Category: Guide

I am cycling through the Gobi desert on my touring bicycle, a place that is as close to a church as you will ever get. It is a strange terrain for a cyclist, a place where spaghetti trails beaten into windswept sand and clay roads by horses, motorbikes and the odd old Russian military Jeep, are distinguished only by the occasional cropping of yurts (gers). The traditional circular elaborately decorated felt tent/homes of the Mongolians. I have been peddling through the tough clay sands for hours, successfully keeping the sun on my left and to the east. My legs push, pull and pedal furiously; propelled by some internal motive I did not completely understand. I am averaging 80 km about 50 miles per day and I am on a mission, hell bent on making my way to the Northern…..to the region of the reindeer herders and Siberian shamans, before it gets too cold for my little tent.

There is a chill in the air,, the temperature is beginning to drop. This change makes the desert landscape more startlingly beautiful. Mist hovers in the air, drawing out the intensity of colors. The big bright orange sun spreads across the unbroken sky, casting warm shadows on mounds of sand, which twinkle like they are laced with mirrored glass. The horizon line is seamless, blending softly into the edge of the land.

Aside from following the draw to head north quickly before the deep Siberian winter sets in, something in me has drastically changed. I am at peace in Mongolia. The absence of sidewalks, street lights and neon signs sooth me. I am on shared land with fellow nomads from the Oxford of the old school. Here movement is not just accepted but expected and embraced. Staking my little tent in a different serene spot every night somehow cuts me off at the root, makes past and future almost irrelevant and has stopped all brain chatter from rattling around in my head. There is something more than that though, something about the country, it’s people and culture itself that has opened my heart. The longer I stay, the more alive I feel. I have peddled through 9 other countries in less than 7 months and have never felt as alive as the way I do here. I am in love with Mongolia. It seems to me to be the place I have been rushing towards my whole life. I vow that from this day forward until death do us part, in sickness and in health that if anyone asks what I am looking for in a relationship I would have to say Mongolia. A “place” filled with raw simplicity, unspeakable human beauty and open to all things possible. With every push of the peddle another must capture this moment feeling, a special kind of spiritual photography that focuses the soul.

Images of beautiful pine forests after beautiful pine forest fill my every waking and sleeping thought. Thanks to the history lesson that the Akuhaia-Brown Maori family taught me, I have learned that many parcels of land on the pacific east coast have been forested with pine trees, a profitable export at the moment. Not even the conservation minded locals mind the pine trees being cut down because pine is not a native species to NZ. From what I have been told, the locals feel the same way about their pine trees as they do about possums. There are just too bloody many of them. Possums, the large tear drop shaped rodent are responsible for nibbling up thousands of native plants every day and of causing a general nuisance. Possums were brought to NZ by the Australians and from what I have been told about the long standing sportsmanlike rivalry between the two countries, possums are just another good ironic joke that the Aussies (Australians) have played on the Kiwis (New Zealanders). And that leads me back to where I started and why I am boring you about pine trees and plants. A good ironic joke…

Daily since leaving the Auckland airport on my bicycle about 900 km or 600 miles ago, I have been passed by many a car and truck. Now that I have ventured into the densely forested east coast, the trucks are getting bigger and more fully loaded. They are loaded up with huge freshly cute pine logs being shipped for export. Double and even triple length commercial trucks cruise by me with a great gust. Most of the trucks smell really nice like a freshly mopped kitchen floor. The logging trucks and their drivers seem to be the only New Zealanders on the roads hurrying with great speed towards a deadline.

While cycling on the hilly coastal road, the logging trucks and their cousins the wood chipper trucks create a special kind of suction which is a little hard to describe. Just picture an industrial strength Hoover vacuum verses an ant and you will get the right idea. It’s a good thing I did some praying at Saint Mary’s, the Maori church back in Tikitiki. The first dozen or so trucks on any given day are really pretty entertaining, some of the drivers honk and wave as they blow by. It must be hard to drive that fast with their arm out the window. And, each morning while peddling on sleepy legs, I am grateful to the logging trucks for they vibrate me awake far faster than a cup of strong coffee. By the 37th truck of the day, I am feeling a little less empowered and a little more like little ant about to go on a tornado ride.

At the end of a busy day in the life of an ant, a bicycle and a logging truck, I can think of no better place to sleep then in a densely populated old growth pine forest. My bike slips quite perfectly under the old wooden fence and off I go deep into the most majestic peaceful pine forest I have ever experienced.

This particular platoon of old veteran pine trees has survived the battle of export log production. Every night the veteran soldier trees stand guard, silent and proud of all their years of dedicated service and accomplishment. And similar to a soldier on duty in a war zone, the cool shade of the forest glimmers with the aura of wisdom and responsibility. Free camping deep in the beautiful veteran pine forest is not exactly within the “code/rules” but according to some neither is cutting down all the trees.

Here I am in the southern hemisphere for the first time, where the kindness of the people is familiar. A similar familiarity to growing up in the small town of Cobourg, Ontario, Canada, population 13,000 on Lake Ontario. Back in the day when neighbors borrowed eggs and the kids played in the street until the street lights came on. The simple safety of it all is still lived daily by the Maori people in Hicks Bay, North Island, New Zealand. The folks here invite strangers in for tea and a bed to sleep in. With a strong belief in family secular and extended, they take care of each other and the strangers they meet along the way.

