, down in Invercargill.
Once at the cape, I did a drawing of the legendary Pohutakawa tree ,
a spot where spirits are said to depart for the underworld, according to Maori legend.
I felt good about being able to do the drawing in the short time we had there.
Then it was off to another beach where the rest of the lunch was consumed
(mostly by me).
Lastly, we cruised 90-mile beach for a nerve-jarring speed cruise, back down to Opononi.
Dargaville, New Zealand, February 25, 1988
In the evening everyone disappeared except for myself and a Danish Woman, Luna.
We conversed well into midnight, talking about feminism
and her travels with male friends who visited brothels.
She is and intelligent woman. She is 27 but looks older, with lines of struggle written all
over her face.
The next morning we left together for Dargaville.
Once there, we decided to make dinner together, and I soon found myself purchasing food with her: a complex decision making process requiring delicate interpersonal transactions. I did a quick walk over the large bridge on the outskirts of Dargaville
and drew some rusted iron pipes in the grass.
The river was a thick shade of mud-
the high grasses framing the banks
were lovely in their pale sandy green.
Waiheke Island, New Zealand, March 5, 1988
Expansive beach
rocky terrain
silent bay
In the crowded youth hostel on Waiheke island
I listened to a lot of people and felt distant.
During my last morning there, I worked on drawings until noon.
I went out to the beach and swam, trying to figure out
how to body surf.
I became impregnated with salt.
I wandered down the beach, to the place where the craggy rocks and trees
completed the vision, and eventually drew a picture.
copyright 2004 Haikutimes.com
drawing/writing/photography
jonathan machen