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ON THE SPUR of the moment the European decided to head north in search of adventure. He hired a hatchback for 29 dollars a day, all inclusive, and at 18:15 on Saturday he found it on top of an ancient Maori fortification, Rangikapiti Pa, just north of Mangonui on New Zealand’s North Island. Leaving the car outside the motel and following the map he was handed at reception, he set off on foot through the bush, heading for Rangikapiti Pa. He had only arrived in New Zealand four months ago and so far things had not been progressing as he’d hoped. He knew he couldn’t expect a place to bring him happiness — that would have to come from inside — but he also knew that he had been barely alive in Europe. As he walked the rough track it was as though no vestige of this previous world remained and his lifelines to points of reference in his past had been terminated. Either this realisation or the physical exertion of the hike made him sweat; he wasn’t sure which. The bush was becoming denser and soon he could hear tui calling. To European ears unacquainted with prehistory, the modulating barks, squeaks and unexpected pentatonic melodies were shocking. And yet, in spite of the antediluvian soundtrack, his solitude was complete. The funny thing was, even with the sun on his face and the wind blowing through his hair, the European didn’t feel as though he was really there. It was an uncomfortable feeling because if he was not there, where was he? When he got to the top of Rangikapiti Pa, a plaque on the cairn helpfully informed him he was at “Latitude 34°59’11” South, Longitude 173° 31’31” East, 96.59 metres above sea level”. Above and beyond it there were views of Doubtless Bay, Mangonui Harbour and the village. It was a moment when everything clicked into place: on top of the bottom of the world, with the South Pacific Ocean all around him. He could see now how he had always been consumed by the struggle to stay alive and this had been distracting him from living. In coming to the other side of the world he had made a pledge to himself that he could never have kept if he had stayed in Europe. It was a commitment that involved quality over quantity. Coming back down the slippery slope, the European overbalanced, lost his footing and stumbled. There was no way he could not fall, no way his feet could find purchase. He twisted his ankle but somehow managed to stay on his feet. The pain seared him and caused his heart to leap into his mouth, but it instantly became secondary to his shock at the prospect of tumbling all the way to the bottom. Limping back to the motel, straying from the bush footpath — chancing upon tree ferns, wild undergrowth, forest glades and obscured streams — he could hear the white noise of the surf rushing Coopers Beach in the background. The air was electric; colours cut into him, sharp as glass; his short-sightedness was momentarily alleviated as if, behind his eyes, rusty cogs and seized-up gears had finally clicked into place after years of misalignment. He felt as though he had been through something life-changing, but he was not sure what it was. He was more alive and yet more afraid than he had been in years. It was not the way he wanted it to be; but he was where he wanted to be and that, at least, was a start.
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