The Henare and Joyce Akuhaia-Brown Maori family invited me in for tea this afternoon. They introduced themselves and their home. Joyce told me she had named their home Shalom which means peace in Hebrew because she felt it was a beautiful word that said so much. They laughed when they told me that the origin of the addition of the word Brown to their name was unknown. This was only the beginning of how much they were to teach me about the Maori culture.

The land along the pacific east coast of the north island, NZ is Maori owned and cultivated. Family trusts own large acreages of land that stretch for miles upon miles. The Akuhaia-Brown clan has a long standing history of attracting strays like me. Although, I was the first women travelling alone on a bicycle they have ever had in for tea. Other new comers, tourists and strays have stumbled upon them and stayed for days, a few stayed for years. People stay as long as they need to or want to and the lessons and knowledge exchanged are always welcomed as a gift of spirit.

The deeply spiritual Maori clan has been living by this patch of sea since the start of the known history of New Zealand. Henare laughed that some history books claim that the explorer Captain James Cook is said to have discovered NZ because the Maori people were already living here. New Zealand translated literally from the Maori language means land beneath the clouds. That is how it is believed that NZ was discovered to begin with. It is said by most boaters that a cloud always hangs over NZ which is a great beacon to those looking for land from sea.

Joyce traces back the Maori language to perhaps a linguistic similarity to the Polynesian languages of Hawaii. Kia Ora is a great Maori word which means Hello/Good Luck/Good Health all at the same time. As we sat together at a round table drinking tea many different cousins and aunties came to join us, sharing a little bit more of their Maori ancestry. Many stories were told about living from the plentiful sea and about positive choices made throughout the years.

The Maori people have faced many of the same challenges of the indigenous people throughout the globe. Land and culture has been taken away by the predominant government only to be renegotiated and maybe given back at a later date. The Maori people have assimilated courageously and with great grace holding on to a rich strong history while moving forward into a healthy modern existence. The Maori language is taught in schools and the Maori people have a loud voice in government. Maori culture and language are woven within the mainstream. Town names, road signs and architecture influences are found throughout New Zealand. I sat drinking my tea immersed in the amount of knowledge, wisdom and beautiful passion the group possessed about their heritage and life by the sea.

After tea, I was invited to spend the night, they said the southerlies were going to blow and to stay inside their house and not outside in my tent. I was trying to politely decline the generous offer but I knew that Henare and Joyce had the instinctual inside scoop you might say on the weather. Within the hour, the southerly winds kicked up and if that little tent of mine had been outside it would have definitely been blown out to sea.

The wind was blowing with such velocity that entire trees were swooping over as if they were tiny blades of grass. The noise of the storm against the house made sleeping a bit of a challenge. I eventually drifted off full of gratitude to the Akuhaia-Brown clan for bringing me in and sharing so much of their Maori culture and home with me. I was sad to leave the next morning although this passed as I turned my bicycle down a sharp turn in the hilly ocean road on the way to Saint Mary’s, the Maori church in Tikitiki.

So, I am sitting in my tent laughing at the birds outside. It’s like being in a surround sound IMAX auditorium, the volume of the birds singing all around me is so loud that I almost feel like I need earplugs. I haven’t figured out quite yet what kind of bird species they have here in New Zealand but they are loud enough that they must be as big as dinosaurs. I hope they aren’t upset at me for free camping under their tree out here on the river bank. As long as they are not like the birds in Alfred Hitchcock’s epic bird horror flick, I should be alright. The nice thing is they are singing in complete harmony so I have taken to calling them The Supremes, so I can sing along with them, Stop in the Name of Love before you break my heart ….Stop!!!
I think it is Mar 22, I lost a whole day to get here. I flew across some imaginary dateline somewhere over the Pacific, they take away a day when you do that. I guess it is like a day bank. Like an investment, I will get my day back later. That day will likely be more fun then because it will be like new because it has been in storage so long. I feel like my cycling strength must have been in storage as well. I am counting on getting that back as well. I have only made it about 110 km in two days on the bike. I was so keen to be back on the bike after a 3 month break that I headed straight south out the Auckland airport. I headed south on two new tires and two new tubes and my trusty patch kit. I hadn’t expected to encounter anything my patch kit couldn’t handle and have come ridiculously accustomed to cycling without a spare tube. But as Murphy ’s Law will have it, I did bust a presto tire valve, something I have never done before. I was a couple of km down a side road camping out in a farmer’s field this morning when I the valve blew off like an erupting volcano so I figured no better time then the present then to go meet my neighbors and the folks of NZ.
Alan and Carol Chase not only called around to find a place open on a Sunday but then Alan drove me there and then insisted he help me fix my bike. Afterwards we visited over tea and some crazy good muffins that Carol had made. I listened to their concerns about the present drought in NZ. NZ is known to be green and clean. It is very clean here but brown. Every shade of brown dried grasses and crops speckle the hillside. I wish the cows and the sheep all the best and hope they are getting enough to eat as I peddle by. I am presently in Ngalea, North Island and can’t wait to see the Bay of Plenty, South Pacific Ocean tomorrow afternoon. Today I am grateful for the little bit of rain NZ got last night, for Alan and Carol’s kind hearts and that the supreme bird choir have finally sang their hearts out and have gone to sleep!