AS I WALKED OUT ONE MIDSUMMER MORNING

I finally left Veranada’s backpackers hostel on the Sunday. How can I be a travel writer if I don’t go anywhere? I was meant to bee seeing and documenting the beauty and majesty of these islands yet I had set up permanent camp in Auckland. I liked being around my new, surrogate family. I spent most of my time with Emily. When she arrived home from work, Irene and I would cook fried rice, stealing food from the free shelf. If nothing else, backpacking has taught me to be a thief and a vagabond; it started with me finding a pack of cigarette papers on the floor and slippery slope that petty criminality is, a few days later anything not bolted down or labelled was ours. Hair gel left in the shower, hot chocolate for our late night porch-side sit-ins, bread, Nutella, all became the property of our shared, hippy-like commune love-triangle. Emily loved me, Irene loved Emily and I loved Irene. I know I’ll really miss staying up til the wee hours, cuddling up with Emily for warmth talking to Tim. We shared something pretty cool, and I love the fact that she genuinely loved all my music, which we spent hours downloading to her ipod; from The Jones to Sabbath back to KLF. I’ll miss Tini too although I only knew her a couple of days.

Why doesn’t Karl Marx like chamomile tea?

Because all proper tea is theft.

I gave up drinking after a while as I was drinking wayyyyyy too much; it was affecting my decision making and turning me lonely and paranoid when my two girls weren’t by my side. Arguments with Natalie became a daily occurrence by facebook chat or skype and I began to question my sanity (again) when I was meant to be working on my new project in Coby’s café. Whatever low Nat would take me to, my saviour Kate would breathe life back into me. I know one day she’ll save me in the end.

One night at a particular booze-induced low some jovial bastard called Riaz arrived and interrupted our peaceful commune. We skulked round the corner to leave him and his loud, inebriated English accent to it. He returned a few nights later when me and Em were off the booze, and drank about nine beers while we puritanically drank stolen Cabdury’s hot choc.

A few nights later after I had had seen some of New Zealand’s majesty from above the clouds, in Wellington, in the south of the north island while sat smoking on a street corner, who should walk passed?

Riaz, the last honorary member of the washnut gang.. We went for a beer which turned into about forty making him almost miss his 7am ferry. He recounted the story of how his bike went off a small cliff and ended up in a tree shortly after throwing him from it. A man took him back to his house and let him stay while his friends removed and repaired Riaz’s bike as he sat dazed and stoned in said man’s house.

God knows how but I somehow made it back to Rowena’s. The hostel I was staying at. I think,

The next day I went to get a new passport to replace the one I had “lost” as my then-current one ran out in August 09. I don’t know where I’ll be in six days, let alone six months. NZ$ 328, yet another charm offensive and one and three quarter hours later I had a new ten year passport. I need never come home again. Now all I need is a girl to travel with…