Golden Ticket

When Bendik, Jesper, Hansi and I landed in Auckland a few days ago, I had no idea of what was gonna happen, or what I was going to see.
I could never have imagined such a combination of sun and rain, smiles and natural geometry, homefeeling and strangerlook, everlasting laughter accompanied by kiwibeer and good meals.
Of course, I did expect something. Actually, I expected a very vague lot. I think I got more than anything I imagined, I filled my head with so much green, light, warmth that there only is a mere space left for my brain now. Ehe.

Through our first short roadtrip to Raglan yesterday, sitting in Steve's van listening to a music that seemed to roll under, over and through us on the asphalt, I really got a first taste of It. It, like New Zealand, of which we've seen just a tiny part. It, like a New Zealand that already seems overwhelming.

"It abound with words, and with varieties of expression...It will scarcely be credited, when stated, that the New Zealanders have a distinct name for every tree and plant in their land; of which there are six or seven hundred, or more different kinds...It is so likewise with respect to the birds, fishes insects, garments and everything else they possess: and have I never found a native at loss to express any of the passions, feelings, sensations; any thing connected with joy, sorrow, good, evil; or any qualities of matter, as broad, long, sharp, obtuse, fluid, solid etc. In short, there is scarcely any thing which we can imagine, but they have an expression for it..."

No wonder William Yate wrote in 1820 that the Maori did have an expression for anything.
It's like everything, anything, all the things that surround us here keep speaking to us. Insects crying loud twenty-four hours a day, the sun burning our skin, the smells filling the air. And the nature, the soft shadows all over the hills, are a world on their own filling our eyes.

While Hansi, Jesper, Bendik and I sit on the bus to Rotorua, the time that I spend sleeping feels so desperately wasted. My camera keeps on clickin', hungry for images and more more more road, more light. Hungry, just like us.

Rotorua and its thermal waters do not smell good. But the eyes and the ears are filled with so much beautiful confusion that it's difficult to think of anything bad, or anything else at all. I really get lost in it, even though our feet and Hansi's eyes are following the map. It's like the importance of any geographical factor decreases with each step we take.
We see a kiwibird in the middle of a dark hole, and a geyser reaching for the sky, reflecting and dancing with sunbeams. Bendik gets back from his downhill afternoon, but even after a two-hours bustrip to Hamilton and another forty minutes walk towards Hillcrest I can't still really say I'm tired. My legs are hurting and my eyes have to fight the sleepiness, but I'm stuffed with a bunch of words I’m incapable to spell. And yet, I'm incapable of giving them up.
These unspoken phrases are floating between my tongue and lips, like someone else baked them for me. I have expressions for everything now, as long as I can keep it between my teeth, letting them live a life of their own. Without any real need for a language.

I really look forwards to see my last London pictures and my first New Zealand pictures now. That's a language too.